“In Loratha’s shadow, armors weep,

A tapestry of night woven in dread’s deep.

Blackened steel, crimson’s weave,

A silent oath with each breath they heave.

Demis stands, a titan’s glare,

Over isles of whispering despair.

An eternal chess game, power’s play,

Where dawn’s light fears to stray.

In the heart of Dust, silence reigns,

A cold war’s echo, in timeless chains.

Two empires, poised in silent defiance,

Awaiting fate’s bitter compliance.”

– Fintale, Our World in Words

Smoldering heat. That’s the only thing that ever comes from the north, Lithas thought. And sand. Oh, don’t forget the sand. She sighed, brushing off stubborn grains of sand that clung to her indigo silk tunic. “What good are wealth and divine powers,” she muttered to herself, “if they can’t even protect you from the smallest of life’s annoyances?”

And, if the rumors she had recently heard about Dethos and this sect of theirs were true, heat and sand were not the only disturbances born of the north. A shiver ran down her spine, despite the heat. Disquieting thoughts.

Lithas ak’Var leaned against a recess in the coarse sandstone wall, seeking respite in its meager shade. The sun overhead seemed to mock the dark tunic and silk pants she had chosen for this day. As she shifted her weight, her braided honey-colored hair brushed against her sunburned neck. A soft whisper of movement. Glancing around the deserted courtyard, Lithas narrowed her amber eyes. If that merchant snake keeps me waiting much longer, she thought, he’s a dead man.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Councilman Imran Delos entered the courtyard, followed by two guards. Like twin shadows, heavy armor painted in black and red. Imran himself wore a lighter set of similar armor and, by the look on his face, regretted even that in the sweltering afternoon heat.

“A warm welcome to Sariz, Councilman,” Lithas said and pushed herself from the wall, her tone as dry as the land around them. “I trust our local weather has not soured your arrival?”

Imran’s scowl quickly melted into a polished politician’s grin. “Why, my Lady ak’Var—Elevated Lithas, if I may,” he said, voice smooth as silk, “Your city’s radiance more than compensates for its... climate.” While sweat gleamed on every brow in that dusty corner of the world, Imran’s smile cut through the heat, icy and unwavering. “Though, I must confess, the wait for this meeting has somewhat tarnished the charm of Sariz for me.” The smile grew even colder. “But I’m sure you had your reasons.”

Lithas’ brows arched in an unspoken challenge, lips curling into a smirk as she stepped forward for the customary embrace. Releasing him, she locked eyes with Imran Delos, her smile widening just a fraction. “Time slips through our fingers, Councilman, like grains of this desert sand. Best to clench our fists wisely.”

She did not give him a chance to respond. Retreating, she gestured to a table beside her, prepared by her servants earlier and already covered with documents. “Let’s not delay further, then,” Lithas said. “The sun won’t spare us for our dallying.”

He passed her and sat, all business. Imran Delos of Loratha always was, if her reports were true. Imran’s forehead sheened with sweat, but his hand rested steadily on the table as he scanned each document. Not as if anything of their content should be news to him. Still. He must have been keenly aware of Lithas’ hawk-like gaze, scrutinizing his every move, as he read through them again. Finally—sweat trickling down Lithas’ tense face—Imran signed them.

Once done, he rose and took one copy of the documents with him, leaving the rest behind on the table. Lithas smiled. “A deal well struck, Councilman Delos,” she said softly, as the councilman sauntered back to his guards. Satisfied, she nodded, then stepped back and gestured to her hidden guards.

Immediately, they streamed into the courtyard and presented four bulky wooden crates to Imran. The containers were oblong and stout, their weight evident to anyone sparing them even a brief glance. They were identical, each having a reinforced opening and solid wood panels that were secured with iron pegs. Lithas had chosen them because they were simple and efficient, these chests, nothing too ostentatious. Until they were flipped open, that was. Then it became clear, quickly, that they were filled to the brim with weapons and armor. Pikes, shields, swords, helmets. The finest gear you could find in Lycar. That was what her suppliers said, anyway. Steel glinting in the afternoon sun, imbued with subtle crystalline lines.

Imran strode closer for inspection, his touch gingerly tracing the intricate lines etched into the metal, each the color of a pale morning sky. He picked up a sword, slashing the heavy air. Once, twice. The subtle ring filled the courtyard for a few heartbeats. Satisfied, he gave Lithas a single curt nod. “Loratha will find these acceptable, Lady ak’Var.”

Lithas responded with a graceful incline of her head. “I’m glad they meet your requirements. The remaining crates will follow soon.” Imran nodded once more, peering deep into her eyes. Then he turned on his heels and strode out of the courtyard without a further word, while their guards joined forces to carry away the hefty crates, bearing the weight of their newfound agreement.

This day was starting well. Lithas watched Imran depart, the faint ghost of a smile on her face, before walking across the courtyard herself, her remaining guards trailing at a respectful distance.

As she passed into a shaded alley, she noticed an old beggar sitting nearby. That was the first odd thing. She never really noticed them, sitting there huddled on the edge of the road. Then the man saw her approach and turned to her, worn-out rags barely covering his mud-spattered skin. Eyes hollow and deep set, as if they had seen too much suffering in their time.

There was an uncanny gleam in those eyes, as if she caught a transient spark, hinting at something more.

