The Sul Empire’s design echoes principles as old as the First Empire: An Imperial Triumvirate as Sovereign—granted absolute authority in times of crisis, bound by law in times of peace.

  The House of Lords and House of Commons as State—tasked with crafting the laws that shape daily life. An independent judiciary as Advocate—charged with defending law and liberty from all who would erode them.

  The oldest powers of the realm scorn this separation. They call for a supreme sovereign, like the Brood or the Dominion’s dual throne. They forget: The Sul’s strength lies not in its blood, but in its institutions.

  Oath. Law. Tradition.

  These are the bones of empire—and when they break, so does the world.

  - A Review of the Key Principles of the the Sul Empire by Chisaran Branchillin

  Aslavain: Twenty-Five Days After the Summer Solstice

  Lotem flinched when the Sulphen’s voice surged abruptly through his mind as he trekked through the muddy landscape in search of frogs. The unexpected intrusion made him stumble, the mud sucking at his foot as he fell forward. He barely caught himself, grabbing a nearby shrub covered in light purple flowers for support. His head snapped toward a distant point—toward where he could feel Sabel’s presence. He wasn’t sure what had caused the words, but he knew he was needed.

  [Companion Evolution Obtained: Dreamlight Prowler]

  An evolution. Sabel had been transformed by the Sulphen—elevated into more than a mere cat. Lotem struggled to process the realization. He had known it was possible; many herders of the Zherenkhan had companions that were... different. He had once hoped for such a bond with Wilson or Warma—before he’d sworn his vengeance. Even after bonding with Sabel, he’d thought that kind of growth was a distant possibility. Something to worry about later. So why now? What changed?

  He felt a thrum through their bond as Sabel stirred awake. Her drowsiness faded, and her mind reached for his with newfound clarity. Lotem was used to a general sense of her emotions and location, but this—this was different. He could almost pick out individual words as they flashed through her thoughts. His chest tightened in surprise as her familiar presence sharpened, then Sabel focused on him, and her thoughts resolved into a prim, overly proper voice that reminded him of Sylva.

  “Dreamlight Prowler? Lotem, this is not nearly clear enough. I demand more information.”

  “Sabel?” Lotem replied tentatively, focusing his thoughts on his companion, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

  “Lotem! I heard a voice—and suddenly everything is clear! It’s as if the meat did something to me.”

  “What meat? What do you mean you understand?”

  He wasn’t sure what she meant, but fear pushed him through the thick mud, each hurried step risking another fall. He worried that moving too quickly might send him sprawling again, but he couldn’t help his haste. What if Sabel was in danger? Had she fought something before the evolution? He had left her napping on a rock—safe, or so he’d thought.

  “I found some Dreamweaver Frog legs and ate the meat from their bones,” Sabel said proudly, as if discovering the legs of a rare frog were no big deal. She continued, and he sensed a blend of pride and confusion emanating from her. “Once I ate the meat, I began to understand more about the world. Then, Alsarana forced me to eat more legs—and even a frog’s eye.” Lotem felt a wave of disgust for the eye ripple through their bond before Sabel finished with an arrogant huff. “Since then...something changed. At first, I was frightened by how much I understood. But now, I realize I’ve become—well, rather extraordinary.”

  Lotem froze mid-step. “Wait, Alsarana forced you to eat the frog?”

  Alsarana had forced Sabel to evolve? Lotem’s heart sank into confusion before swelling into a fierce, protective rage. Had the naga lost his mind? Did he even understand the depth of what he’d done?

  “Alsarana! Get your scaly hide out of whatever hole you’re hiding in. I demand answers!”

  Lotem’s voice echoed across the marsh, sending several flocks of small birds aloft. He paused for three deep breaths before resuming his outraged shouts. Through their bond, he sensed Sabel trying to instill calm—she seemed desperate for him to settle down—but until he confronted the snake, he refused to be swayed. After another bout of angry shouting, he saw the grasses shift and heard a slick, quiet rustling as Alsarana’s glossy scales slid through the marsh grasses.

