Yokah was focused. With a flick of his wrist, he diligently followed the lines written on the paper laid out before him. Yet another formal letter.

  This one came from the 3rd Tsev. He sighed. According to its content, Echille himself, ruler of the neighboring Tsev, was expressly requesting the release of one of his citizens from prison. This citizen, named Bjorn, had decided a few days prior to murder a fishmonger, suspecting him of having an affair with his wife. Even if that were true, it was no way to behave, and Yokah, enforcing justice, had locked him up in his cells, as the murder had taken place within his jurisdiction.

  He turned to his advisor, who was busy sorting through his leader’s archived documents.

  — Ersa?

  — Yes, Yokah?

  — We received a message from Echille, I’d like to—

  He was cut off by three knocks at the door. Raising an eyebrow, Yokah ordered the person to enter. Tornes stepped in, a soldier tasked with protecting the premises. He knelt to bow before his master.

  — Tell me, why have you come to disturb me?

  — Master, urgent news from the second Tsev.

  Yokah raised an eyebrow—this must be serious.

  — Sir Voxès has been assassinated in his sleep last night. We don’t know more for now. His Majesty the King demands an emergency meeting this afternoon at the Palace.

  A heavy silence filled the room. The ruler of the second Tsev assassinated? Why? What was behind this murder? This didn’t bode well, and Yokah didn’t like it. He feared for his own position. In truth, if Voxès had been assassinated, why not him next? He rose from his desk and, with a glance, dismissed Tornes.

  Once the heavy, solid wooden door closed, he rubbed his forehead. Ersa, meanwhile, seemed deep in thought. The homicide of a ruler.

  It hadn’t happened in years. Five years, to be exact. Yokah remembered it perfectly. The advisor of the eighth Tsev had killed his superior, also at night, by poisoning his drink. It took less than two days to prove it was indeed him behind the sinister act. There’s a rule to know in Fort-Dragor: everything gets out. There are ears everywhere, all in service of the King. When the people know, it’s already too late. And the people always know everything. God knows what was in store for that advisor—torture, a slow death for sure. His body had then been left hanging for days on the northern fa?ade of the Palace, just above the massive drawbridge leading into the Royal grounds.

  Messing with the King’s right-hand men was a direct ticket to hell. You had to be crazy. It was Ersa who broke the silence:

  — I will arrange your departure as soon as possible. It’s already near noon, you haven’t eaten yet, and you must head to the Palace without delay.

  — Yes, thank you, Ersa.

  Yokah slumped into the luxurious, gold-stitched sofa. He looked around his office—a room close to 100 square meters, with a ceiling painted by the greatest artists of the city. Paintings adorned the walls, and the shiny black pine flooring highlighted the various pieces of furniture, each more expensive than the last. Yokah came from a noble family. Like all the rulers of Fort-Dragor, he had inherited his position from his father. Power passed through blood. They had been trained from birth to lead, generation after generation. He had thus inherited luxurious apartments right in the center of the sixth Tsev. He commanded hundreds of men and could do with them as he pleased. But he wasn’t the type to give particularly cruel orders or abuse his power like many other rulers did. No, he preferred to keep his power and attract as little wrath as possible.

  He picked his nose. He was hungry. With a flick of his thumb and forefinger, he sent the mucus onto the floor. His various maids would clean it up. He got up, adjusted his tunic, and, moving toward the heavy front door, whistled. Instantly, the doors creaked open, pushed by two soldiers from the Tsev army. They could be distinguished from the royal army by the color of their armor: the royal ones had golden decorations. Once out of the room, Yokah found himself in the large courtyard of his Fort. All around it were the kitchens, the banquet hall, the dining room, the various dormitories, and offices used for his functions.

  The weather outside was beautiful. The sun was blazing. He asked his men for a parasol, which was immediately brought to him. Escorted by three of his men, one shading him from the heat, he headed to his stables. They were located at the edge of the courtyard, where several horses awaited him. He chose his favorite, as usual—a jet-black Arabian thoroughbred. It was magnificent. A soldier arrived just before his departure for the Palace, informing him that Ersa had arranged his dinner upon arrival. Nodding, Yokah gave a slight nudge with his heel to the horse’s flank, setting it into motion immediately.

  He had now left his courtyard, passed through the immense wrought-iron gate guarded by two Tsev soldiers. This gate was what separated him from the people.

  Still surrounded by his guards, he took the road to the Palace. It wasn’t complicated—it was the widest avenue. Each Fort was connected to the Palace by grand avenues to ensure quicker and safer transport for its rulers and advisors. All except the tenth Tsev, for a reason Yokah had forgotten; the event that caused it dated back hundreds of years, surely.

