“Through the prism of perspective, every truth has its color.” – Avila

  A breeze swept through Lithas’ hair. She stood, pondering the gently undulating waves of the Bay of Sariz. Slowly, over the course of the last hour or so, a thin strip of land had emerged beyond the horizon. They were approaching the end of their journey. Loratha. She was trying to enjoy her last moments of blissful limbo, before she had to take action again. Before she had to make a choice. Yet her moment of peace, once again, did not last long.

  Imran Delos joined her, eyes narrowed in contemplation. “The grand empire of Loratha,” he began, arms outstretched. “How does it feel to be a prisoner in the greatest nation on the continent?”

  “I won’t always be a prisoner,” Lithas replied sharply. “And your empire won’t last very long. You can’t control a whole continent through fear and force.”

  Out of the corners of her eyes—not bothering to turn—she observed Imran’s reaction. Yet the man merely chuckled at her assertion. “Watch me. You’ll see.” He gripped the railing next to Lithas. “Power is the only language the world understands, after all, and Loratha speaks it fluently. I made sure of that.”

  “And yet,” Lithas interjected, “it comes at a cost. The people you’ve subjugated, the cities you’ve razed to the ground. Do you really think an empire built on such foundations will last? The people remember.”

  “The people, the people,” he shrugged. A dismissive gesture. I suppose arrogance comes with the territory, Lithas thought, when you think you’re destined to conquer continents. She forced herself to keep staring onto the blue expanse.

  “History is written by the victors, Lithas,” he continued. “The subjugated will adapt. They always do. Damage is less important than you think. Cities can be rebuilt, after all.” Delos turned to look directly at her. She saw a dark glint, somewhere deep in his eyes. “Demis fell. The Isles of Dust are ours now. Do you really think Tibara or Sariz can stay neutral for long under these circumstances? The rest of the continent will follow. In the end, all will bow to Loratha’s might.” He turned his head a fraction, letting his gaze roam over the mouth of the bay and the southern horizon beyond that. “And who knows what we’ll do then…”

  But as soon as the words left Imran Delos’ mouth, the sailors around them stilled. First, their conversations faded into sudden whispers. It was a strange kind of silence, a lull in the constant backdrops of commands and bawdy jokes. Then, the whispers were replaced by agitated shouts, as all heads turned to peer into the west. Confused, Lithas followed their gazes.

  There, against the horizon. There was… something. A dark smudge, staining the cerulean backdrop. At first, she thought it was just an oddity in the weather, a gathering storm perhaps. They were frequent enough, here at the edge of the bay. But as they drew closer, the nature of the smudge became clear. No… That was no storm. That was smoke. And it was coming from Loratha. An uneasy murmur swept across the deck in waves.

  Imran, too, was now watching the scene unfold. A hint of apprehension had crept into his confident demeanor. Lithas turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised in silent inquiry.

  “Probably just a small fire in the city... or the blacksmith district…” he began, but then his words trailed off. The smoke was too dense, too widespread, to be a minor incident. This must have been a huge fire.

  Imran turned—eyes searching frantically for Admiral Vespera—and began to shout. “Everyone! Stop. Staring. Hurry up and get us closer. There may be lives at stake. I need to see what’s happening over there!”

  Suddenly, the leisurely pace of the ship was replaced by a rush of activity. Orders were roared, soldiers scrambled, and the fleet suddenly picked up speed. The Sovereign soared onward. With each passing moment, the coast of Loratha grew clearer, more distinct. And with it, the reality of the situation.

  The undeniable, stark reality, coming down like a hammer on any illusions of hope, any plausible deniability. The grand walls of Loratha, once a symbol of its unwavering strength—the Red Teeth, as one poet had called them—now stood charred and wounded under the gray cloak of smoke that rose from the city.

  “The mighty Loratha...” Lithas could not help the bitter irony that laced her words. “It seems the winds of fate blow in unpredictable directions, Imran Delos.”