  “Summoned me, have you?” Alsarana’s tongue flickered, the words sliding from his jaws with silky disdain. Lotem felt his rage build and struggled to keep the heat from his tone.

  Lotem squared his shoulders, eyes narrowed sharply. “Sabel evolved, and she says that you are the cause.” He was beginning to question whether Alsarana truly cared for Sabel’s best interests, or if this was just another game to him.

  “The kitten must be mistaken,” Alsarana said with a dismissive roll of his eyes. Lotem waited, his gaze fixed on the naga, devoid of any amusement. Alsarana shifted, his tail coiling and uncoiling theatrically as he avoided meeting Lotem’s hard stare. Eventually, he sighed, his restless form quieting.

  “You caught me. But magical meat like that is rare, Lotem—would you have wasted the chance? Companions like Sabel don’t achieve evolution lightly; I merely nudged fate along. And if I’d waited for your blessing, the moment may have passed.”

  “And you didn’t even consider mentioning it to me?” Lotem demanded, his gut twisting with growing outrage. He understood what Alsarana was doing—the unexpected reaction the meat elicited was evidence of the naga’s misconduct, not his innocence. If Alsarana had consulted him about the prospect, Lotem was certain he would have given his blessing. But Alsarana hadn’t asked—he hadn’t even bothered to give Lotem or Sabel a choice.

  “Cass said I...could, if necessary, inform you," Alsarana admitted, his tail flicking restlessly. “But honestly, Lotem, who could have guessed this little experiment would go so splendidly? I hardly expected such immediate success.”

  “Casselia wanted this to happen?” Lotem asked. “But she said that catching the frogs was for coin and training—she didn’t mention anything about Sabel.”

  “Cass learned long ago it’s best to be vague. Precision has a nasty habit of changing fates—and not always for the better. She prefers her pawns—I mean, students—to find their own paths.”

  “My having a say in the situation certainly would have changed things,” Lotem erupted. “It would have ensured that this was a path we actually wanted to follow, and it would have given Sabel a choice.”

  “Far from it,” Alsarana said quietly. “Sabel had no true agency before this—just instinct. Do you really think a mere animal can choose its own destiny, Lotem? Evolution gave her personhood. Asking a mere cat what its fate should be is as useless as asking a Tul to give up meat. It was not in her nature to possess true agency; asking you would have been little better than treating you as her master.”

  Alsarana hissed the word master with a vehemence that took Lotem off guard, diffusing some of the fury building within him. Lotem was accustomed to Alsarana’s dark jests and humor, but this time, the naga’s anger felt more tangible. Lotem wanted to despise Alsarana—to feel nothing but anger. But beneath his outrage lingered a troubling question: what if Alsarana truly thought this was helping? Could he trust intentions that justified themselves so recklessly? Alsarana continued, his words laced with a harsh, hissing tone.

  “Sabel has transitioned from being an object to be owned into a person to be respected. Yet, despite claiming kinship with her, you harbor nothing but fury at the one responsible. Why? Why do you get angry at such a miracle, boy?”

  Lotem sensed that Sabel was desperately trying to speak to him, urging him to listen. But for now, he ignored her, his focus fixed solely on Alsarana.

  “She is a child, a fucking kitten. You had no right to make such a choice without my involvement—none at all. It worked out this time, but what if it hadn’t? What if you had hurt her?”

  “What ‘if’s pave the road to despair and hatred. I didn’t hurt the little one—I helped her. Now, are you going to let your anger rule you, or are you going to help your friend?”

  Lotem turned away from Alsarana and began a slow trek across the mud toward where Sabel waited. “I am on my way,” he conveyed, his thoughts imbued with a warm sense of praise as her message washed over him.

  “Lotem? Lotem, please—why are you angry? Did I… did I do something wrong? Was I not supposed to eat it?”

  Sabel seemed panicked as her thoughts collided with his. He resolved to be the firm rock on which she could rely, no matter how muddy the world or their journey might become. He hadn’t controlled her evolution, but he would ensure that she adapted well to the changes sweeping over her.

  “It’s nothing—I saw another crocodile and slipped in the mud, that’s all,” Lotem lied. “You have done nothing wrong, Sabel; it’s just unexpected, that’s all.”

