Interlude A2.III

Bast Lorenz

The Thyella gave a shuddering lurch as it docked, pulling Bast Lorenz from his stupor. His head pounded like a war drum, the price for too many nights spent sampling Elbrec wine and Osmanpatur’s finest opium. He groaned, running a hand through his long, dark locs, feeling the cold metal of his gold rings brushing against his scalp. The sunlight streaming through the cabin’s window did nothing to help his mood. Too bright, too loud—everything was too much after a bender like this.

“Blind be, I think I’m dying,” he muttered, earning a chuckle from Szed, who stood near the cabin window, already fully dressed and mostly composed. Of course he was. He was finishing buttoning the last button on his black velvet waistcoat.

“You’ve said that every morning for the past week, Lord Bast,” Szed said, his bronze eyes glinting with amusement. “Yet here you stand. Defying death yet again.”

“Barely.” Bast groaned again, pushing himself up from the plush seat, and dragging himself to the mirror. The face staring back at him was not at its finest. His skin, dark and smooth like burnished oak, was pallid in the places around his eyes. His locs, normally well-kept, hung limp and uneven from the indulgences of travel. Still, there was something in his gaze, something his mother had once called the Lorenz fire. But he didn’t feel much like fire today. More like ash.

“Come on, let’s get this over with.” Bast grabbed his overcoat, a deep royal purple thing lined with gold embroidery, and shrugged it on. As soon as he stood, the room swayed under his feet. He stumbled, and Szed’s hand was immediately at his elbow, steadying him with the ease of long practice. The young Laanian man had been Bast’s closest confidant since their first year of schooling together at Wrifton.

“The palace docks await,” Szed said, his voice a careful mix of formality and concern. Bast knew Szed was used to this routine. Too used to it. “And Viceroy Balarashi is waiting as well.”

“Balarashi? Already?” Bast cursed under his breath. Of course the Viceroy would be there to meet them at the docks. Rimaldo Balarashi never missed an opportunity to scold him, and Bast had given the old man plenty of reasons to do so. “Can’t a man die in peace without being lectured first?” He found a mostly empty bottle near his bed, picked it up and drained its remaining contents. The familiar burn pushed back the wave of nausea.

Szed only raised an eyebrow, lips curving into a slight smirk. “The Viceroy will undoubtedly be . . . pleased to see you.”

Bast snorted and, with Szed’s help, made his way up to the sky-docks.

The airship’s gangplank lowered with a hiss of steam, and Bast stepped out onto the gleaming stone of the palace’s private docks. He blinked against the harsh midday sun, his hangover throbbing like a second heartbeat. The vast expanse of Perun’s skyline stretched out before him, towers of white and red stone gleaming in the daylight behind the cerulean dome of the palace. Normally, he would have found the sight impressive. Today, it only made him squint harder.

He strolled down the gangplank, trying to keep the contents of his stomach from boiling up and spewing everywhere. Szed followed a step behind, a small, golden shadow. Bast was sure they struck an interesting image—he, a typical Olenish man well over six feet tall, and Szed, a Laanian standing around five feet tall.

At the end of the dock, waiting like a monument carved from stone, stood Viceroy Rimaldo Balarashi. Tall even by Olenish standards, the man was a looming presence. His broad shoulders filled out the fabric of his finely tailored red-and-gold suit, the cut emphasizing his impressive strength, despite his advanced age. His face was a hardened mask, dominated by three claw-like scars running from his left brow to his jaw, just below his left ear. The pale, ruined eye on the left side of his face gleamed white in the sun, while his good eye—an amber that burned faintly with power—glared at Bast as he approached. Bast remembered hearing stories of Viceroy Balarashi and his destructive battle with the Broceli Chevalier Trompst during the Battle of Murm Plains in the Second Uruth War. A battle that took place over a decade ago and he still squeezes it for juice, Bast thought. You’d think we’d get over it by now. No, Balarashi had stuck around like flies on shit.

“Lord Bast,” Balarashi rumbled, the words more a judgment than a greeting. His voice was a deep baritone that could have carved mountains.

“Viceroy,” Bast managed, offering a lopsided grin that he hoped didn’t betray his splitting headache. “Lovely weather we’re having.”

The Viceroy’s good eye narrowed. “Your timing leaves much to be desired.”

“Doesn’t it always?” Bast flashed a lazy smile, trying to hide his discomfort. Every inch of Balarashi radiated disapproval. Bast could feel it, prickling against his skin like a cold wind. The Viceroy was always like this—strict, unyielding. Probably thought Bast was a disgrace to the family name. Hell, maybe he wasn’t entirely wrong. But what did they expect? He wasn’t Ban, after all. He never would be.

