The imperial healers assured Urla that both Ruan and Campos would live, and that she should rest, but she would be damned if she let anyone else tend to her son. She’d already lost Keivan, his dragon, and now, her son’s best chance at becoming Dragonmount.

Rykus would pay for what he’d done. Through the night, she turned things over in her mind, trying to understand what was happening in her world. First, the runeship in Siga. Now, another at the edge of the world, manned by shapeshifting monstrosities, whose human forms were either Valucian or Chardonian.

The former, a fraught kingdom who’d seemingly bent the knee, the other, long seen as the next battleground for Attica.

And another Elyan runeship…

All her youth, Urla had heard tales of the heathen threat from across the sea, how Elya was growing in power, how they might one day meddle in affairs in the continent of Erithèa. These rumors may have lessened beyond her childhood, as Attica regained prominence in their own corner of the world, but always the rumors of Elya lingered—their heathen politics and reckless use of magic, their conquest in the eastern world, their lust for power.

How did a Valucian blood-traitor and his daughter fit into all this?

Valucia had been grafted back into the empire years ago, and Rykus himself had played a pivotal part in the peaceful transfer of power. Betrayed his own kin to aid Good Emperor Vitruvian, and had become a minor Attican lord as reward. Rykus’s company had fought alongside Urla’s own in the Sigan conquest.

Through it all, it seemed, he had been biding his time.

The eggs were gone, along with the Faltari girl. And they’d tried to take Ruan with them.

If not for the shaman…

Across the imperial bedchamber, Campos lay unconscious, while the emperor’s own healers changed bandages at his throat, applied healing salves and tried to get him to down a tincture.

Ruan’s head and neck were covered in bruises, a mottled purple and grey tapestry, hints of yellowing flesh beginning to seep in, which worried Urla all the more.

The healers claimed it looked worse than it actually was, but Urla knew they were only guessing. They could not see inside her son’s body with true clarity, even with their runemarked instruments. It was all gods-damned guessing and hoping. And Ruan still hadn’t moved, still hadn’t stirred once, except the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Hauntingly peaceful coming from such a damaged face.

It had all happened so fast. Had Ruan landed on his head? Broken something in his neck?

Her mind’s eye filled with memories of her own days at Dawncrest during her Sea trials.

She was seventeen, and they were performing an exercise that involved traversing between two ships in games mimicking maritime combat. They swung on ropes from deck to deck. Traversed across moving oars, deflecting blows from instructors. A boy ahead of her on the course lost his footing and slipped between oars into the water.

So sudden. No sharp crack or sickening thud.

Their teachers pulled him from the water in only a few seconds. But the boy didn’t wake for three days. When he did, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t even speak.

After months of attempted healings and medicines, the boy’s parents had done the only thing an honorable Attican family could do.

Urla gripped her son’s hand and shuddered at the thought of being forced to make such a decision.

Ruan’s face was peaceful, bits of stubble darkening his upper lip. He looked so much like Keivan when they’d first met. Strong chiseled jaw. Slight curl to his dark hair. His chest rose and fell. Eyelids shifted, but never opened.

He’s just sleeping, Urla thought.

How much longer could she tell herself that?

Across the room, Campos’s breathing came in fits and waves. When they arrived, the general had thrashed in pain, and the healers had given him a tincture that knocked him out cold while they mended the skin of his neck with needle and thread, then, used a runemarked instrument to repair what the young shaman had neglected beneath the skin in the haste and demands of the moment.

Thank the Mother for the shamans, Urla thought, willing herself to be hopeful. Grateful both her son and her mentor were alive yet.

“Gods damn those rebel bastards.”

Urla jolted at the voice.

She turned from her son to find the Lady Knight Vera Salyr striding across the regal bed chamber toward her.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

If the emperor were an older man, this room would belong to one of his own children, Urla thought.

Ruan and Campos were being tended by the emperor’s personal healers. Surely, that was a blessing. She could practically hear her own mother reminding her of this. And yet, Marha the Mother had not spared her either.

The Lady Knight stopped and watched Campos for several moments. His face distorted with pain, even in sleep.

“Has he…”

“He’s drugged,” said Urla. “Woke in much pain during the surgery. But the healers say he’s got a fighting chance.”

“That’s all the general would ask for,” said the knight.

Urla nodded, a slight smile at the edge of her lips. She’d not seen the woman before this damned excursion, but it was clear the knight knew Campos well. Perhaps another of his apprentices.

The knight crossed the room and stood beside her.

“Your son lives,” the knight said. “The Mother watches over you.”

Urla had nothing to say. Everyone said such things, until hope faded, then they said things like, “The Father must’ve needed more good warriors.”

Such sayings were wind.

“What’s happened back on the island?” Urla asked after a silence.

“We found the Thenius girl near the Faltari shrines, as the young shaman, Malik, described. As well as the general’s traitor servant. No sign of Ava Rykus.”

“Her father flew,” Urla said.

“Without wings,” the knight finished. “Unlike the rest of those morphing beasts. I’ve never seen anything like it, but it’s Elyan witchery, no doubt about that. And if Rykus has dabbled in dark magic from across the sea, why not the daughter. Ava was hiding magic ability, the shaman says.”

