It dangled from a string of silk, descending from an unseen precipice.

  Wiggling its prolegs, flaunting its colors of effervescent red and lime, in the dimming light of dusk.

  Suspended by its web-strand, it floated as if a phantom. With its vivid, piercing hues and spiric antennae, it foretold a toxin’s bite.

  But Scibu saw past this natural deception. It was harmless.

  He smirked, amused.

  “You might’ve fooled someone else, but not me, little one.”

  Gently, he lifted his finger and caught the caterpillar where it lingered. Once it was stable on his finger pad, he knelt down and nestled the critter at the midrib of a large eared plant. He watched as its tiny spinnerets tested the cuticles. He crouched and rested his elbows on his knees.

  His amused smile, through contemplation, became a sad one.

  “I know you are just a child. Trying to live in a world that’s far too grown for you.”

  The caterpillar began its feast. Scibu’s smile became only a whisper.

  His quiet, cricket-fueled ruminations were interrupted by a call. It echoed through the woods from far in the distance, resembling the trill of a night-flying bird. A passerby on the road would’ve mistaken it as such. Scibu knew differently.

  He bid a silent goodbye to the child of Kyr. Then he stood and slipped on his armored gloves – completing his dark leather set, upon which a golden serpent insignia stretched from spaulder to tasset. And then he hurried east, from light to shadow.

  He rushed through the lush forest, and in minutes, he arrived at the side of the main road. This far from Cephragon and other satellite towns and villages, it was a road of unkempt dirt. Verdant growths sprawled along its edges, sheltered under the canopy of the many trees.

  In the cover of these growths, the Midans hid and waited, summoned by the signal.

  Under the dim, dying light of sunset, Scibu came across his first compatriot: The elinji Ti’unsa, standing low behind a trunk close to the road. Even bending his knees slightly, Ti’unsa stood six feet – a shorter mark for the elinji. In the shadows of twilight, his face was hardened – not only by his wide, stocky bull features and his dark-haired mane, but also the grim anticipation in his eyes. His flat nose twitched.

  “Ti’unsa,” Scibu greeted in a whisper.

  “Scibu,” Ti’unsa offered, voice low and grizzled.

  Scibu sniffed. Smoke teased his nose.

  “I smell them,” Scibu muttered.

  “Me, too.”

  There was a pause. Their eyes fixed upon the southern crest of the road. For now, no light pooled beneath the stars. For now, the fading red sunglow went unassisted. But not for long.

  “Stay ready,” Scibu advised.

  Ti’unsa nodded. Scibu frowned and ventured south alongside the road. He returned to his horse – resting quietly beside a nearby flowering tree. Yemeph perked up and trilled at Scibu’s approach. Scibu smiled and bumped her nose with his. Then he mounted and rode further south – no faster and no louder than a trot.

  It wasn’t long before he came across Paru. The Tekhal leader sat upon his steed in banded leather armor, beckoning calm from the beast with deep, comforting rubs. A half-dozen other Tekhal riders loomed nearby. On the other side of the road, they carried the same strength in numbers, along with several more elinji.

  Scibu slowed his pace on approach. Paru granted him a glance, conviction ever-clear on his face.

  “How many?” Scibu questioned.

  “Three carriages,” Paru replied. “One more than last time.”

  “They’re insistent,” Scibu observed.

  “No,” Paru corrected him. “They are naive.”

  “How many keatuuchan?”

  “At least four.”

  Scibu’s frown deepened.

  Kea could be merciful. More often, it was not.

  He clasped the long, slender handle of his medial blade at his hip, imagining the katana’s weight in his hand. He felt the kea’s hum within his fingers. He had killed before. He knew he would kill again. He never took pleasure in it. But in this world, to fight was to survive. To survive was to fight.

  They waited, as dusk faded to night. And then, at last, a whisper of torchlight made itself known on the southern crest, huddled between the shaded tree lines. The light danced and brightened. They were getting closer.