“I trust your travels were . . . enlightening,” Balarashi said, the faintest edge of disdain creeping into his tone.

“Oh, absolutely,” Bast replied, forcing lightness into his voice. “Learned quite a bit in Elbrem. The merchants there really do have a way with words. And with wine.”

The Viceroy’s lips thinned. “Of course.” He glanced at Szed, then back to Bast. “Your grandfather is waiting. We should not keep him.”

Bast swallowed, the mention of his grandfather stirring something uncomfortable in his chest. Godemir III, Grand Duke of Olendar, had been a towering figure all his life. Even in his old age, he had remained a symbol of strength and resilience. But now, illness had brought him low, and the summons that had cut Bast’s travels short weighed heavily on him. He wasn’t ready to see the old man like that. Not yet.

“Lead the way, Viceroy,” Bast said, the humor drained from his voice.

As they crossed the sky-docks and entered the palace, the atmosphere grew cooler, the oppressive sun giving way to the chill of polished marble halls. The corridors of the palace were lined with towering statues of Olenish nobility and war heroes alike, their stone eyes watching Bast with silent judgment as he passed. The heavy weight of history pressed down on him from all sides. Bast had forgotten how much he loathed his visits to Perun’s palace. He preferred the countryside lodges, where it was easier to flee the oppressive history and expectations of his family.

Balarashi led the way in silence, his long strides forcing Bast to quicken his pace despite his leaden legs. Szed kept close at his side, his presence a silent comfort. The palace seemed emptier than Bast remembered, the usual bustle of courtiers and servants muted. Perhaps it was the gravity of the situation—the illness of the Grand Duke had cast a long shadow over the political circles of Olendar.

As they rounded a corner, Bast nearly collided with a figure emerging from one of the grand doors.

Ban.

Bast’s younger brother stood tall and broad-shouldered, his military uniform crisp and immaculate. His short, cropped hair, in contrast to Bast’s long locs, gave him a sharper, more disciplined look. Ban had always been the golden child, the prodigy, the one who had inherited their father’s strength. Their father’s Bloodline Contract. His light eyes, almost identical to Bast’s, flickered with surprise for a moment before softening.

“Bast,” Ban said, his voice warm despite the tension that clung to him. “I wasn’t sure when you’d arrive.”

“Just now,” Bast replied, glancing between his brother and Balarashi, who stood off to the side, silent and watchful. “I hope I didn’t miss—” He was cut off when Ban grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into a strong, warm embrace.

“I’ve missed you so much, brother,” Ban whispered in his ear.

They separated and Bast, head cloudy and heavy, barely blurted a response. “I’ve missed you too, of course.”

Ban’s mouth twitched into something resembling a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Bast realized his brother’s eyes looked tired—the eyes of a man who didn’t see much sleep in recent nights. “How are things?”

Bast scratched the back of his head, clearing his throat. “Good! . . . Good. And on the Front?”

Ban’s eyes darkened at the mention of the Front. “A lot to catch you up on.”

Bast nodded, though the unease in his stomach only grew. Ban’s expression, normally calm and collected, was troubled. His uniform, perfectly pressed and shining with medals, was a stark contrast to Bast’s rumpled state. They were two sides of the same coin, but Bast had never felt the weight of that difference more than he did now.

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“How is he?” Bast asked, changing the subject. His voice lower now, more serious.

Ban’s gaze flicked to the doors behind him, then back to Bast. “Not good. He’s been asleep for most of the day. The healers say it’s touch and go, but . . .”

There was a heaviness to his brother’s words, an unspoken fear that made Bast’s throat tighten. Their grandfather had seemed so strong only months ago. His sudden decline had put all of Olendar’s noble families on the back foot, scrambling and making arrangements for the worst case scenario.

“I have to get back to the Front,” Ban continued, his voice softening. “I’m departing this evening. But I’ll be here for dinner. We should talk before you leave for Wrifton. It would be nice to catch up.”

“Dinner sounds good,” Bast replied, trying to muster a smile. “I’d like that.”

With a nod, Ban turned and strode down the corridor, his footsteps echoing through the empty halls.

Bast watched him go, the tightness in his chest growing worse. Ban was the one everyone looked to. Ban was the one who had it all figured out. No doubt, Ban was front-and-center in many of the plots and plannings taking place across the familities. Bast was just . . . here. The wayward son, the disappointment. He couldn’t help but think of the implications of being the first born son. The thought was only drowned out by the pulsing in his skull.

“Shall we?” Balarashi’s voice cut through Bast’s thoughts, and he turned to see the Viceroy eyeing Szed with suspicion.

Szed met the Viceroy’s gaze steadily, but Bast could feel the tension between them. Balarashi clearly didn’t approve of Szed’s presence. It didn’t matter. Bast wouldn’t go anywhere without him.