  Delos turned to her with a sharp glare and opened his mouth to speak, one hand half raised. Only to be interrupted by a giant wave that suddenly rose from the otherwise tranquil ocean and raced directly toward the Seafire Sovereign. Eyes widened, mouths agape, every gaze fixated on the colossal wave. Then, even before she could fully react—just from the corner of her eye—Lithas noted movement on one of their sister ships. She turned her head and just about saw it being shattered by a rock the size of a house, wood and people vanishing into the foaming waves.

  Lithas finally remembered to close her gaping mouth. All around her, pure chaos broke loose.

  They were being attacked.

  At dawn, the world was a hush of gray and gold, an ethereal stillness that hung over the stretch of land separating their forces from the city.

  Messengers, scouts, lone travelers—they had killed them all. Had blanketed the army with a dense fog. All to hold on to their most valuable weapon: the element of surprise. Truly amazing, that you could keep something so gargantuan as an army a secret. But people did not look at the right pincer of a crab after it had pinched them with its left.

  Now, it was as if the world itself held its breath. Waiting for the inevitable clash of steel and fire, of power and ambition. A last moment of quiet. Breathe.

  But deep in Ifthal’s heart, there was no silence. There was a storm, a swirling vortex of anticipation, anxiety, and—surprising even himself—a numbing sense of calm at its very center, as if he stood outside his body.

  Not five paces away—actually standing next to his body—he spotted Vela. The woman had just finished with a messenger. Their forces were fully under her control now. Operation Desertclaw was hers, heart and soul. She looked like a goddess of war in the half-light of dawn. Regal figure—indomitable, really—her eyes shimmering with a determination as cold as the receding night. Vela seemed to survey the terrain before them, eyes on the city that sprawled into the distance.

  “Prepare the Elevated,” she suddenly commanded, voice cutting through the early morning air like a knife. Ifthal grimaced. His battalion was supposed to be their vanguard, the spearhead of the entire attack. He felt a sudden and immense gratitude that Dara had been assigned to the rearguard instead. Enough if one of them had to stand in the frontlines. Damn better him than her.

  Ifthal turned and considered his fellow Elevated. Shapeshifters and elementals, augmenters and mind-benders. Each one a well-honed weapon in their own right. Though what got to him—every single time—was the sheer breadth, the raw power, that stood there, assembled before him. If someone would have told him beforehand that the First would succeed so wildly in his project... And to think that he was supposed to be their leader today.

  He, who could still remember all too vividly how his powers had waxed and waned, in those early months after leaving Tibara. Not so very long ago, in fact. As if to seek reassurance, Ifthal probed for his energy. And was met by a wellspring of raw, unbridled force ready to be unleashed. He nodded. Satisfied.

  Around him, his Elevated moved with a silent, predatory grace, bodies taut with anticipation. Eyes sharp, senses alert. As soon as they set out, Elandal supercharged the air with moisture, until a dense fog snaked its way across the plain in front of the city walls. Elandal, raised from a simple winemaker to a god. When she came back from Tel’Vorim—ready to mold the world—she had found her entire family dead. Her parents, her children. All starved, all because of one summer of baking heat. First, she had to bury her dreams. Then her family. Elandal had been more than ready to be harvested by the First.

  Ifthal added his own bit to her fog, drawing shadows from nearby trees and brushes, enveloping their forces as best he could. The rustle of the grass under their feet was the only sound that disturbed the early morning peace. He could practically feel the brimming powers of his fellow Elevated, aching for release. Burning to tear down a system they had all grown to hate. An irony, really, that they first had to tear down their homes, before they could set their eyes on the real enemy. But, for now, discipline still reigned supreme, and they held their powers in check.

  The city lay unsuspecting in the dew-kissed valley, golden sunrays bouncing off her formidable walls. Flags fluttering gently in the morning breeze. Within, the people must be stirring from their sleep, oblivious to the doom marching toward them. It was an image that made Ifthal’s heart clench. It was never about the people, these campaigns. But it was the people who paid the price. Always.

  Their silent march across empty fields was burdensome but necessary—they needed to close in as much as possible without alerting the city, maximizing their advantage. The quicker this would be over, the better. For everyone. Ifthal swallowed. Some of the soldiers followed the Elevated, armor glinting ominously in the dawning light. He thought about how they must look from above. A deadly shadow, creeping closer and closer to the city walls, whilst the rest of the army brought itself into position behind them, still under cover in the woods.