  A Tekhal rider beside Paru cupped his hands over his mouth and gave the bird call again, from beneath a plumed helmet. The call echoed and coalesced with the foreboding chant of the crickets. Paru freed his bow from his shoulder and slid an arrow out from his quiver. He began to nock.

  “The Aktaku has given judgment,” Paru told his closest men. “No souls are to be spared today. All of them serve the Kcirun’s accursed word. All will be passed to Lleg and serve for the cleansing of our lands.”

  Paru’s fletched blade surveyed its dominion from the arrow rest – waiting to reap. The first sparks of the fire grew visible overtop the crest. The clop of a horse’s hooves came into earshot.

  “Wait until they’re close,” the Tekhal leader reaffirmed with hush and haste.

  The Midans lurked. Scibu gently tugged Yemeph’s reins and paced away from Paru, sheltering behind a trunk. He reached back for his helmet and fitted the leather and gilded steel upon his head. He lowered the reptilian dragon visage over his face. And then he pressed a fist against the center of his chest and closed his eyes.

  “Guide me, Parun,” Scibu prayed with mournful tone. “If I am to bring death… let it be brought swiftly… mercifully…”

  And now he flourished his bow and readied his grip.

  The Ardysi supply caravan grew nearer. Three carriages – walls and horses armored and box riders armored – rolled slowly down the road, their thick wooden wheels lumbering against the flat and ragged crud. Next to each box rider, a redcloak siephall sat alert, torch in hand. Walking alongside the carriages were the keatuuchan – two on each side, dressed in armored robes that glinted black and gold in the blaze. Scibu was certain there were more hiding within the iron cars. If they survived the first wave, they’d be his to take.

  The caravan passed in front of the group. Paru glanced to his right and nodded, pulling back his bowstring. The signal scout cupped his hands and emitted a different call: A sharp, rising tweet that stabbed into the night.

  And with it, came the arrows.

  Like viper fangs, they flashed, and with poisonous precision, they hit. Twin arrows speared through the lead horses’ eyes – the only spot left exposed by the armored shells – and with matching squeals, they crumpled to the ground, dragging the carriage to a halt in the dirt. At the same time, the box rider and the sentry fell. The second carriage suffered the same fate. Two of the keatuuchan folded from fatal shots, while the others sensed and blocked the coming blades, and shouted warnings to the rear.

  And just as the first volley ended, all pretense of stealth disappeared. Chaos bloomed in its place.

  The Midans charged the road from the woods, just as three more keatuuchan emerged from the third carriage. Sheet windows slid open along the iron walls, and Ardysi archers fired on the invaders from within. The last two carriage horses began to panic. They bucked and kicked and broke free from their carriage’s tongue, leaving the cars stranded and surrounded.

  A battleground was made.

  Scibu dropped his bow and unsheathed his medial blade, and now he rode out into the road after the other Tekhal, awash in frantic torchlight and feverish sound. Two of the Tekhal ahead of him fell to arrows, and he ducked to avoid becoming the third. As the others circled the caravan and gained an angle on the archers, Scibu advanced toward the keatuuchan.

  The first gold-lacquered whyzard trained a fire wyrm within his hands, roping it around his body and over his shoulder. He unleashed a flare to the north, and an approaching elinji fell with scalding skin and fur. The robed keatuuchan then fanned his hands, and a fire barrier spread, obscuring the battle line in a wall of simmering heat.

  And still, Scibu rode. He tightened his grip on the handle and let his kea flow through the blade. The notches along the edge of the blade began to glow with biting golden-orange light. The metal pulsed. And now, as he neared the fire barrier, he held the blade low at the horse’s side and dragged it close to the smoldered dirt. He turned and swept up alongside the wall of fire, and as he did, the keatuu energy violently dispersed at the medial blade’s command. As if banished by a gale, the flames erupted and cleared the grounds, leaving the keatuuchan exposed.

