The young woman stared at the ceiling above her. She was acutely aware of the several Farisi all about her. Only one was within the room, a young woman named Kachya, a distant relative who had been knighted to become a Faris recently.

‘Am I a bird to be trapped within my cage, father?’ the young woman thought, but it hadn’t been long since she had almost been assassinated, so she could not bring the matter up with him.

The Gold Hands were to be increased from one hundred to two hundred, meaning the Shen would have an additional one hundred Experts, Bronze Rank warriors, under his command. It wasn’t a huge ask, but the way he had forced the matter through had left many of the nobility to question his decision.

She sighed. She had thought that her father would have taken more time, paid the proper respects, and gold, to the nobles, but he had been in a panic. She couldn’t blame him, though, not since she was the only heir to the entire Shendom, and she had already been given so much freedom.

Her mother was sick, not strong enough to produce another heir, and her father was too sentimental to bring another wife into the court. ‘You are a fool father, though I adore you for it.’

She rubbed her finger along the ring on her finger.

Deep Flame Blade.

That was what it was called. A blade which had been gifted to her through her mother’s friend. It was a wonderful weapon, one which was suited to her. Though it was no Sun God Sword, it was still a brilliant weapon, one which made her a formidable force against most threats.

Most threats. Not all.

She was lucky against the assassin. She had some ability, but she was nowhere near an Expert, but that assassin was no doubt much greater than her.

“Amira, Amira,” called the servant, calling the young woman’s title, quickly approaching young Amira’s room. “My Amira!”

The young Amira approached the door, but had her Faris open it for her, revealing the young servant.

“West Scimitar has returned!” the servant panted. “He is wounded.”

The Amira frowned. West Scimitar was wounded? “Ill news.” She stepped past the servant, with her Faris following her, but she was soon joined by two Gold Hands, who flanked the Amira on her way to the nearby temple, where the West Scimitar would have been taken.

Her suspicions were confirmed when there were a set of Gold Hands at the door of the large sandstone temple.

“Amira,” the Gold Hands said, and the young Amira walked past them, for they dared not to stop her. As she stepped into the temple, the Gold Hands and Faris which had followed her, stopped at the doorway, the Gold Hands stepping aside, waiting like statues as the Faris watched her Amira go further inside, and once she was out of sight, the Faris stepped aside too.

“My Miriam,” the Shen called, seeing his daughter, the Amira of the Shendom, approach.

“Father,” Miriam replied, holding her father’s hands for a moment, before looking to the large stone slab beside them.

The large stone slab held the half dying form of the one known as West Scimitar, a title give to the general who would take command of the army to fight on their western flank against the Aldish. Right above his heart was a spike, about a finger thick, and about as long as his hand, which had funnelled poison into the man’s body. His dark skin was near black towards his upper chest, a web of poison which had invaded him.

“It is by Noor’s grace that he still lives,” the Malawi, the Head Priest of the temple, said. “West Scimitar is certainly blessed.” He was short, but well built, and wore a long turban of white, with threads of gold which flowed out from the sun atop the turban. The symbol was placed atop for the only one who needed to see the worship was Noor, the Sun God.

“Will he live?” Miriam asked.

The Malawi wanted to ignore the young woman’s words, but considering how much her father doted on her, he had to reply. “That is up to Noor’s will.”

Miriam looked up towards the long tapestry, which had sewn into it a a religious text, one which gave praise to their god, Noor. She clasped her hands together and dropped to her knees, muttering a prayer in High Aswadian, the language of religion within the realm of Aswadia.

She prayed for the good fortune of West Scimitar, hoping he would be healed soon. With news of his injury passing, Aswadia would teeter on a knife’s edge.

It was the next day that the Shen had received good news. “Ajax the Mouse?”

“Yes, my Shen,” the Gold Hand replied.

The Shen slowly nodded his head. Hearing that Ajax the Mouse had arrived at the capital, and was staying in the district which revealed his intent that he wanted to join the Gold Hands, it was something which he wouldn’t have imagined.

‘He is not suited for the Gold Hands, but I cannot allow him to slip through my fingers.’ His mind was abuzz as he tried to move the pieces in his mind in order to put Ajax under his direct command.

The Shen hadn’t expected more good news. There were a large number of rumours which flowed through the capital, some of which were baseless, but others had soon been confirmed.

Dakun Manzil.

It was the largest and greatest inn within the capital, but no one could dare to call it an inn. It was a large complex which overtook an entire neighbourhood. Long walls, with a dozen different buildings which assisted in tending to every want and need for a hardened traveller.

It was a castle within the city, one which all mercenaries and adventurers flocked to, from those who wanted to spend coppers, to those who wished to spend gold coins. It was so influential that the Adventurer’s Guild worked closely with the complex.

It, like the Adventurer’s Guild, remained neutral, and was afforded a certain level of respect by the nobility, leaving one another to their own business.

