The streets of Attica thrummed with the booming exultation of victory. Crimson banners streamed from every rooftop and balcony, from the Rue ni Hana at the outskirts of the city, all the way to the Imperial Square at the base of the palace grounds.

Thousands of soldiers marched along the Attican Way, trumpets blaring, crowds roaring, soldiers pausing at intervals to pound out a victor’s beat on the cobbled stone with their boots and spear shafts, ending with a furious chant that thundered across the city, echoing off the hillsides beyond.

“The streets will flow like rivers,” the legions shouted. “No more will our empire fade. Athanasius will take his bounty. Attica! Attica, rise from your grave!”

Urla shouted with all the rest, her own company positioned near the middle of the procession. It was remarkable to look upon the main thoroughfare of the city and consider how much had changed in her lifetime.

Athanasius was the fourth emperor to rule since Urla was born. Many in the world had thought that Attica was in its twilight years in her childhood. A once-mighty nation clinging to a tradition of power more than anything actual. More and more of the outer kingdoms ruled and united by Aran the Conqueror in the Golden Age had withdrawn. Great sprawls of land once regions of the greatest empire in the world were grafted in by lesser kingdoms at the outer limits of Attica’s influence. Peoples once called Attican were known by other names. Old kingdoms were reborn, new ones formed. And Attica dwindled like a wave turning back to sea.

Even internally, Attica was a fractured empire when Urla came into the world. Most of its armies split amongst the three great Dragon Lords, the imperial force barely larger than the highest lord’s standing army. The high lords vied for power in a vicious cycle of war and upheaval and assassinations, mixed with famines and plagues and other disasters that heaped on the turbulence. Attica was spread too thin, ruled by too many lords, united by weak and foolish emperors.

Praust the Second had been barely a puppet, so Urla’s father had told little Urla after he was assassinated. Emperor Erastlan, a fool. And he died just a few years later.

But the Good Emperor Vitruvian had done two things unexpected. Two things that forced the high lords to pull their heads out of their own asses for long enough to repair some of the fractures.

First, Vitruvian deemed the allotment of dragons be based on a lottery. For years, the lesser lords had been swayed by shifting loyalties, that often changed overnight, as they attempted to woo their way to merit a dragon egg, and the promise it might hold for their houses. But as soon as all dragon eggs belonged to the empire, rather than a few high lords, political maneuvering required a majority and had to include the approval of the emperor himself.

Second, and most astonishing, Vitruvian refused to name an heir from his own bloodline. Instead, he chose to name an heir based on merit and character, regardless of the greatness of house.

Athanasius came from the lesser House Octiva, his own kingdom spanning less than half of a percent of the empire.

House Octiva had no historic squabbles with the Dragon Lords, and Athanasius was charismatic and cunning. Any who doubted him were quickly won over after he quashed the Rhodan Rebellion, involving the brief secession of one of the oldest and greatest dragon houses Attica had ever known. But Athanasius followed up this victory on the Attican interior with two more on the exterior, conquering the small kingdoms of Kalkesh and Ytan.

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The Fjuriin Path meant something again. For the first time in a century, Attica was growing rather than receding. The Sigan victory in the eastern border was just one more step toward the Path of Eternal Greatness.

Though Urla was filled with sorrow, buried deep in her spirit over the loss of her husband and her son’s rightful dragon, their deaths had been a worthy sacrifice. And with the possibility of another dragon lingering in her mind, Urla could not help but march proudly, bellowing alongside the members of her company.

This was their path.

The legions marched over a series of bridges leading up to the palace, pausing before the great temples of Valyr and Marha—the true All Father and All Mother.

Blood ran down the steps leading up to the pillared entrance of Marha’s temple. The life of the greatest Sigan generals spilled as a sacrifice that would be spread upon fields outside the city, blessing the body of the All Mother, where all Atticans made their home.

Urla counted herself blessed that her company had been given the honor of the Victor’s March. Half the legions remained in Siga, to ensure proper transition of power. A quarter of those soldiers left behind would likely be garrisoned there for two years. Urla knew she had Consul General Campos to thank for her marching orders.

The Imperial Square stretched a quarter mile in all directions, formed of brilliant alabaster stone tiles. Each fitted so carefully, and maintained so dutifully, that the war chariots leading the procession did not rattle. Chariots were unreasonable on the shattered terrain in the East, but in Attica City, all generals rode them.

In the old wars of the Golden Age, it was said legions of chariots fought in battles on the very plains where crops were now sown to sustain the empire. Chariots circled the square ahead before stopping at the great steps of the pyramidal fortress that was the Emperor’s palace.

The legions formed up in regiments of five hundred, with a hundred soldiers to each company. The edges of the square were lined with the chariots of the lords of Attica. She spotted her husband’s banner, a blue tower with a dragon perched at its zenith, and her heart rushed. The banner rose above her son’s chariot. Even from this distance, she recognized his stance, one hand tucked at his side, resting on the hilt of his sword.

Urla’s company—all bearing her house’s sigil upon their chests—formed up beside her.

For a moment, the square was silent. Ten thousand soldiers stood to attention at the base of the pyramid. A hundred thousand citizens filled the streets surrounding them. And yet, it was as silent as the forests behind Urla’s childhood home.

All at once, like an eruption, cheers rumbled across the square.

Every soldier looked upward as the first dragon soared overhead, swooping down from azure skies. Soldiers pounded their fists on their armored chests, and more dragons followed. Twenty foot wings fanned across the sky like dark sails. Seven dragons in total, belonging to the high lords and the Dragon Emperor Athanasius himself. They swooped down for another pass, while another chorus of “Attica, Rise from your Grave” erupted amongst the troops and carried into the streets.

One by one, the lords perched upon landing pads set into the sides of the pyramid, while Athanasius’s pale white dragon drew back its wings and set down upon the vast dais at the top of the stairs, midway up the pyramid’s face. He raised a gleaming sword into the air, and the city cheered. Soldiers pounded their boots and spear shafts, the sound rising to near-deafening heights. Urla stomped her feet with all her might, a rush of furious patriotism erupting in her heart.

The Emperor lowered his sword, and the crowd went silent as their great leader descended his white dragon.

Urla stole a glance at the western edge of the square, where her son stood at the front of his father’s chariot. Dark brown hair reached his shoulders and caught the breeze. Ruan’s bronze skin shone, though his face remained expressionless. She wondered what news had already reached him. His father was a lesser lord, so it was not strange his dragon did not fly during the Victor’s March.

Ruan glanced her direction, and her heart shuddered inside her chest. She could not hold back a grimace as his sad eyes glistened, meeting her gaze. There was no searching there.

He already knows. Urla knew it deep in her spirit.

Her son turned away.

The crowd erupted once more as Emperor Athanasius raised his hands from the dais. Using a runemarked horn, his voice filled the square with what was surely a rousing speech of triumph and glory.

But Urla heard little of it.