  But the keatuuchan was ready for this. A serrated rocket of fire fled a mage’s fist, narrowly missing the head of Scibu’s horse. As the front hairs of her mane burned like candlewick, the horse frenzied and reared up, and Scibu leapt and rolled to avoid being trampled. The horse skittered away into the woods, and Scibu stood again, loosely twirling his katana as three keatuuchan surrounded him in the battle’s inner shell.

  “Pray to your pagan Gods, savage!” one of the keatuuchan hissed, readying his hands.

  “I have prayed to mine,” Scibu warned in Kivvenean; from the golden notches of his blade, kea spilled. “So I will instead pray for you… when you are gone.”

  Triplet tendrils of wildfire spiraled toward him, and with a circular parry, Scibu dispersed them. Now from the kea emitting off his medial blade, a tight amber ribbon of glowing fusion energy formed – a whip of torrid hot plasma. With winged swings left and right, he loosened the whip and scorched the ground, gifting the keatuuchan a morbid premonition.

  With bristling voracity, the whip whisked at Scibu’s many silent commands, as the Serpent twirled and flourished his wrist, sidestepping the constant hails of keatuu fire. He swerved and crouched and spun up again. The barrage of heat tickled his skin and drew out sweat, but he felt the kea currents far too well to be lost.

  He felt the kea currents better than anyone.

  Like a dancer, a swimmer, he evaded and dodged and navigated through corridors of ravenous blaze, anticipating flawlessly with his senses as he brought his whip along. He made his way toward the trio, through the smoke and fray-song that muddied the air. And then at last – within fifteen feet – he unleashed.

  With a ruthless horizontal slash, Scibu flashed the whip at the first keatuuchan. The golden ribbon rebounded and sliced through robe and skin and bone, and two halves fell to the ground, cauterized at the points of separation. As the whyzard screamed, Scibu passed and ended his suffering. The ribbon dissipated and then rematerialized as Scibu once again raised his sword – a plasmic prominence that waved and wavered like a cobra’s head, seeking the fatal bite.

  Releasing three lightning-quick slashes, Scibu formed an upside-down triangle with the kea particle stream; the streams bonded and radiated, and the space between them shimmered as if a pane of golden glass. Now he strengthened his stance and held the medial blade sideways behind the triangular forcefield, as the keatuuchan unfurled hungry hurls of flame.

  The pyric plumes and flows washed across the road and surrounded Scibu in solar rage, and the hot winds blew back his armor’s aureate tassels – but the shield kept the Serpent protected as if a magnetic field, as he weathered the firestorm and inched closer… and closer…

  The desperate Opelites beckoned more kea. Like sledgehammers, the fire plumes battered the shield. A crack formed in the keatuu wall, and the phase barrier plinked and whined at the force. Scibu hastened his steps. He began to close the gap. Knuckles white, arms shaking at his grip, he let out a yell, lowered himself, and turned the blade forward, as his legs picked up pace.

  As Scibu turned his blade, preparing to stab, the forefield melted away, and the fire plumes roared and exploded past, just over his helmet crest. He felt the scrape of the searing heat as he lunged. It was close – too close – but the keatuuchan had lost control, just as he’d predicted. And he’d subverted the attack.

  Scibu stabbed the sword through the rightward whyzard’s heart, stirring blood and driving him to the ground with a rasping grunt. The final keatuuchan sent another wave of fire toward the Serpent, but from his crouching position, Scibu lashed his sword in a looping counter, and swept the flare away with a pulse of energy.

  And now they stood at opposite ends of a duel circle, as fires dotted the matted dirt and grass, and climbed the westward trees. The Ardysi whyzard sidestepped left. Scibu sidestepped right. The whyzard readied his stance and summoned a torch of fire in his palm. The Serpent raised his sword in challenge – his downturned dragon visage leering at its prey, as the kea cord coiled around his medial blade.