  Next to Ifthal, Vela herself was a constant presence at the forefront. Hissing commands, radiating a chilling aura of determination. How did she even do that? As they reached the shadows of the towering walls, she raised her fist to signal for a halt, her gaze sweeping over the distant crenellations above.

  Then Vela turned toward the Elevated and the soldiers, her voice a low, commanding whisper. “It’s time.” No big speech, no rousing their spirits. This was neither the place nor the person for that. They already knew why they were here. They certainly did not lack motivation. These soldiers were dangerously close to militant-faithful themselves, fighting alongside their own gods. Ifthal saluted silently and felt goosebumps erupt on his arms. Somehow, he had been certain the actual moment would never come. Yet here they were.

  As the sun began its ascent over the Bay of Sariz, painting the sky in hues of rose and gold, they began their attack on Loratha.

  In an instant, the serene morning exploded into a symphony of chaos and destruction.

  Next to Ifthal, Teal thrust his palms forward. Teal was a weird case. Ifthal had no idea why he had even joined the First. No tragic backstory, no declared goal. The eyes of his youngest Elevated were a bright viridian that made Ifthal uncomfortable when he looked too long. Now they were directed upward as a gale tore from him, gusting toward Loratha’s walls with the power of a winter storm. The air howled in protest, swirling dust and leaves into a frenzied dance.

  On his right, Lady Seris lifted her arms, a grim smile gracing her lips. Seris, who had plotted her escape from the Tetrarchy since stepping off the training grounds in Maht. Never forgiving them for stealing her youth. From her fingertips, a brilliant cascade of light spilled out, solidifying mid-air into a barrage of glistening spears of ice. With a flick of her wrist, the frozen missiles screamed through the air, hurtling toward the walls. Teal’s storm accelerated them to mere blinks in the air and they crashed into the thick walls, scattering stones and unfortunate watchmen in a wide arc.

  Soon, arrows started to descend on them. Loratha’s defenders had organized a counterattack.

  Ifthal signed to his left, where Halia and Corin stood. The twins. Supposedly the trackers had gotten them from slave traders. Not a pretty sight, from what he had heard. Corin’s hands pulsed with an eerie blue light, condensing into raw energy that he funneled toward his sister. Halia absorbed his gift, her body shimmering as it rapidly transformed into a magnificent silver dragon, undulating like a liquid stream of metal. It brought up memories of the sandwyrm within Ifthal. With a shudder to the ground, the beast took flight. A legend brought to life. Pointing and screaming erupted from atop the walls.

  Then Halia rose above them—pure form and shape realized—her flowing scales glistening in the morning light. With a deafening roar, she flapped her enormous wings, creating a gust of wind that swept across the battlements. She dove, becoming little more than a glittering arrow from below, and crashed her flank into the wall. The sound of shattering stone echoed through the valley. The wall trembled, fractures spider-webbing out from the point of impact. A slab of crenellation tumbled toward the plain below. For a fleeting moment, the form of the massive silver dragon seemed to wobble, as if struggling to maintain its coherence, before it coalesced again.

  Ifthal turned his attention to the city’s defenders, who had finally rung the alarm now and tried to organize themselves under the onslaught. They kept hurling arrows and boulders in a desperate attempt to ward off the attack. As if soldiers could stop gods. So far, so good. Time for his part. Ifthal had to admit that his power was not as flashy as Halia’s transformation, or as visceral as Teal’s storms. But there was a reason why Maht’s spotters had chosen him, all those years ago. And it was a deadly one.

  His eyes, already dark as a moonless night, turned darker still as he delved into his powers. He reached out with his senses, feeling for the darkness, tasting the absence of light. Under his command, the shadows at the base of the wall lengthened, deepened. Writhed like living creatures. With a thought, he sent them up—always up—snaking toward the defenders, engulfing them in a cloak of unnatural darkness.