  Lotem turned as he heard the mud shift beneath Alsarana’s form—the naga approaching from behind. He tried to ignore the creature, fixing his gaze on the spot where he knew Sabel waited. Alsarana slithered in front of him and cleared his throat, suddenly appearing desperate for Lotem’s attention.

  Alsarana glanced away, swaying with what Lotem guessed was discomfort. “I realize the timing is... unfortunate, but Casselia has summoned us back to Dornogor immediately.”

  “Now?” Lotem snapped, suspicion sharpening his voice. Alsarana had already manipulated one decision today—could this sudden summons be another ploy? “I thought Casselia said we still had another day. And how did she contact you anyway? I didn’t hear or see anything signaling her news.”

  “It seems that powers greater than even us move in Dornogor. Empress Althara Vandros has summoned us. Things are getting more interesting by the day, and the events at play have begun spinning beyond Casselia’s control.” Alsarana’s tone held a note of excitement as he warmed to the idea. “An Empress in Dornogor? Even a week ago, I would have called such a truth impossible. Now? We had best return with haste.”

  “How do you know all this?” Lotem repeated before adding, “Wait… the Tempest is in Dornogor? Why?”

  “Cass can’t share too many details—not when she’s carving on my bones—but her intention was clear enough. Onward, we have a newly evolved kitten to comfort and a long run ahead of us.”

  Lotem sighed, lifted his foot, and took another ponderous step forward in the muddy terrain. At least he would be free of the mud sooner than expected. He was beginning to agree with Sabel’s grumbling about mud—about its tendency to obscure footing, to hide pitfalls beneath a deceptive surface. Trust, it seemed, was equally treacherous footing.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Sylva accepted the charm from Casselia a heartbeat before the Sealbearer motioned for her to leap from the treetop. Having been hauled up in a harness, the idea of falling under her own power thrilled her. A clean jump would spare her further indignity—and teach her how the talisman worked. Hadrian had said his last one crumbled on landing, and she wondered if that was true for all talismans or just the kind Casselia gave. She squared her shoulders as she realized she was distracting herself. The questions could wait.

  She stepped into open air, and her stomach lurched—weightlessness bloomed as gravity clawed at her. Below, Hadrian drifted toward the grass, his talisman glowing softly as it guided him down. The Sulphen around her flared, an inky aura catching her mid-fall, lifting and slowing her descent. She landed lightly. Hadrian was already on his feet, eyes locked on the sky.

  Beneath the great tree, the field stood oddly empty. Only the black-armored Sealbearers loomed near the surrounding buildings. Their presence explained the solitude well enough—an Eidolon approached, hesitated a dozen feet away from one of the Sealbearers, then turned and hurried off. Sylva frowned and glanced upward. No sign of Casselia. Something must have delayed her.

  High above, long wisps of vapor curled with deliberate purpose, spiraling toward a single point overhead. Each strand pulled itself inward, feeding a roiling, darkening mass that tightened with every breath. Bands of cloud streaked across the horizon. Sylva had never seen anything like it.

  “I remember the first time I saw the ritual of the First Breaking of Ysaril,” said a familiar scholarly voice behind her. Sylva turned, smiling at the sight of Krinka’s pudgy figure. Whether he’d been there all along or arrived while she watched the sky hardly mattered—Krinka would know what she was seeing.

  “The First Breaking of Ysaril?” Sylva echoed. She knew the Scaled Dominion’s Eternal City only vaguely—a footnote in a lecture on the distant east of the continent. The Elders had dismissed its destruction as a failure of “weaker peoples,” quickly turning to subjects they deemed more fitting for the best minds of the Sul Empire.

  “It’s been centuries since I last saw this ritual, first devised after the City of Clouds fell. Even I’m not old enough to remember it firsthand—but its scars still echo through history.” Krinka gestured skyward. “Such workings are rare.” He stepped closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Althara’s command of it, I’m told, is part of why her Triumvirate was chosen to rule.”

  “What does it do?” Hadrian asked, a spark of curiosity breaking through the tension in his voice.