  Beneath his hood, the keatuuchan curled his nose and uttered a vindictive prayer Scibu could not hear. Scibu expectantly took his defensive form. The keatuuchan began to pull more fire, sweeping his arms and siphoning the heat… when a Tekhal rider appeared behind him, and loosed an arrow into his spine.

  The fire fell and drained like steam. The keatuuchan dropped to his knees, and then to his face. And then it was silent, but for the crackles of the flames that gained freedom from their masters.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Scibu identified the intrusive rider as Paru. His kea ribbon disappeared, as his sword dropped idle. He ripped off his helmet and frowned.

  “Paru!” Scibu lamented, making no attempt to hide his anger.

  “What?” Paru chirped; in the fireglow, Scibu could see his smirk.

  Scibu glared and started to turn away. His eyes fell to the whyzard’s body.

  “He was mine,” Scibu growled. “He sought an honorable fight.”

  “Unfortunately for him,” Paru retorted, “we sought a victory.”

  Scibu scowled and looked away. After a moment, he brought his free hand to his mouth and whistled. Yemeph would be back soon; even when she was scared, she never left her rider for long.

  Now Scibu surveyed the ruins.

  What was left of the Ardysi caravan was submerged in firelight and smoke, peppered with flames. Three Tekhal horses lay perished in the dirt, clustered with the carriage pullers. The dead riders numbered almost the same. The dead siephalls no doubt numbered more. Scibu only saw the blood that the surviving riders tracked from the armored carriages, as they secured the supplies from inside. But he knew all too well the carnage that lay within.

  To Scibu’s left, an elinji lay prostrate, separate from the rest. Scibu stepped toward him and knelt down. He grabbed the elinji’s shoulder and peeled him off the ground. It was Ti’unsa – his neck and face scorched beyond recognition by the keatuuchan’s flare.

  Scibu grimaced and tilted his head away, sighing out his anguished sorrow. After taking another breath to compose himself, he gently laid Ti’unsa’s body down again. With care, he rolled Ti’unsa onto his back. He slid his hand onto the elinji’s heart. He uttered a quiet prayer and gave Ti’unsa to Lleg.

  Once the Midans looted all of the caravan’s supplies, they piled the Ardysi bodies at the center and torched the remnants. The Midan dead, they lugged back to the battle camp a quarter-mile off the roadside. There, they were given proper burials.

  After joining the prayer for his brethren, Scibu cleaned his sword and tended to Yemeph. It was only the horse’s forelock that had been singed by the keatuuchan’s hail, but Scibu could tell the close brush with sudden death spooked her. Beside the whispering bonfires, he rubbed her side and sang to her in hushed tones, when Paru approached him.

  “We’ll take the spoils back to the border camp in the morning,” Paru told him. “You go back now, and inform the Aktaku of our triumph. He’ll be waiting.”

  “Why me?” Scibu asked lowly, masking his lingering discontent.

  Paru grinned: “You have not met him yet, have you not? I imagine this would be an opportune introduction for you. Be the one to tell of our success, and of your glory. His veneration is a powerful blessing. And I would be remiss not to mention… that he is curious about you. And your order.”

  Scibu eyed the Tekhal leader with a dash of distrust, but the chance to leave the battlefront – if even for just a moment – wasn’t lost on him. He nodded Paru away, and then he mounted Yemeph and started north through the woods. Around Alaris Khi Thung, and back to the border camp.

  When Scibu returned, it was deep enough into the night that most of the campfires had smoldered into shadow and smoke. Only the torches interspersed among the many jute tents flickered with light. This made Scibu’s destination even more distinct. On the far end of the camp, in the shade of the border wall, a larger burlap tent sat. Through the tent’s stitching – below the gently flapping banners of the Tekhal and the elinji – Scibu could see the stubborn, constant glow of keatuu candlelight.

  The Aktaku waited there.

  Scibu breathed out his conflicting emotions and let the crickets calm him for a moment. Then he patted Yemeph’s mane and squeezed his shins, ushering her along.