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  In the midst of the chaos of battle, Ifthal’s shadows struck. Step one, disorient them. Unable to see their targets, arrows shot wide. Some tried to escape the dark cloud. Bad idea. Distant figures tumbled over the parapet, hitting the ground still too surprised to even scream. Panic spread among the ranks above, a seed of fear that rapidly sprouted into full-blown terror as their reality turned into a nightmare.

  Step two, bring them down. It was a simple plan, really. Vela did not enjoy overcomplication. Use their element of surprise to breach the Red Teeth of Loratha before the defenders could assemble their own Elevated. If their reports were right, they would outnumber Loratha’s remaining forces.

  As the shadows wreaked havoc, Ifthal pushed his power toward the crumbling wall, which was already battered by Seris’ and Halia’s continued efforts. His shadows slipped into the cracks, the fractures, the gaps. Pressing, pushing, widening. The solid stone groaned under the onslaught. Slowly but surely, under the combined assault of his Elevated, Loratha’s once legendary walls began to falter, accompanied by increasing cracks and groans. Huge slabs of rock tumbled down, hitting the ground with explosions of dust that briefly took Ifthal’s sight of the battlements.

  As the dust settled, he noticed new figures on the walls of Loratha, their vibrant colors starkly contrasting with the muted tones of the stone. Among them, Ifthal spotted the unmistakable black-and-red armor of Lord Commander Draven, personally overseeing the battle. That one, he would have recognized anywhere.

  Draven. A man Ifthal had shared bread and ale with in Dethos. A man who had come to them for help, who had sworn them his loyalty and support in turn. Apparently, the man had been Eldun’s cousin twice removed or something. And they had betrayed him. Without hesitation. Ifthal did not like that part of the plan.

  The man seemed disoriented amidst the chaos, his movements betraying confusion. But there still was a steely resolve in his posture, a defiance—of the world and everyone in it—in his gaze. Amidst the despair atop the walls, amidst his own apparent discomfort, Lord Commander Draven was a beacon of hope to his men. Ifthal’s shadows had virtually depopulated whole sections of the wall by now but where Draven stood, the defenders remained, huddled around a leader ready to defend his city till his last breath.

  Ifthal was about to divert some of his shadows to the man when he noticed something. Beside Draven, he saw other figures emerge. Finally, the Lorathan Elevated had arrived, called to the walls to defend their city. So much for Vela’s plan.

  He stretched his arms. This was the real battle. Everything up to this point had been mere positioning, warming up. One of the newcomers on the wall was fully enveloped in flames. Another manipulated the stones of the crumbling wall, creating barricades in front of the soldiers. A third seemed to be hurling metal spikes at Halia in her dragon form. Their sight rallied the defenders. Justifiably so, Ifthal thought. Their abilities after all offered the only glimmer of hope against the relentless assault of the Dethian forces. Without them, they would easily take the city. But even so, they were few, the Elevated on those walls. Their numbers were stretched thin, stretched in fact across the whole Bay of Sariz. As the First had planned.

  Halia swept down again, claws digging into the already weakened wall, pulling and tearing at the stone. The twins continued their deadly dance of power, Corin bolstering Halia’s assault with renewed energy. Seris sent another barrage of ice spears, aided by Teal’s wind, looping it up and raining destruction upon the defenders on the wall. Sadly, the rock barriers of the Elevated above prevented any major hits.

  Vela kept signaling to their rear. Finally, Ifthal turned. Behind them, the silhouettes of their advancing army became clearer, drawing closer for the moment the walls would be breached. Now everything was committed, no turning back for anyone today.

  Yet Loratha held. For now. The city’s Elevated and its soldiers fought with a desperation that was both admirable and, ultimately, futile. Their defenders were dwindling, their walls crumbling. They did not have a realistic chance. Yet they continued to resist. A city living to fight. A city refusing to fall. Damn those martial zealots.

  A sharp cry pierced Ifthal’s thoughts, tearing through the cacophony of clashing steel and crumbling stone. He whirled around and scanned the area around him for threats. Had they spotted them here down below and sent troops? There. A woman. Short, broad, wrapped in a cascade of silken black curls. He mentally skimmed the list of Loratha’s Elevated to get a match. Maris. She had been in their brief. Assigned to the city of war, a mind-bender with the ability to delve into the deepest recesses of one’s fears and bring them to the fore. A power as alluring as it was devastating.

