Walden Moran had thought the citadel of Morbian stood proud from the mainland, above and apart from its petty concerns. But in reality it dangled from the continent like the udder of an old nanny goat.

  High white-stone walls stood proud, protecting the orange tiled roofs of the buildings crammed inside, and towering over all, the Sun Tower. How he had obsessed over it, redesigning his entire mansion so that he could view the thing from every room. It was smaller than he remembered, frail like an old beggar leaning on a stick, as if one good kick would send it all crumbling down.

  Morbian had always been his ambition, but now it just seemed so small. A petty fiefdom.

  It had started with Riot, a small jealousy that had eaten away at him. Men like Riot and Loic had thrived in the wilds, where Moran's own breeding, heritage, and skill as an Arcanist had meant nothing. He wasn’t fool enough to let pride or jealousy turn to hatred or resentment. He wanted mastery of this new, hard and dangerous world, and the anticipation was tangible.

  The six surviving members of his household guard stood around him like warriors from another age. Battle hardened and rough, meeting the glares of the Faelen around them easily.

  The gates finally opened, and a group approached, headed by Myam-tal. He wore a frightfully garish uniform crammed with medals. The cloak on his shoulders was one of Moran’s own. A padded velvet garment that he favoured to stave off the chill of the mornings. Two weeks ago, he would have flown into a dignified rage that Myam-tal had stolen his clothes, but now, who cared about a cloak? He had a blade, and his skill in the arcane.

  “Brother,” Moran said, giving the slightest inclination of his head.

  “Half-brother,” Myam-tal corrected, gazing down his long nose. He didn’t bow, and Moran didn’t care.

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  Myam-tal seemed to sense something different about him as he took a half-step back, his delicate shoes scraping on the cold ground. “Your flight through the wilds was most undignified, but you have come to face me after all, so I must give you some credit.”

  The slight had the snap of a damp twig, but the Faelen officers gathered behind Myam-tal still tittered and held their embroidered handkerchiefs to their mouths. How could he have ever thought they were sophisticated? With their powdered faces and wigs and embroidered clothes and shoes, they looked like a troop of sad clowns.

  One of Myam-tal's followers was a man who had been disfigured and lost an eye. This must be the captain from the east that Riot had told him about. The man's remaining eye narrowed, and he leaned forward to whisper to Myam-tal before turning on his heel and striding back into the citadel. He would look for Riot, but that was out of Moran's control. “I challenge you, Myam-tal,” he announced in a clear voice.

  The laughter turned into interested chatter, a flock of peahens gabbing over a new cock in their midst.

  “State your terms, but do not insult me,” Myam-tal replied.

  “If you are successful I will surrender to you, and renounce my claim to the Citadel. If I am victorious, you will grant me access to the Sun Tower.”

  Laughter erupted now, a polite sniggering and chuckling and Myam-tal gave his coterie an indulgent smile. “I refuse, honorably. Who knows how many bastards our father sired on the whores of this citadel? If I indulge you then I will have to deal with all of them.”

  An eruption of sneering, disdainful laughter followed the words. Moran felt it, like a small wound, but he would harden himself until the laughter could no longer bite, and he would start today.

  “A friendly bout then? The honor of the citadel I call my own against the sty of hogs in the Echo that your mother calls home.”

  The laughter stopped, and Myam-tal turned, his expression deadly. “What is your aim here, I wonder?”

  Moran gave a short bow. “Honor and glory, brother.”

  “On my honor, I accept. Establish a dueling ground!” Myam-tal declared.

  The Faelen clapped and clamored, waving their lace cloths as bells clanged and word was passed throughout the citadel.

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  Peter