  At the tent, Scibu dismounted and approached. Two elinji stood silent at the door. They nodded to Scibu. Scibu reciprocated the gesture, and then he passed through the cover, into the pool of keatuu light.

  The Aktaku’s appearance matched the stories.

  He was older, but his rich violet eyes conveyed an enduring youth and a startling focus. Both his hair and his skin were a mix of silver and gold, as if made from the finest elements. His face was sharp and angular in all the best ways, enveloped by a thin silver fuzz – perhaps his only sign of wear. He wore a dark, dull garment, without any capes or colored cloth linings or intricate patches – only a deep blue desert scarf that hugged his neck and hung over his shoulders.

  He was a magnificent man, and yet he wore such a humble ensemble. Scibu didn’t let it convince him. Not yet.

  The Aktaku was reading a bound book when Scibu entered, but at the Serpent’s arrival, the Aktaku closed the book and stood, setting it on a table. For a moment, they stood at opposite ends of the tent, merely regarding each other. Scibu did not know if he was supposed to bow. And as soon as he began to, the Aktaku instead bowed for him. A charming, genuine smile graced the golden man’s lips.

  “Scibu, son of Delgeriil. Apprentice of Tenh-sho,” the Aktaku greeted. “It is an honor to have a Serpent of Soorona on the battle front with us. I am pleased that we are at last able to meet. I am Raldu, son of Nuhura.”

  “I know who you are,” Scibu affirmed, as if it was obvious. “But… you know me?”

  “Your reputation precedes far beyond what you realize, young Serpent,” Raldu said. “Not many can say they survived imprisonment in one of the worlds beyond this one… and as a child, no less.”

  Scibu frowned and dropped his eyes. He didn’t like to be reminded of his time in Heleh. But his bond with the kea demanded that he never forget.

  “Your arrival here vitalized the soldiers,” Raldu continued. “That the Order of the Sooronayan chose to bless us with one of their own for the revolution, is a sign of our unity. A unity that grants the Kingdom strength it has not had for a long, long time.”

  Scibu did not show emotion. It was true that the Kingdom was unified – for the most part. It was true that they now had the strength to fight and take back the land that had once been theirs. It was not necessarily true, however, that Scibu had been given a choice.

  Scibu glanced up at the keatuu candle – at its calm and steady luminance. He tried to decipher the Aktaku’s true intent from its quivers and its glow. He could not read it.

  But now Scibu realized he had strayed away in his thoughts. He remembered Tenh-sho’s lessons on politics and straightened his back. Quickly, he found a cover for his curiosity.

  “I thank you for the pleasant welcome, Aktaku,” Scibu said with a bow and a grateful grin. “And I am impressed by your control of the kea. The stories tell of your mettle and mental fortitude, and your discipline in keatuu is proof of this. I thank Parun that He has blessed you this way.”

  “Your words humble me, Serpent, but I am nothing without my people.”

  The mention of the djauuls’ shepherd God did not phase the Aktaku. Scibu blinked out his frustration; his face showed none of it.

  “Now,” Raldu shifted, stepping to the table; his tone solidified. “I believe you came here for a reason other than pleasantries.”

  “Yes… Aktaku. We ambushed the Ardysi on the road, and we’ve once again cut off Alaris Khi Thung’s supply from the south. This caravan was more heavily defended than the last. Seven keatuuchan and over a dozen archers, but we nonetheless achieved our objective. The riders will bring the spoils here to camp in the morning. This marks two weeks since a supply run has made it to the fortress. I’ll send Paru at dawn to field your next orders.”

  Now Scibu stood and waited for a response, but the Aktaku did not grant one. The old man observed Scibu with calculating eyes – eyes that both projected tranquility and obscured his working thoughts. It was silent for a time longer than what made Scibu comfortable. Only the breeze’s hushed conflict with the burlap walls brought a sound.

  Then at last, with a head tilt, Raldu announced his intent to speak.