There were easily a hundred different groups of mercenaries who partook within the Dakun Manzil’s facilities. At least half of the groups held members who would be considered Experts or Bronze Rank, and some of the groups were made up of only Experts, though they were made up of no more than a handful of people.

Not all the mercenaries were Aswadian, however. Many had come from further east, from the Confederacy, though at one point in time they may have been under the same ruler. However, there were also the ghostly skinned Noska, each of whom held a brand across their faces to Vikir, the God of War. Their eyes were a deep, piercing blue, unnervingly so, and many left their path alone.

However, there was an area which even they sat away from. In the centre of the Dakun Manzil were a set of tables, each made from ruby, the chairs made of red oak.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

The blood seats.

If anyone dared to break them, they would pay a heavy price. A thousand gold for each chair, a hundred thousand gold for each table, and a limb of the Dakun Manzil’s choosing.

Yet, there were a handful of figures which dared to sit at these tables.

He was in his mid fifties. Thin, pale skin littered with scars, blonde hair which was shaved up until the single braid which fell down his back, and piercing blue eyes. The brand on his face was heavily detailed, owing to his exploits. Any Noska who read his face would know his tale, from killing the Wights of the Ghost Sea, to crippling a white Dragon, siring a Half Dragon bastard in the process.

Torak Wild Hand.

He bit into the bone of the roasted goat leg, crunching the bone down until he swallowed it.

He was not the only one who dared to sit at the blood seats.

Tall, dark, and handsome. Brass scales fell from the back of his neck down. One may have mistaken him for a Drakken if they didn’t know any better. He wore a breastplate made of Dragon glass, glass which had been forged by the breath of a Dragon. At his side was a blade formed of diamicule, gifted to him by his father, Veisswing. Contrasting his bronze scales, a golden tag lay hung around his neck.

Sandwyrm Abasir.

He was currently waiting for his food patiently, his arms crossed, his eyes shut tight.

The third was an older man, tall and round, with short white hair, and a thick beard. He had dark skin, like obsidian, and resting at the side of the table was a large blade. It was a simple, ordinary blade, but the ruby which formed the pommel was a gem unlike any other. It was part of a set, one of three gems which joined together to form an artefact of great power.

It was unfortunate for everyone that the rest of the set also belonged to him, as the ring on his finger, made of sapphire, was the second gem in the set, and the third was the gem which was set within his eye, an emerald.

Ajax the Mouse.

They called him the Mouse because he did not make a sound when he slew you.

Also because he kept a pet mouse, one which was made of blood, which he was currently feeding some tea which was worth more than the average commoner’s monthly wage.

“Sir, would you please quieten down your eating?” Abasir asked kindly.

The Noska continued to chew on the bone of the goat leg, licking his lips to reveal bits of bone shards on his ragged tongue. He grunted in response, before biting into the rest of the leg.

“Dragon bitch,” the Noska called, looking to Abasir. “Nice sword.”

Abasir ignored the blatant disrespect. “Thank you. It pales in comparison to your axe.”

“Yes,” Torak agreed, taking it as Abasir surrendering to him.

Abasir cared little for the words of the Noska, and allowed the Noska man to say whatever words he wished.

Torak looked to Ajax. He was still in his mother’s womb by the time Ajax had made a name for himself, and his exploits had only grown. He wondered if he should tease the one known as the Mouse, but he recalled that the name Ajax once held, before his disappearance for two decades, was the Defiler.

Then he looked to the Aswadian at the desk, who held a pleasant smile on his face. He decided against making trouble within the Dakun Mazil, for it was like the Great Longship. Even he dared not to make trouble on the Great Longship.

Torak Wild Hand.

Sandwyrm Abasir.

Ajax the Mouse.

They were a terrifying set of warriors.

The doors of the Dakun Manzil opened, and in walked in three figures. They were clad in the clothing of the Aswadian, for when in Aswadia do as the Aswadians do. Each of them held decent weapons, nothing like the weapons the other three held, but they dared to walk up to the blood seats for two reasons.

One was the fact they each wore a golden tag, like Sandwyrm Abasir. However, even without golden tags, it was the tattoos on their foreheads which would have given them the gall to sit at the blood seats.

Yet, they usually didn’t.

One of the Iyrmen placed a bag of gems on the table, and the other three warriors stared at the group which had sat together.

Even they knew this was odd behaviour. The Iyrmen usually attracted attention wherever they went, but they usually kept to themselves, and didn’t announce themselves so loudly.

The Shen was perplexed by the news. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” the Faris replied, wondering why the Iyrmen had come to become a Faris under the Shen.

Shen Hussun blinked. “Are you a fool? Of course the Iyrmen are not here to become Farisi.”

The Faris remained silent for a long moment, before he bowed his head. “Of course, my Shen.”