“Szed stays,” Bast said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“He is an outsider,” Balarashi protested. He glared at the Laanian man like an unsightly growth of mold he had found in his bed chambers. “He should wait outside.”

“He is my retainer, and will accompany me. Wherever I go.” Bast felt a small sense of pride for himself at how steady he thought he was holding the older man’s gaze. Keep your eyes on me, motherfucker. Lest you forget, I am your better old man!

Balarashi’s jaw tightened, but he gave a curt nod. “Very well.”

Bast released a breath through his nostrils he hadn’t realized he was holding, slightly relieved that the conflict hadn’t bubbled over. If this hangover hasn’t killed me yet, it certainly would have then.

Together, they stepped into the Grand Duke’s chambers.

The room was dimly lit, the heavy drapes drawn to block out the harsh midday sun. The scent of incense lingered in the air, mingling with the faintest, chemical trace of medicine. At the center of the room, in a grand four-poster bed that once seemed too large for any man to fill, lay Godemir III.

Bast had to swallow hard against the lump that rose in his throat.

The Grand Duke looked small. Frail, even. His once-powerful frame had withered, his skin washed out and papery, clinging to his bones like a fragile veil. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, the sound barely audible over the crackling of the hearth fire. The room was blazingly hot—sweat already starting to bead on Bast’s temples—but his grandfather shuddered with some unseen chill.

Bast stood at the foot of the bed, his pulse thrumming in his ears. He had always remembered his grandfather as a titan, a man who could command the room with a single glance, whose voice could rattle the very walls of this palace. Now, he was barely a shadow of that man.

Balarashi lingered near the door, his gaze shifting to Bast. The Viceroy’s disapproving look softened for a moment, almost imperceptibly, before returning to its usual hardness. Bast reminded himself that the man was his grandfather’s closest friend. The two had been like brothers, people said.

Bast cleared his throat, trying to shake his nerves. “He look . . .” The words caught in his throat. He couldn’t lie. Not even to himself. “He looks weak.” The words escaped his lips as barely more than a whisper.

Szed, standing quietly at his side, gave a small nod, though he said nothing. The Laanian man was always so careful, so composed. Bast appreciated his silent support more than he could express in words.

Slowly, Bast approached the bedside, his eyes tracing the lines of his grandfather’s face. The deep wrinkles, the thinning silver hair. His hands, once capable of gripping a sword with terrifying strength, now lay limp at his sides. It didn’t feel real. This wasn’t the same man who had stood tall and proud at the grand feasts held in this very palace.

Bast exhaled a shaky breath and turned to Szed. “He’s not the same, is he?”

“No,” Szed said quietly, his voice low and respectful. “Time changes us all.”

Bast didn’t respond, but he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about Ban. His brother had inherited all the strength that seemed to have left their grandfather. He was everything Bast was not—disciplined, dutiful, revered. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Ban would carry on the Lorenz legacy, that he would be the shining star of Olendar’s future. Bast on the other hand was simply . . . there. Another body in the room. Too often at the bottom of a wine glass or in the company of strangers. An image—a memory—of a young Ban, surrounded by their grandfather, father and uncle, Bast alone, watching from a distance. I hate it here, he thought.

And yet, there he was, standing at the bedside of the man who had once been a titan to him, not knowing what to say or how to feel.

He stepped closer and, after a brief hesitation, reached out to gently touch his grandfather’s hand. The skin was cold, papery, and Bast felt a sharp pang in his chest. He had expected some kind of warmth, some sign that the man he’d known was still in there, somewhere.

But all he felt was fragility.

All these years of being terrified, and here we are. He’s weaker than a child now. Bast thought about how easy it would be for someone to place one of those pillows over his grandfather’s face. The old man wouldn’t even be able to resist. What would happen then? His worst nightmare: his life of comfortable, blissful ignorance, would come crashing down around him.

Balarashi cleared his throat from the corner of the room, breaking the silence. “The healers say he has moments of lucidity,” the Viceroy said. “But those are becoming less frequent. If there is anything you wish to say, Lord Bast, you should do so while you have the chance.”

Bast grimaced. The idea of speaking to his grandfather while the man was barely conscious felt . . . wrong. This wasn’t how he had imagined any of this. He’d hoped—maybe foolishly—that the old man would be sitting up, weak but aware, ready to impart some final piece of wisdom or perhaps offer some reassurance that Bast wasn’t the disappointment everyone thought he was.

Instead, all he had was this husk of a man who had once been a king among men. This feels more like praying. A foolish gesture…

After a long, heavy silence, Bast shook his head. “He’s not going to wake up, is he?”