  “The Ivory Dragon Tenh-sho is not predisposed to involve himself or his order in battle, is he not?”

  Scibu’s brow creased at the sudden transition. He had heard of the Aktaku’s way with words. He knew not how to navigate a conversation with him. At the Aktaku’s query, Scibu now suspected that Paru had intentionally sent him here.

  Scibu cleared his throat: “No, Aktaku… he is not. But… we have also not been at war with Ardys for centuries. Long past even the Ivory Dragon’s watch.”

  “But there has not been peace in war’s place, Scibu,” Raldu reminded him. “The crimes of the faded crown committed by Taku Attiil and his servants. The uprisings at Srassen Xai and Mote. The killings of the heretic Zanzaru. The deadly skirmishes between the Tekhal and the Xa’ungzi elinji clans. Peiphosa’s rebellion–”

  “Your history knowledge far surpasses my own, Aktaku,” Scibu interrupted, as politely as he could. “And your point is taken. What is your intent?”

  Raldu acquiesced with a nod and a smile; Scibu worried he’d ceded control of the conversation. Perhaps he’d never had it.

  The Aktaku continued: “For hundreds of years, the land of Myd Onua has been fractured by internal conflicts. The ruling irons changed hands many times. And in times of civil unrest, there was no ruler at all. Power hungry warlords, conniving opportunists, zealous cultists of the Par-va… all of them took their turns trying to take advantage of the Kingdom’s state. But your order… the Order of the Sooronayan… the Serpents which flow along the very kea currents that weave within the Aelyuu… always remained neutral.”

  Raldu paused and leaned forward against the table. He eyed Scibu with curiosity.

  “The Serpents – with their ancient, intricate knowledge of the kea – have a kind of raw power that few can replicate,” Raldu went on. “And yet… they have only ever used it to protect their ways and defend their borders. Scarcely have they ever taken sides, or involved themselves in the conflicts of the common. It has always earned my admiration… the way the Ivory Dragon preserves and upholds this isolationist ideology.”

  Convincing admiration indeed breached the Aktaku’s voice – but Scibu sensed dissimulation. He sensed it was not the only emotion the Aktaku felt.

  In Scibu’s silence, Raldu continued; his tone hardened.

  “I think it best to reveal what we know. You know I requested that Paru send you to speak with me. I know that the great Tenh-sho sent you – the youngest and most able – to the war front as the Serpents’ representative, in fear of reprisal from the people, if your order remained idle in this war. You do not know me, and I know you have reservations. I would like to give you answers. I would like to quell your concerns. I want you to find comfort in your role here.”

  At last, Raldu went quiet. After a moment, Scibu spoke his mind, making his apprehension known.

  “Kings often feign their want for others, when they only want for themselves, with others as their means.”

  “I share your views, but your assumption is mistaken. I am not a King.”

  “Some rulers ascend by divine right, others by galvanizing their people. It does not change the destructive power they have.”

  Raldu smiled; Scibu could not tell if it was amused, predatory, or both.

  “Tenh-sho’s teachings have granted you wisdom,” the Aktaku said. “But your order’s isolationist ways have left you sheltered and short-sighted in modern affairs.”

  “You would not be the first to say you are different,” Scibu warned.

  “I say no such thing… because I am not a King,” Raldu argued. “What I say… is that we live in a new time. If I may, I would like to impart some of my wisdom onto you. From an old philosopher I knew quite well.”

  Scibu curled his lip, then nodded reluctantly.

  “This philosopher,” Raldu began, “was enraptured by meditations on the metaphysical… the very states of being. In particular, I was drawn to his views on the past, present, and future. The relative concepts of time, as we experience them. The present is what is. The future is what’s to come. But this philosopher was of the mind… that the past held dominion over both. Objects that act a certain way are often doomed to carry forth those actions. In a similar sense… individuals are forged by their experiences. The impressions of the past haunt them, and shape their choices, their decisions… their very lives. Unconsciously. Subconsciously.