He just hoped that the presence of Iyrmen did not rile up the people. They were still suffering from the loss of face from the tournament, where only a slave had managed to beat their Great Elder, and their general had fallen to some Iyrman they hadn’t heard of before.

Yet, why did they announce themselves so loudly?

Unfortunately, he had received terrible news not long after.

Due to all the hot bloodied warriors arriving into the capital, there were more than a handful of accidents which had befallen the people of the capital. Many complaints had come from the commonfolk, and the Shen had dispatched a large number of guards to try and lock down the various regions of the city where the crimes were worst.

No one could have expected that it would have happened.

It was early in the morning when the Shen had received news, and he stared down at the pale Aswadian, who lay dead before him within the temple.

‘Of all the people who could have been killed, it just had to be you,’ Shen Hussun thought.

The body before him was one he was familiar with, a young man by the name of Ali. He had been torn apart, and by the time the Farisi managed to get to him, those who had stabbed the young man had managed to flee into the night.

There were two Gold Hands who stood beside him, having left their weapons outside the temple.

“What do we do, your Grace?” Kal Anis asked.

“What can I do?” Hussun replied.

Kal Layla decided against speaking up, not wanting to speak out of place. She understood that the situation was, as some Aldish might put it, absolutely fucked.

The Faro of Eastern Aswadia’s only son was dead.

Hussun inhaled deeply, before letting out the longest sigh. If the the Malawi was allowed to gain greater insights into his prayers, perhaps there could have been a chance to bring the young man back, but that was a dangerous game. Even Guardians were all but forbidden to reach such great heights.

Fifth Gate spells could bring about total destruction across the land, and such abilities could not be in the hands of man.

“Bury him in goldstone and cover him in gems,” the Hussun said, after a long silence. “The body is not allowed to rot.” It was the religious law to bury the dead within a day. It would have taken weeks to send the body to his father, something which would have been a great sin.

He would hope that it would appease the Faro’s anger enough to keep him at bay, but the Shen wasn’t quite so optimistic. He would need to quickly expand the might of his military, just in case.

‘First West Scimitar and now young Ali. Is this a test from Noor? Have I offended you? What must I do to make this right?’ Hussun prayed deeply that night.

Noor must have been listening, for the Shen received word. He quickly rushed to the temple, where he found West Scimitar sitting, and though his body thinner than before and he looked as though Sozain had visited him, he was alive.

Hussun let out a long sigh of relief as he approach West Scimitar. “I see you are alive.” His eyes fell to the arm of West Scimitar, seeing the stub against his elbow.

“I am sorry for failing you,” West Scimitar said.

“Is there a need to speak of your failure? You have brought us a great gift, and you are still alive. What more can I ask of you?”

“I have heard that Kal Ali is dead.”

Hussun frowned. “Yes.”

West Scimitar reached up to his bandaged stub and rubbed it. “One month. I need one month to recover. Even after I recover, I will not be able to fight East Scimitar on equal footing any longer.”

“Will it come to that?” Hussun asked, swallowing. It was a foolish statement. He had already sent out word to gather the soldiers, and there was the scent of blood in the air.

One month.

It was a long time, far too long.

East Scimitar burst into the room, his heart pounding wildly. He had heard the news and had marched his way right to the Faro’s office, even beating back his Farisi.

The room was a mess, papers strewn all over the place, and the man who stood ahead of him was staring out the window.

“Faro!” called a Faris. “East Scimitar has-“

“Leave us,” the Faro said, his voice deep and gravelly.

Another Faris had appeared, and the pair of Farisi glanced at one another, before they withdrew.

“My son is dead,” the Faro said.

“This is not right, my Faro,” East Scimitar said, quietly. “How can the Shen allow this? His daughter was almost harmed, and yet she was safe, but your son?”

The Faro remained silent. ‘West Scimitar is on his death’s bed.’

“He increased the number of Gold Hands from one hundred to two hundred, but what of the Silver Hands? He denied you that right not ten years ago. Where is the justice in that?”

The Faro knew what East Scimitar was doing. The man was a warmonger, he loved to fight, no matter the enemy. Yet, those honeyed words spoke to his heart.

“Justice?” the Faro turned, staring at East Scimitar, who did not withdraw his gaze, though he hid the wicked smile on his face well. “I do not want justice, East Scimitar.”

East Scimitar remained silent, allowing the Faro to speak his peace.

“There is no justice in this land,” the Faro said, picking up a piece of paper from his desk. He had placed it there some time ago, having stared at it for so long. It was the paper which had denied the request to increase the Silver Hands. He had kept it all these years out of resentment.

“No. No justice. Only vengeance.”

East Scimitar bowed his head slightly.

“Go,” the Faro said. “Bring the Shen to me so he may answer for his injustice.”

East Scimitar smiled.