  Sylva, still grappling with the Empress’s demand that he surrender his [Squire] class to Lotem, felt it as a theft—one that undermined everything he’d earned. Guilt twisted in her gut. If she’d been there when Meris had issued his challenge, she might have stopped the duel. Would any of this have happened? Was this her fault? She turned from Hadrian, fixing her gaze on Krinka as she fought to still the rising tide inside her.

  Krinka, meanwhile, was glancing eagerly between the sky and Hadrian, as though he’d been waiting for that exact question.

  “When Ysaril’s Domicile was shattered by the Bloodmarked and their kin, no record tells how many centuries’ worth of stored clouds were unleashed. An endless torrent billowed from the ruined city. For three days and nights, the clouds surged outward, swallowing every horizon until the sky itself vanished. Reports describe the phenomenon as far north as the now ruined Eternal Cities of the Triptych, as far south as the abandoned Domicile of Wood, and as far west as the Domicile of Stone. Ysaril’s fall is one of the few events documented independently across the entire continent.”

  “But what does it do?” Hadrian pressed, more concerned with the ritual’s meaning than its history. Krinka’s shoulders slumped, his scholarly pride deflating under the weight of the question. With a sigh, he replied in a tone stripped of its former excitement.

  “The Tempest holds deep affinity with clouds and sky. She’s drawing in the entire cloud layer—stretching, perhaps, across a hundreds of miles—binding it to her will and steeping it in Sulphen. When the weave is finished, she’ll unleash it, and the clouds will surge outward once more.”

  Krinka’s answer only seemed to deepen Hadrian’s curiosity. Sylva, however, now grasped the source of the scholar’s excitement. Hadrian stared up at the tightening vortex, then back at Krinka, his brow furrowed with quiet disbelief.

  “So the Empress pulls in all the clouds with a grand ritual… and then sends them back where they came from?”

  “A fair explanation—if lacking a few nuances,” Krinka said with a wry nod.

  “But why? What’s the point of all that?”

  “Sylva,” Krinka said, turning to her with an expectant gleam in his eye. “Answer Hadrian’s question, if you would.”

  “It’s about infusing the clouds with her authority—and with the Sulphen she commands,” Sylva guessed, hesitating until Krinka gave a small nod. “It’s like your fog robe, Hadrian. Your connection to it gives you awareness and control. Althara is doing the same—but with the entire sky.”

  Hadrian’s eyes widened as he glanced up at Althara, still hovering overhead. Sylva hoped her answer had been close to the truth—she’d been guessing as much as reasoning. But Krinka didn’t correct her. Her brow furrowed as she considered what this kind of power meant. This was the level of mastery expected of an Imperial Triumvirate. What, then, could Eseldra Ironbloom or Rhaethan Blackblade do?

  Sylva studied the swirling web of power surrounding the Empress. Threads of inky Sulphen streamed from Althara’s body, weaving into an intricate, ever-shifting pattern overhead. She thought she could almost hear the words of a distant song as she watched, but when she looked returned her attention to her companions, the song seemed to fade away. Sylva pulled a length of string from her pocket and began tying notes as her gaze returned to the sky, tracking how the pillars bent to Althara’s will.

  After several minutes of silence, Krinka murmured, “I suspect Althara has two purposes for this ritual. What are they?” The question snapped Sylva from her trance; her fingers stilled on the string, the pattern unfinished.

  “Intelligence,” she said absently, eyes still on the sky as she listened for the distant song, trying to make out its words. “If she can extend her senses through the clouds, that would be an ideal way to gather information.”

  “Good,” Krinka said. “And the second?”

  “Drama?” Hadrian offered into the silence, while Sylva blinked, still turning the question over in her mind.

  “Drama?” Krinka echoed, tilting his head. “What do you mean by that, Hadrian?”

  “I don’t know if it’s part of the magic or just a side effect, but pulling all the clouds into one place is bound to attract attention—lots of it.”