  Dara had told him the stories. Had told him how that woman could effortlessly manipulate the senses, bend reality to her will. Reducing men to whimpering, cowering shells. Yet—what had she called her powers again? Right… somewhat of a double-edged sword. He saw it clearly. In Maris’ eyes lingered a haunting turmoil, the silent echoes of nightmares she had woven for others.

  Right now, her intense blue eyes were fixed on Corin. Ifthal had almost forgotten that the lean youth stood next to him. Would Corin be her target? Yet, surprisingly, there was shock etched onto Maris’ features. What was going on there?

  ”C… Corin?” she called out, a sharp note against the roiling backdrop of battle.

  Corin twitched at the sound of Maris’ voice. If the woman’s face had shown shock, Corin’s was a masterclass in naked terror. Through the mask of horror, brief flickers of guilt crossed his face, but he said nothing. Likely could not.

  “You died!” Maris accused, voice shaking with a mix of relief and fury. “You and Halia both. A double suicide, they said. What is this? What are you doing here?”

  “We… We had to,” Corin finally responded in a voice that was barely audible amidst the chaos. “There wasn’t any other choice.”

  But Maris had heard him alright. She fixed him with an icy stare. “Choice?” she spat out. Her voice trembled now but her demeanor remained as steady as a rock. “What about my choice, Corin? What about the choice you took from me when you decided to play dead?”

  “I...” Corin began, but his voice trailed off. The guilt was evident in his eyes, even as he held Maris’ gaze. Finally, he broke eye contact and flicked his eyes toward Halia in the sky. Poor boy. Ifthal had already forgotten that the twins had been assigned to Loratha before they joined them. He shifted his stance, readying himself for violence.

  “No, you don’t!” Maris cut him off with a growl as she took a step toward them. “Don’t even try. You don’t get to explain yourself. Not now. Not after what you did.”

  Before Ifthal could react, she attacked. The ground beneath Corin seemed to warp, to boil. Then the air around him began to ripple as two shadows sprung forth, reaching for him with ghostly hands. Corin’s face had become white as chalk, eyes turning blank. “Mother…”

  All the while, Maris approached, daggers in hand. Ifthal raised some of his own shadows, trying to cover Maris’ creations. The whole thing was like a tug of war, dark wisps spearing through a cloud of shadows. It was not enough. “Corin!” he shouted. “Snap out of it, you fool, this isn’t real.”

  For the briefest of moments, the boy’s gaze focused. With a bit of luck that would be all that was needed.

  “No, Maris, not like this!” Corin cried out, voice layered with a desperate plea. Then he stretched out a hand toward his sister, channeling more of his energy to her. Calling her. Halia, mid-flight, suddenly veered toward them. The magnificent dragon formed a beacon amidst the chaos of the battlefield as she descended upon them. A gust of wind fanned Maris’ locks as she narrowly avoided the dragon’s claws.

  Halia turned and was about to begin a second sweep when two more Lorathan Elevated stepped up to Maris. The man, a one-armed giant, waved his remaining hand and sent a shockwave rippling through the air toward the dragon. The force struck Halia, knocked her off course. In moments, she was reeling, movements following the fingers of the Elevated.

  The other Elevated summoned a searing wave of flames that danced around her, consuming the air with their heat. One moment there was the hypnotizing beauty of inferno. The next, she launched the firestorm toward the disoriented Halia.

  The dragon roared, caught between the telekinetic force and the blaze. Halia tried to break free yet was drawn further and further into the blazing flames. This was not good. Ifthal redirected his shadows in an effort to smother the flames. Sensing her chance, Maris intensified her attack on Corin, exploiting the chaos around them. Finally, the boy’s defenses faltered. As he dodged a swipe of Maris’ dagger, his concentration fully vanished and, a heartbeat later, his link with Halia flickered.

  As Corin failed, so did his sister. As if a dam had been removed, the flames rushed forward. Engulfing her dragon form, scorching through her defenses. Ifthal’s shadows came too late. Halia’s roar echoed through the battlefield as her silhouette began to dissipate, silver hue fading within the fiery onslaught.