  The sight of the great library snapped him out of his thoughts. Erected hundreds of years ago, it housed everything the city of Fort-Dragor had acquired up to that point. It was the close link between the eighth Tsev and his own, a union forged long ago. Inside this vast repository of knowledge were books on every imaginable topic—botany, chemistry, exploration, biology, and even astrology. It was the only monument in the city containing works that contradicted Royal power.

  It was said that some books contained utterly absurd claims, like the world being round, like a sphere, and other such nonsense. They were forbidden to open, kept in a separate room. But they were there. This was proof of Fort-Dragor's openness and wisdom, once again demonstrating its intelligence and superiority.

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  As he passed, citizens bowed their heads, a sign of respect for their ruler. Yokah glared at them, a smirk on his lips. How he loved power.

  The city walls, lower than those at the city entrance, separated the city from the royal quarters. Yokah and his men passed through the South gate, which they shared with the fifth Tsev. They had no trouble passing, being well-known to the guards. However, for an ordinary citizen, passing these walls was impossible unless they had a pass personally signed by the King. Otherwise, entry into these quarters was forbidden. Guards were posted every twenty meters, preventing any intrusion. Those who lived in this quarter stayed there their entire lives—a city within a city. All citizens of Dragor were forbidden from leaving this small city, but why leave when everything imaginable was contained within these walls? The best restaurants, inns, brothels with the finest prostitutes, the best parks… paradise for the wealthy.

  Crossing these walls meant a change in atmosphere. Dragor was a theater city. Hypocrisy was more useful than any other trait. Everyone judged, everyone despised, but everyone smiled. Yokah felt like a fish in water.

  He arrived at the Palace gates. Every time he visited, he was left speechless.

  The monument wasn’t just immense; it overflowed with wealth. Made of polished stones from all regions, built by the best architects known in the world, it far surpassed any comprehension. Wide moats filled with water prevented any access from the sides, leaving only one entrance—an enormous, overprotected bridge. The entire peninsula was composed of numerous buildings, forming a large wall. Living within were the King’s close associates, his servants, his scribes—everyone lucky enough to work for him. This surrounding wall, in turn, enclosed the Palace. It measured 200 meters on each side, with a large dome at its center, where the King had his apartments and official offices. That’s where Yokah needed to go. A mix of glass, raw sandstone, ochre stone, columns rose from the four corners, sculptures protruded here and there, and the fa?ades contained countless details—sometimes historical, sometimes purely aesthetic.

  — Sir, the King is expecting us.

  Yokah had stopped, admiring this architectural masterpiece.

  — Yes, yes, I know. But next time, try to keep quiet and let me admire it as I please.

  Resuming his path and crossing the wide bridge that led to the heart of Dragor, Yokah thought the guard was right. But he hated being wrong.

  He left his horse with a squire and continued on foot. At the entrance of the royal residence, a man intercepted him. He wore golden armor.

  — Madam Ersa sent us a message; your dinner awaits in the guest hall. Please follow me.

  Yokah nodded and followed the armored man to be guided. The ten-meter-high door opened, revealing the Palace’s first room—an immense corridor, fifteen meters high and ten meters wide. Carpeted in red along its entire length, Royal guards formed a corridor, standing straight and unyielding. Human columns.

  Yokah was escorted through a maze of rooms for about ten minutes before arriving in a hall as tall as the others, with a massive dark wood table in the center, capable of seating twenty guests. His meal awaited there.

  — Here is your sustenance, Sir.

  His guide bowed and took his leave. The ruler of the sixth Tsev found himself alone with men in armor posted by the doors to ensure security.

  As he began his feast, a man entered the hall. He was tall, with a goatee, an elongated face, and a scar running across his face. He wore a blue tunic. Yokah stood to greet him.

  — Sir Monher, what brings you here so early?

  — Sir Yokah, you know very well I hate being late.

  — I understand, as do I!

  — Would you mind if I kept you company during dinner?

  — Not at all, it would be an honor. Please, have a seat.

  Yokah hated being watched while he ate. Monher pulled up a chair and sat down. After a brief silence, he started the conversation.

  — So, you’ve heard the sad news?

  — Yes, just this morning.

  — What do you make of it?

  Yokah was caught off guard. What did he make of it?

  — It touched me. I liked him a lot. Voxès was like a friend to me.

  Monher raised an eyebrow and replied:

  — Oh, really? You know as well as I do that it’s not wise to make friends, especially among Tsev rulers.

  — Yes, of course. By friend, I meant a friend in power.

  — Only the people grant power, and I’m not sure the people elected us or even want us.

  Yokah lowered his head. Monher continued:

  — We only have power in our little world, and you know as well as I do, the people are restless. Don’t you think this assassination is linked to that unrest?

  — I don’t know. Honestly, I haven’t thought about it.

  — Well, I suppose we’ll have plenty of time to discuss it this afternoon.

  With these words, Sir Monher raised his arm and pointed toward the door. At that precise moment, it opened, and a dozen guards entered.

  The King was there.