“Eventually,” Balarashi replied, his voice grim. “But I doubt it will be the way you wish. At least not immediately.”

Bast wanted to argue, but he couldn’t find the words. Instead, he stepped back from the bedside, his hand lingering on the blanket for a moment before he let it fall to his side. The room suddenly felt colder, emptier. Sweat still rolled down his face, but there was no warmth to be found.

“I thought he’d be stronger,” Bast muttered under his breath, mostly to himself.

“He is strong,” Balarashi said, a rare note of something like respect entering his voice. “But time takes even the strongest men, Lord Bast. You’d do well to remember that.”

Bast shot the Viceroy a look, biting back the retort that rose to his lips. He knew Balarashi saw him as weak, saw him as a pale shadow of Ban and their grandfather. But the words stung, nonetheless.

“I’ve seen enough,” Bast said abruptly, turning away from the bed. He couldn’t stand to look at the Grand Duke any longer. He couldn’t stand the reminder of what was waiting for all of them.

Szed glanced at him, his expression unreadable, before stepping aside to let Bast pass.

Balarashi opened his mouth as if to protest, but one look at Bast’s face seemed to stop him. Instead, the Viceroy nodded once, stepping back as well. “As you wish, Lord Bast. I will remain with the Grand Duke. If there are any changes, I will inform you immediately.”

“Of course you will,” Bast muttered, his voice thick with bitterness.

He started for the door, but Balarashi’s voice stopped him once more. “Your brother, Lord Ban, will return to the Front tonight.”

“I know,” Bast said, without turning. “He told me.”

Balarashi’s voice was softer than Bast expected when he spoke again. “Your brother carries a heavy burden, Lord Bast. As do you.”

Bast turned, narrowing his eyes at the Viceroy. “My burden? What burden is that, Balarashi? Drinking my weight in wine? Telling merchants in Elbrem they can get rich off Olenish coin? I don’t have burdens. Not like Ban.”

The Viceroy met his gaze, his amber eye glowing faintly with some deep, ancient power. “You are the heir to the Lorenz line, Lord Bast. Whether you wish to be or not. The weight of that alone is more than most men could bear.”

For a moment, Bast didn’t know what to say. He wanted to brush it off, to laugh in Balarashi’s face. But the words hung in the air between them, and for the first time, Bast didn’t know if he could shrug them off as easily as he had before.

Without another word, he turned and strode out of the room, Szed following closely behind.

They walked through the empty corridors of the palace in silence, Bast’s footsteps echoing off the marble floors. The force of Balarashi’s words still clung to him, heavy and uncomfortable.

“He’ll recover,” Bast said suddenly, more to himself than to Szed. “He has to.”

Szed glanced at him but said nothing, his expression as neutral as the Emperor’s visage upon a golden coin.

Bast let out a long breath, rubbing his temples. His head still throbbed from the hangover, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his chest. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from this visit, but whatever it had been, it wasn’t this. Why did I come back to this Gods’ forsaken place?

“You’ll be fine,” Szed said quietly, his voice surprisingly gentle. “Your grandfather is strong. He may surprise you yet.”

Bast gave a humorless chuckle. “Maybe.” He paused, then shook his head. “But let’s be honest, Szed. No one really expects much from me, do they?”

Szed didn’t answer right away. Instead, he met Bast’s gaze, his bronze eyes steady. “It’s not about what others expect, Lord Bast. It’s about what you choose to do. I believe you can do great things.”

Bast blinked, surprised by the bluntness of the statement. “You’ve been spending too much time around philosophers.”

Szed’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Perhaps. Would you prefer me to say you’d at the very least be nicer to look at than the current Grand Duke?”

Bast chuckled. They continued walking, the atmosphere of the palace pressing down on them. Bast couldn’t shake the feeling that things were changing. That the world he’d known—the carefree, indulgent life he’d led—was slipping away, replaced by something colder, something more real.

And he wasn’t sure he was ready for it.

As they stepped back out onto the palace sky-docks, the Thyella still waited. The sleek form of the Elbrec vessel, held aloft by a gigantic gray skyfin, gleamed in the late afternoon light. Bast paused at the threshold, staring out at the vast expanse of sky that stretched before them.

He had always been so good at running. At avoiding responsibility. But now, standing here, with his grandfather fading and Ban shouldering the burden of the family’s reputation, he realized something.

He couldn’t run forever.

“Szed,” Bast said, his voice quiet but firm.

“Yes, Lord Bast?”

“Let’s go. Wrifton awaits.”

But I can run for a bit longer.

“But dinner plans with your brother?”

“Ban will be fine. As for me, I need a drink before my skull ruptures from this headache.”

Szed’s smile was subtle, but genuine. “As you wish.”

And together, they made their way onto the Thyella.