  The sound shook even Corin from his stupor. “Halia!” His cry pierced the turmoil of the battlefield for Ifthal, raw and desperate as it was. Then his twin, the other half of his soul, collapsed from the sky.

  Below—far below—her body crashed limply to the ground.

  The battlefield around them hushed for a moment, as the spectacle sent ripples through both sides. For one brief moment, fights stilled, heads turned, eyes widened. A god had fallen. Then Loratha’s defenders rallied with newfound vigor, the death of such a prominent enemy Elevated fueling their hope.

  But their moment of triumph proved to be short-lived.

  Despite all Ifthal would have expected, Corin’s grief-stricken face hardened immediately. With a resounding roar, he channeled his powers into Ifthal instead. Of course, they were no twins, so the connection was much weaker. Still. Instantly, Ifthal was engulfed in a vortex of energy, his form swallowed by the swirling darkness, fraying at the edges.

  He could immediately see why augmenters were so prized by the Tetrarchy.

  His shadows, no longer just hidden silhouettes now, began to emerge. Stronger and more menacing. More corporeal. Like a tidal wave, they swept through the battlefield, crashing into the walls of Loratha. Flooding into them like a river of night. Cracks raced up the walls, stone splintered into every direction. And he did not stop. Tapping into all his hatred—welling up like a river after the thaw—Ifthal poured his shadows into an obsidian torrent that ate its way through the foundations of the wall. Unthinking, uncaring.

  With a sound like a last sigh, the Red Teeth—having withstood the assault of gods for too long—finally crumbled under his onslaught. Stone rushed to meet the ground, dust swirled up to reach the sky. Even through the billowing cloud, the gaping breach in the city’s defenses was clearly visible. But Ifthal had not just shattered the walls. His shadows continued to sweep through the defenders and the city behind, plunging them into an inescapable nightmare of darkness. When they finally receded in their quest forward, dozens—maybe hundreds—of bodies were left behind.

  Amid the chaos, Vela moved, leading their remaining Elevated and the arriving vanguard of their army. Her body glistened, as if carved from wet slate. Ifthal was used to the sight. Controlling hardness gave the woman an impressive appearance, and made her practically invincible against weapons. With a cruel smile, Vela charged at the Lorathan Elevated in front of them, who were still staring slack-jawed at the devastation Ifthal’s shadows had wrought.

  At the last possible moment, Maris noticed her and alerted her companions, bracing themselves against the onslaught. But, like leaves in a storm, they were no match for an enraged Vela. Possibly nobody was. She moved with ruthless efficiency, her body a blur of motion as she cut through the Lorathan ranks that had arrived at the breach. Desperately trying to protect their Elevated. Weapons bounced off her hardened skin. The one-handed man readied himself to repeat his trick from earlier. Only to be immobilized—spreadeagle—by Ifthal’s shadows. Not again. The fires of the Elevated were smothered in a spray of onyx. This had to be how the Delegates felt. It was intoxicating.

  As Vela reached Maris and the others, she touched them. One simple contact. Their bodies softened instantly, their defenses crumbling as if they were made of sand. Then, one by one, the Lorathan Elevated fell, their bodies cut down effortlessly. With a look of surprised horror, Maris toppled to the bloodied ground, dead.

  The shift was almost instantaneous.

  From their moment of hope and resurgence, the defenders of Loratha were thrown into chaos and despair. Their Elevated were bludgeoned, their walls wide open now. Seeing their chance, the Dethian army surged forward, charging toward the gaping breach in the city walls. Again, Ifthal led the charge. This time, no second thoughts weighed down his mind.

  As they advanced, they tore through the scattered Lorathan forces, pushing them back into the depths of the city. Next to him, Elandal thrust her hands forward, guiding a massive, roaring torrent of water from the nearby river. With a swift motion, she redirected the flow, sending the water crashing into buildings. Stone structures, once a testament to Lorathan architecture, crumbled under the immense pressure, their ruins washed away effortlessly in the powerful current. Ifthal looked over and had to suppress a shudder as he glimpsed the intense hatred burning in the woman’s eyes.