  Hadrian turned in a slow circle, watching as crowds craned their necks skyward from the parts of the city unguarded by the Sealbearers within sight. Sylva followed his gaze. Eidolons and candidates alike were pointing at the lone figure overhead. He was right—this display had drawn eyes from across Dornogor, and likely from every nearby city in Aslavain.

  “Very astute. I’d call it an announcement more than drama—but that’s just semantics. Yes, Hadrian, ‘drama’ is fair.”

  “When will the ritual end?” Sylva asked, hurrying to record every detail, her eyes still locked on the sky.

  “Oh, not for a few hours yet, I suspect,” Krinka replied cheerfully. “Althara likely began the ritual shortly after arriving in Dornogor—but clouds are slow to rouse. Only recently has the local cover compressed enough for her to begin the true work.”

  “She told me as much.”

  Casselia’s calm voice drew an eager smile from Krinka as they turned to the [Venerate], a broken talisman crumbling to dust in her hand. She looked exhausted. Sylva shot her a questioning glance, but Casselia answered before she could speak.

  “Apologies for the delay—the Sealbearers required some persuasion once they had me alone with their questions. Krinka, I presume you’ve shared the history of this ritual?”

  “Enough,” Krinka said, visibly restraining further enthusiasm, eyes lingering on Casselia, as if guessing at secrets she hadn’t shared.

  “Sylva,” Casselia said, nodding at the string of notes in her hand, “I see you’ve been recording what you observed. Good. There are always lessons to learn from masters of their craft, and Althara is certainly that. I hadn’t grasped the full strength of her authority over the sky until I watched her weave the ritual.”

  “Anything productive from that conversation?” Krinka asked, leaning forward with a scholar’s eagerness.

  “More than I was prepared for, if I’m honest.” Casselia’s eyes flicked toward Sylva and Hadrian before settling again on Krinka. Sylva caught the hesitation and wondered what Casselia was keeping from them. “Nothing bad—at least not yet. But you know how the Imperial Triumvirate are. They think they know best… even in matters well beyond their reach.”

  “What did she want from you? Is it about Hadrian being a [Squire]?”

  “She was interested in Hadrian,” Casselia said quietly, casting a glance their way—just enough to confirm Sylva’s suspicion that something was being left unsaid. “Althara believes he should renounce the class, pass it to Lotem, and seek a title better suited to his talents.”

  “No,” Krinka said, shaking his head. “We’ve only just begun a Rahabian Blitz with the lad. Renouncing the class now? Foolish—unless…” His words faded as his gaze drifted upward to the spiraling clouds.

  “What are you not telling us?” Sylva snapped, the sharpness in her voice cutting through the haze. Krinka opened his mouth, but Hadrian spoke first—low and steady.

  “The Empress thinks I can’t defend the title once she tells every candidate in Aslavain that a Wyvern can be won here in just a few weeks. She told Sylva to get me an implement purely to help us compete. The Wyvern—that’s all she cares about.” Hadrian turned to Casselia, eyes searching hers. “I could accept a demand to train harder, to overcome the odds. But to quit—to give up the [Squire of Carven Bone] and everything that comes with it—feels wrong, even if Lotem’s skills fit better.”

  His voice dropped. “Am I simply not strong enough?”

  Hadrian paused, drawing a slow, steadying breath. Sylva glanced toward Casselia and Krinka. Casselia flinched—barely—but Sylva saw it. She doesn’t like this either, Sylva realized. The Empress had already reprimanded her for missteps in their training. No wonder the Crownless bristled at outside interference. She wondered what else she was missing? Clearly, larger forces and personal goals were steering both Althara and Casselia, but how would them impact them? The silence stretched before Hadrian finally went on.

  “Casselia, Krinka—I trust you both. I trust you to guide us, to tell me the truths I need, and to give me real choices. Choices that make my destiny my own. If you say our Triumvirate is better served by my renouncing Rovan Khal’s class, I’ll do it. You know my purpose. You know my heart. So answer me honestly—is this right?”

