Myraden and the Hand approached the gate of the Crown Ring wall, shrouded in their simple but aristocratic overcoats. It was a straight approach, and in this part of the city—much closer to the administrative districts—the streets were clean. Busy and crowded, but Dominion soldiers hauled away any vagrants and lined every corner.

  “How long will we have to wait in the city?” Myraden asked. “When does the council start?”

  “It should have already begun,” said the Hand. “Now, no more questions until we are inside the wall. You are my servant, and you must act like it.”

  Myraden rankled at the prospect. The hairs stood up along her arms, and an old rebelliousness burned in her gut, begging her to lash out at the prospect. She wasn’t a servant, and she never would be.

  Especially not of the Hand.

  But…she’d have to accept certain things if she wanted to succeed. She could put on a performance for a few days.

  Kythen trotted along behind her, but when the thought rolled through her mind, a wave of approval rolled across from Kythen.

  He…wanted her to be submissive?

  No, I wanted you to accept the greater good, Kythen clarified. To put aside your impulses, to allow yourself to strive for something more. To shove aside your pride for the greater good.

  She nodded. This would be the greater good, but she had to be a little selfish while she was here. Without finding a few elixirs and consuming them in a burst, she wouldn’t illuminate her Inner Gates.

  Without personal strength, she couldn’t serve the greater good, either.

  Balance, then, Kythen said. You must find it.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispered to him in íshkaben. “I’m looking.”

  Myraden and the Hand stopped just in front of the Crown Ring wall gate. Up close, it was much taller than she was expecting. Nearly six storeys, maybe seven. Two statues of ancient Greatsaadan explorers stood on either side of the gate. Their pedestals and legs were scorched from the flames of conquest—from many years ago—and green Dominion sashes ran from their shoulders to their hips.

  “Like a dog pissing in the corner to mark its territory,” mumbled the Hand.

  Myraden grimaced and raised her eyebrows, but she said nothing more. She had to play her part.

  Dominion guards stood beneath the raised portcullis of the gate. There were three of them on each side, plus a single Flare-stage wizard with a lynx Familiar perching on his shoulder. Myraden held her breath and nearly veiled her core, but stopped. Up close, this Flare would see that she was a wizard—and she was playing the part of a subservient wizard, anyway.

  “Greetings, esteemed guests,” said a low-marshal—identified by his vibrant green pauldron. He pushed away from the wall and stepped into the center of the road. “May I request your names?”

  The Hand puffed his chest and pulled his hands out of his coat pockets. Myraden’s heart skipped a beat. She was so used to seeing him with his distinct crimson glove, and feared he’d just given them away.

  But instead, he’d donned a pair of perfectly white gloves befitting of his formal attire. The other was probably among his other effects, safely tucked into Myraden’s pack—which Kythen now carried.

  The Red Hand laid one hand on his chest and placed the other on the hilt of his sword. “Regional Marshal Naryne Draseik of the Seissen Barema Province.” He bowed deeply, then motioned to Myraden. “My servant and guard, whose name is not of concern. She is a lowborn wizard-servant in my family’s command. You have my sincerest apologies for being late to the Council.”

  “You have no guards with you?”

  “My servant is stronger than any company of non-wizards.”

  The low-marshal looked them up and down, examining their garb, then glanced at the nearby Flare. The wizard nodded, and the low-marshal stepped aside. “Please, follow Mr. Ulrith. He will lead you to the guest chambers. I’m afraid all the opening festivities have concluded for the evening.”

  An ostal soldier stepped away from the edge of the gate and bowed, then beckoned for them to follow. This must have been Mr. Ulrith.

  They passed through the gate and walked along a cobblestone street within the ringed administration district. On the left side was the palace complex, with its sprawling gardens, hedge mazes, and of course, the building itself. It was a mess of tacked-on rectangles and shingled roofs, with marble pilasters on every wall and single-pane windows at even intervals. Its roof still had dried kelp thatching, like the other buildings of the cities, but with a brass trim and fish tails on the corners and joints.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  On the other side, built in a similar style, were smaller buildings, each upon their own pedestal or tiered level of ground—raised slightly above the promenade.

  Myraden would’ve said they were approaching a set of barracks if it hadn’t been for the statues of historical statesmen out front, broad windows, and golden trim on the walls. Too luxurious to be military barracks, but still large enough.

  The soldier led them up to the building’s front door, then consulted with a pair of guards at the open doors. They both wore ceremonial white cloaks, but otherwise appeared the same as other Dominion soldiers. Both guards spoke softly to each other, until finally, Mr. Ulrith turned back toward Myraden and the Hand and said, “I will not enter this honoured guest hall, but chamber fifteen on the second floor is open and available to guests. Please be quiet at this hour.”