  As he led the Dethians further into the city, onto an abandoned marketplace, a figure emerged from the retreating Lorathans. A man whose presence seemed to defy the chaos around him—Draven. His eyes, cold and calculating, fixed on Ifthal. His face hardened into a mask of grim determination at the sight. Loratha’s Lord Commander spat to one side.

  “Ifthal, you treacherous snake,” he roared. Draven’s voice was thick with betrayal and fury as it cut through the din of battle, resounding in the ravaged streets.

  Still at the forefront of the Dethian onslaught, Ifthal turned to face Draven. His features lay in deep shadows now, form still swirling with the power he had lent from Corin. He stood entirely still on the square, fraying shadows along his outline the only visible movement. His gaze met Draven’s. Ifthal felt strangely detached, as if he was watching the events on the streets from high above.

  “Me, treacherous?” His voice was a low, dangerous rumble—yet strangely dampened—as it echoed off the crumbling walls. “That’s rich. You, who’d conspire with us against others, have the gall to call me traitor?”

  “I did what I had to do!” Draven spat back, hand clenched around his sword hilt. “For the people of Loratha, for our survival!”

  “By siding with the very person who threatens it now?” Ifthal countered, voice rising. “You traded honor for power, Draven. Your ‘survival’ is nothing but a bloody path of destruction! You just didn’t realize that your own city lay on this path, that’s all.”

  “Where is he then?” Draven called and his eyes turned to scanning the battlefield as if he expected someone to emerge from the chaos. “Where is the puppet master who controls all your strings?”

  Ifthal’s smile turned grim. Black pupils holding Draven’s gaze. “He’s... occupied,” he simply said after a moment, evading Draven’s inquiry with a hint of satisfaction. “His whereabouts don’t concern you anymore.”

  A bitter laugh escaped Draven’s lips. “And? Is it worth it, Ifthal? All this power. At what cost, I ask? Look around you. Look at the destruction, the death. Scholar,” Draven spread his arms in a wide circle, “is this the future you envisioned?”

  Ifthal’s gaze hardened and his voice dropped to a near whisper that still carried across the square, aided by his every shadow. “The future, Draven, is not a distant dream to be envisioned. It’s a reality to be forged from the ashes of our choices. Yes, there’s destruction, there’s death. But there’s also change, rebirth. And if this power has done anything,” he snapped back, “it has made me see clearly. I see the world for what it is—it’s a bad place. Plain and simple. A place to kill or be killed. So, I think we’ll need to tear it down first, before we can build something better.”

  Before Draven could react, Ifthal moved. His shadows, like tendrils of night, surged toward the man, sweeping him up in their grasp. Behind him, Draven’s own shadow rose and snaked around the man’s neck. Panicking, he struggled against the darkness. But it was a losing fight. With a twisting motion, Draven’s shadow snapped his neck and let the broken body fall limply to the cobblestones.

  Like a circle around some kind of morbid festival, all eyes in the square were fixed on the Lord Commander’s limp body. Ifthal stood before his remains, shadows still swirling around him. His figure, amplified by the darkness, must have been imposing against the backdrop of a crumbling city.

  Yet despite his outer calm, his mind tore itself apart with Draven’s last words. Betrayal. Power. Cost. He felt the taste of victory turn bitter in his mouth, the aftereffects of power leaving him somewhat hollow. He suddenly yearned for Dara. The streets of Loratha, once full of life, now lay in ruins, and the echoes of the fallen still resonated in his mind.

  “Victory,” he whispered to the wind. The word sounded more like a curse than a triumph.

  As he slowly turned away from Draven’s lifeless form, the Dethian army cheered, belatedly. Their shouts of triumph echoed in the silent city. Ifthal, amidst it all, wore a hollow smile. Victory, indeed.

  With the fall of Loratha, the first major stone had fallen. The second must be already tilted, if not more. The world was changing, shifting under the weight of power and ambition. And, in this new world order, survival was the ultimate game. It had to be.

  Wrapped in shadows, surrounded by destruction, Ifthal ak’Walim wept silently.