“What happened to her?”

“According to Malik, Ava fled into the woods, and he and the Faltari girl let her go, so they could help the general. Ava was the one who tried to kill him. The servant, Baro, was responsible for Iriana Thenius.”

Urla squeezed her son’s hand again. “Rebel bastards.”

“You can say… that again.”

“General!” Urla and Salyr cried in unison.

Urla was flooded with relief.

The Lady Knight hurried back to Campos’s side, helped him sit up, propping him with pillows. His neck was covered in bloodied bandages, but he could hold up his head enough to meet Urla’s gaze with barely open eyes. Campos attempted to smile, grimaced and groaned, then slumped back against the pillows. His hand drifted to his throat, felt at the bandages engulfing his neck.

“Baro…” he murmured.

“Dead, sir,” the knight said, “the work of the Faltari girl. She and that young shaman saved your life. She paid for it too. They took her.”

“Took… Riese?” he asked. Each word was a struggle.

Salyr nodded.

“Fucking… Valucians,” said Campos. “Where’s… the emperor? He…”

“He knows everything we know, sir.”

“Good…good…” Campos closed his eyes and sighed. His voice was barely a whisper, yet still, commanding. “Right under our damn noses. If this goes beyond Rykus…”

“No Valucian is permitted in the palace for the time being,” the knight said. “The emperor sent two Knights to Valucia to investigate the extent of this treason.”

Campos head lolled on his pillow. For a moment, Urla thought he’d lost consciousness. Then, he spoke. “I feel like I’ve gone… to Skrala and back… It’s shit…. if you want to know.”

Urla and Salyr smiled, then the general’s face twisted in pain. He raised a hand toward his bandages, but didn’t quite reach them. His hand fell to his chest. “I’ll be… fine.”

“I’ll get the healers. You probably need another tincture,” the knight said, rising to her feet and disappearing into the corridor beyond.

Urla glanced from her son to Campos, fury rising up in her spirit. How she wished she could have been there with them. Rykus had made sure that didn’t happen. Keeping her distracted with the other nobles.

“Lady Captain,” Campos said, his voice raspier.

It pained Urla to leave her son’s side, even just across the room, but she was a soldier of the legions, first and foremost, and she came to the general’s bedside.

His eyes creased open. Bloodshot and hideous.

“You should sleep, sir,” Urla whispered.

His fingers clasped her own, skin cold and clammy. And weak. Campos’s grip had never felt so slight.

“The island,” Campos murmured. “The eggs.”

“Rykus stole them, sir. And took a potential rider, two including his daughter—”

“Not those ones.” His fingers tightened around her wrist. “More. Much more… the bastards will be back.”

“They must know we’ll be ready for them, sir. They wouldn’t—”

“No, damn it! Listen, girl!”

Suddenly, General Campos sounded like her father’s best friend, the stern voice of her youth, toughening her up, preparing her for the academies and the trials and her first appointment in the legions. That no-bullshit voice that had made her what she was, after her father died.

Urla nodded begrudgingly, the same stubborn-willed girl, no matter how many times he had put her in her place.

“Vitruvian…” Campos whispered. “He feared dragons… all the emperors have… even Athanasius… that’s why there’s so few… but that time is done… you have to tell him…”

A shudder of fear wracked through Urla’s body, a chill settling over the room, stifling her breathing like she’d stepped from a warm hearth into the winter snow.

“You can tell him,” she said. “The emperor will be here any moment. He wants your counsel more than ever, sir!”

Campos’s grip slackened. “No... you—”

He coughed, and Urla froze. Blood bubbled up from between his lips, dribbled down his chin.

“Help!” she shouted. “I need a healer!”

Urla scrambled for the door, but Campos brushed her hand.

“No…”

More blood oozed from his month. Trickles of crimson from his eyes and ears. His neck began to swell, bulging around the edges of his bandages.

He chuckled, blood gurgling.

“Lord General!”

Campos gripped her hand. His fingers trembled, and his face had settled into a strange serenity. For a moment, Urla feared he was gone.

Then, Campos’s lids shot open, and his bloodshot eyes fixed on hers.

“We all hoped for... another Golden Age... what we need is an Age of Fire. Make him see, girl! Make the emperor see!”

Campos slumped back and his whole body spasmed, limbs shuddering. A long breath.

And he went still.

Healers poured into the room, felt Campos’s pulse. Shouts. Sorcerous instruments glowing.

But Urla knew they were too late.

“I don’t understand,” said the Lady Knight, staring beside Urla in shock. “He was just…” A tear streaked down her cheek.

Urla did not cry.

She looked from Campos to her unconscious son. All at once, the anger and sadness had drifted away. She had an order to carry out.

Urla stood and left the room.

Salyr called after her, and when Urla ignored her, the knight hurried after, out into the towering halls of the lower palace.

“Lady Captain!”

The knight seized her wrist.

“I need an audience with the emperor,” said Urla. “There is no time to waste.”