  Myraden glanced up at the sky. By now, the moons hovered directly overhead, beaming down magenta light. Her breath condensed in the air, though she couldn’t feel the cold on her skin.

  She, then Hand, and Kythen entered the guest chambers. Inside, wooden panels covered the walls, and chandeliers spilled candlelight through broad, high-ceilinged halls.

  They approached a deserted central stairway and climbed up to the second level, then followed the labels on the walls until they reached their assigned room. It was a standard apartment. A central living room, a master bedroom, two smaller rooms with stacked bunks for servants, and a washroom. A hearth blazed on the opposite wall, and sterile, clean furniture filled the corners.

  Myraden and Kythen walked up to the window. She ran her fingers down the single, uniform sheet and muttered, “The skill of Greatsaadan glassmakers was not a myth, then.” It afforded them a perfectly clear view of the entire administration district.

  “We must rest,” said the Hand. He pulled off his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket, then cautiously approached Kythen and retrieved his belongings from Myraden’s pack. “It will be a busy day tomorrow.”

  Her eyes locked onto his right hand, which had almost always been covered by a glove. The skin below was bubbly, scarred white, and pale. The initial injury had long since healed, but she still recoiled at the sight of the bubbles and boils, the blistered scars and pockmarks. The glove wasn’t just symbolic.

  Myraden nodded. “If we can locate The?mir immediately, then we can make a quick escape—as quick as we can.”

  “The elixirs?” asked the Hand.

  “Do you think there will be many wizards in attendance?”

  “A few, I’d imagine. Upstarts who are growing more and more powerful, and who need to be put in their place by their superiors. Being sent here is the first warning they’ll receive, though I doubt many will heed it.”

  Myraden glanced at Kythen. “I have an idea of where I might find elixirs, then.”

  The Hand folded his fingers together and cracked his knuckles.

  Pirin and Gray landed on Vel Aerdeil’s main street. Behind them, Sirdian soldiers and weavelings formed a walland marched down the center of the street. In the chaos, they’d mingled. Sirdians witnessed firsthand the discipline and strength of the weavelings, and weavelings witnessed the loyalty and drive of the Sirdians.

  Or at least, that’s what Pirin hoped had happened. No one was squabbling.

  Civilians had fled from the streets. Silhouettes watched from the windows of the street-facing buildings or from behind lattice railings of their balconies. No one cheered, no one fled in terror—yet.

  Pirin had ordered the marshals to deliver strict orders to the soldiers: there would be no marauding, no looting, no torture of the city. They were liberators, not conquerors. He just had to show the civilians that.

  Behind them, the fighting on the wall continued. The assailants wiped out the remains of the defences and took up positions across the walls. Still, a last battalion of Aerdians and Dominion soldiers stood in front of them, taking up defensive positions in the street. Heavily outnumbered, without proper defensive positions.

  They knew it.

  Pirin tightened his legs on Gray’s sides, urging her to hop toward the last cluster of defenders. The Sirdians and weavlings approached from behind, moving slowly and methodically, but Pirin still had time.

  “Lay down your weapons!” Pirin shouted. “Surrender, let us take the city, and we will spare your lives.”

  He charged a Shattered Palm with the last dregs of his pure-aspect Essence, and just in time—a trio of Dominion soldiers charged, shouting incoherently. Something about Pirin being the king, being a prime target for their attack.

  He unleashed his Shattered Palm. The impact broke one soldier’s armour and caved it in, killing him instantly. The others, farther behind, only fell to the ground, unconscious.

  After this, there would be pockets of resistance to quell, yes, but they’d finished the hardest job.

  Or, it was supposed to be. But now he had to make a speech and project confidence. “I am Pirin!” he shouted. “Lord of the elves, King Across the Sea. In time, I will claim the throne. If you wish to run, the eastern gate is open. If you wish to join me, throw down your weapons. This is your last chance.”

  Dominion soldiers scrambled backwards, pushing through the crowd and crumbling the army, much to the displeasure of their low-marshals. The Aerdians threw down their swords and spears and darted away from the army—likely fearing retribution from their peers.

  The defenders crumbled faster and faster, until finally, there were none left to oppose Pirin’s advance.

  He grinned, then turned to face the Sirdians and weavlings behind him. “Victory!” he shouted. “The city is ours!”

  But a pit still welled up in his stomach. The city had fallen easily—almost too easily. This was supposed to be the last battle, but the true test still lay ahead.