  “Hadrian,” Casselia began, meeting his pleading gaze with rare uncertainty, “I… I don’t know. If it were only my decision, I wouldn’t force that choice on you. I push my students to reach their potential—that rarely means giving up their greatest achievements. Earning Rovan’s approval, earning that class, is the crowning accomplishment of your life so far. You trained for years to seize an opportunity exactly like this. It wasn’t luck or error that made you a [Squire], and it’s foolish to treat that title as a coin to be bartered away.”

  Casselia hesitated, her eyes flicking to Krinka, who watched in silence, brow furrowed. Hadrian drank in every word, gaze locked on his mentor—until a deep, resonant trumpet echoed from the herds beyond the city walls. Likely the elephants of the plains, Sylva guessed. The sound seemed to pull Casselia back, and she resumed—slower now, gentler, as though speaking to a frightened creature.

  “But your true goal stands apart from any class. When I ask about your dreams, Hadrian, you speak of raising Cutra to full imperial status. Of making your family proud. Of thriving alongside your friends—your Triumvirate. None of that depends on your title as Rovan’s [Squire].”

  Casselia’s voice hardened. “Althara sees Cutra as a threat to the Sul Empire. She warned of factions who might use you—and your robe—as justification to move against your village. Believe me, Hadrian, an Empress of the Sul does not make idle threats. If the Tempest believes it serves her—or the Empire—for your village to disappear, she will see it done. Losing your class doesn’t just please her—it placates.”

  “Do we have to work with her?” Hadrian asked, his voice low, uncertain. “If she threatens Cutra and interferes with our training, why are we letting her in at all? We were doing fine before she arrived.”

  “We were,” Casselia acknowledged, “but that was before—before Althara came to Dornogor and brought the storm with her. Now the winds shift faster than we can adapt, and all we can do is stay aloft. Life works that way. We spend years drafting blueprints, decades laying stones, until paper dreams rise on the brink of reality. Then a spark catches—and the whole scaffold burns. Our task is to raise something stronger from those ashes. Ashes to edifice.”

  Krinka nodded, a haunted look crossing his face. Sylva wondered how many times they’d seen this pattern before. She, too, had been told what success was supposed to look like: travel to Eisentor, win its contest, then journey through the Silklands. But maybe the embers had already reached her own scaffold—Tir Na Nog, the unexpected [Thaumaturge] class. Her pre?established dreams were already burning; Valentine had warned her of that very thing in the arena. Watching Hadrian’s clenched fists and tense shoulders, she realized neither of them was facing the fire alone.

  Ashes to edifice. The phrase stuck with her. Sylva recalled confronting Krinka in Tir Na Nog—confessing her doubts about becoming a [Thaumaturge] instead of what she was meant to be. What had he told her then? The words slipped from her lips before she could stop them.

  “This is your life—don’t let anyone dictate what you’re meant to become.” She glanced at Krinka, then smiled at Hadrian. “That’s what he told me when I fretted about being a [Thaumaturge].”

  “Fine advice, if I do say so,” Krinka muttered with a faint smile.

  Resolve surged through Sylva. She was done being a passive observer. Twenty years under the Elders’ strict rules had earned her little. At every turn, something had gone wrong—they spent their days reacting, putting out fires that threatened everything they’d built. It was time to seize control.

  “It’s like Casselia said, Hadrian—ashes to edifice. If the Empress burns down our plans, if the Tul raids return, if the Brood or Dominion break their treaties—we’ll rebuild. We’ll come back stronger.”

  Sylva looked to Casselia and was surprised to find open approval on the [Venerate]’s face. She added, more quietly, “I don’t know what comes next. But I do know this—we’ll face it. Together.”

  “We have a few hours before the ritual ends—or before Lotem and Alsarana return,” Casselia said, once the silence had passed. “Hadrian, come. Let’s put the time to good use and train.”

  “Ah—and,” Krinka added, prompting Casselia to pause mid?step, “I may have anticipated your urgent need for an implement, Sylva, and brought along the solution. A few hours should be enough to introduce you. It’s time you had the proper tools to work miracles. The Empress may demand nothing less.”

  Sylva felt her strings tighten with anticipation. Change loomed on the horizon, but this time, it didn’t bring fear. Ashes to edifice. They would come through this trial stronger—she would see to it.