  “Many are doomed to this cycle. And yet the past does not exist. We cannot interact with it like we can the present. We cannot manifest it like we can the future. The past exists only in a residual state… in memories and traces… and yet it controls us all. It is the master that ordains the present and future. Its strings command our arms and ensnare our minds. Its scars cripple us as any mortal wound might. We are our ghosts.”

  Now Raldu paused. Scibu did not think to interrupt.

  “Inevitably, invariably, the past absorbs all things,” Raldu resumed. “Today, the present, the near future, and the far future will all eventually become past. But the children of Mide today… will have the opportunity to reflect on a much greater past. Not the past of civil war and strife that you and I know… but a past of peace and prosperity, in these lands of abundance. Mide is unified. Mide is strong as one. This is a Mide you have never known. A Mide Tenh-sho has never known. A Mide I have never known. We have never been here before… which means we cannot know what will come to pass. But we have the power to shape what happens, and break the cycles of despair.”

  Another pause. Raldu paced to the left. His violet eyes shined in the light.

  “As you know, the Kci Talon have entered the fray,” he told Scibu. “They arrived sooner than I had expected. If we are to achieve our goals, a confrontation with them is inevitable. When that time comes… I want you by my side. I need you by my side. I do not want our Kingdom’s past to preordain the nature of our allegiance. I want you and I to be unified, as we all are under the new banner of Mide.”

  Raldu went silent once more. Scibu’s eyes rose to the keatuu candle. Again, he searched it for clues. Again, he was left answerless.

  He mustered his words slowly, carefully.

  “You say… that we should not be defined by our past,” Scibu noted. “You say that our youth will reflect on a past of peace. What does this war accomplish, other than sacrificing peace for the stirring of ancient scars?”

  “Come now,” Raldu chimed with a half-chuckle. “You know the answer.”

  Scibu did not comply with one, and thus, Raldu continued.

  “What Kingdom left the old Mide to its fate and its shattered state?” Raldu questioned. “What Kingdom robbed us of our land, our resources, and our livelihoods? Where does this bounty still lie?”

  Scibu did know the answer. And he could not deny the merit in the Aktaku’s words. After a breath, Scibu spoke another of his thoughts.

  “Whose side will I be on… if I am against the phoenix? If I am sacrificing my own kind?”

  Now he saw a different smile from Raldu. Softer, but still firm. It lasted only for a moment before it faded.

  “It was a necessary sacrifice for the Kingdom of Mide, and one the tribute gave willingly,” the Aktaku proclaimed. “It is the same sacrifice so many of your kinsmen are prepared to make on the battlefield. The same sacrifice I have made.”

  Scibu scoffed: “You haven’t given your life.”

  “But I have.”

  And then there was only conviction in Raldu’s voice and eyes. The Aktaku’s deflection from the sacrifice frustrated Scibu. But in the man of silver and gold’s conviction, there was a weight that brought Scibu back to his initial ponderings.

  He hadn’t had a choice in being brought to war. And the more he thought, the more he realized that perhaps he didn’t have a choice now, either. If he was to do anything other than fight for the Aktaku… he knew not what the consequences might be.

  He thought of Scibii and Oyuuna. Then he pursed his lips and nodded.

  “I pledge to raise my sword alongside you,” Scibu declared, summoning a mimicry of conviction. “When the time comes.”

  Now Scibu saw a third smile from Raldu. This one was easy to read: A smile of triumph.

  “Thank you, Serpent,” Raldu remarked with a more patronizing bow. “With our power unified… we can bring our vision of new Mide to life.”

  Scibu took one last look at the keatuu candlelight, hovering at the height of the vaulted ceiling. Now, as he looked at it, its splintering glow burdened his vision. A low ring needled his ears. The kea sneered at him, seeping from a source of unfathomable power, suffocating his current…

  He bowed. He turned and left with haste.