Lithas paused mid-step for a moment, hanging in the balance. What was that? Shaking her head, she forced herself to continue toward the bazaar. Probably that meeting with this Lorathan just now had simply rattled her. She managed to take another step. Hesitation caught her again. She could not even say what it was but something felt off. Finally bowing to her instincts, Lithas turned and studied the man more closely. He was still staring at her. Usually, this light feeling in her belly could only mean one thing. Elevated. But Elevated were no beggars.

Intrigued despite her better judgment, Lithas cautiously approached the old man, waving off her guards as they wanted to intervene. “Don’t be afraid,” the beggar said. A surprisingly soft, gentle voice. “Think of me merely as a chaperone—a guardian—making sure your arrangement with Councilman Delos here proceeds undisturbed.”

A flicker of derision creeped into Lithas’ response. “And why would I require the assistance of a beggar for this?”

Yet the man seemed unperturbed and simply smiled. “In this vast game of power, Lithas ak’Var, it’s you who appears as the beggar in my eyes. Hungry for the crumbs of dominion. And don’t we beggars aid each other in our shared plight?”

Lithas narrowed her eyes. How did this wretched creature know her name? And what was he playing at? She straightened. “What could you possibly know about power?” she asked, voice cold and hard.

“Power, my lady, is a relentless dance,” the smile of the man broadened, “one you’ve willingly joined. Your success now hinges on your choice of partners. I’m merely here to make sure you choose wisely. Not everyone is so kind, mind you.”

“That supposed to be a threat?” she spat.

Too eloquent by far for a beggar. Lithas saw her earlier suspicions reaffirmed. Elevated… But how could this be possible? She mulled over his cryptic words, her mind aflame with possibilities. Could she even consider… no, surely not. She was independent—as best as she could—and she liked it that way. But. What if this strange man could provide her with an edge, in this renewed wrangling over the Isles of Dust, that ever-capricious plaything between Demis and Loratha?

No. She had survived, even thrived, until now precisely because she had stayed in control. Giving in to mysterious strangers promising power in dark alleys did not seem to fit that pattern. Not at all. “You reek of Dethos,” she said dismissively, “And nothing good ever came from the north.”

Slightly unnerved by the whole exchange, Lithas started to turn away from the beggar, a tad too fast to seem calm, right as the man began to speak again. “Just remember this. When your part is played, our doors remain open. If you want to discover the truth of the north and escape your shackles, join us then.”

The beggar, or whoever he truly was, melted back into the shadowy recesses. Lithas’ scowling guards flanked her, shielding their charge from the strange man, leaving her with a sense of disquiet. I don’t like this, Lithas thought. Don’t like this at all. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she set out again toward the grand bazaar. Yet, as she walked through the dusty streets of Sariz, she found herself contemplating his words, over and over, and wondered what was really happening, up there in Dethos.

Or, come to think of it, the whole continent.

Her sources told her that there had been some... disappearances that could not be accounted for in their frequency. Deaths under mysterious circumstances, long journeys undertaken without convincing reason, things like that. The missing were of significant enough rank to give her pause. Something was going on there. Perhaps worth an investigation in the future. For now, her deal with Imran Delos complete, Lithas had to focus on more pressing matters. Like that brewing conflict between Loratha and Demis. She was not the only one.

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As Lithas entered the bazaar, the first thing she noticed—even before the cumin, before the roasted coffee beans—were the murmurs of war rippling through the market stalls, like an avalanche in the desert. Conversations were hushed, tales of the impending conflict exchanged in urgent whispers, in between a wad of frankincense or a grilled red snapper changing hands.

Lithas sighed, half resigned, half excited. War was coming. Fast. She knew the stakes. Everyone did. But she also knew the profits. Both Demis and Loratha, wary of the potential escalation, were willing to pay exorbitant amounts for dust-steel armor. For her dust-steel armor. The gears of war were turning, and someone needed to lubricate them. Might as well be her.

Technically, Demis had a monopoly on dust, with their current dominion over the Isles of Dust. But, everyone knew, dust alone was of little use. It was the crafting of dust-steel that held true value, a process that only a few skilled blacksmiths could master. So, over several years, she had built a network of smugglers from the Isles and blacksmiths across the continent, stretching from Limrod to Tibara. The bet had paid off lavishly. Now, her network was more than capable of meeting that emerging demand for dust-steel.

Of course, not even dust-steel could protect you from the full onslaught of an Elevated’s power. But it might be enough to soften, or even deflect, attacks from a less powerful one, if you were lucky. In war, even the faintest advantage was invaluable.

Lithas traversed the busy bazaar, the crowd parting in reverence before her. She hardly noticed these things anymore. Instead, speaking with some of the merchants, she breathed in the rumors and stories circulating around her. Sariz was good for these things, and the great bazaar was best of all. A new play in Limrod, a flood in Kel, higher taxes in Loratha. This was what she excelled at, perhaps a greater gift than her powers, even. Assimilating information, to then act on it when it was most profitable.

Despite her meandering route through the market, she had a goal in mind. Hakon, her old friend and business partner. Something of a father, even. A master blacksmith in dust-steel—the only one in Sariz as far as she knew—Hakon’s stall was nestled in a corner of the marketplace, just next to his smithy. Even from a mile away, the burly man was easily recognizable by his dense beard, near doubling the size of his head. But Lithas knew from experience that within that wild growth lay a constant smile, well-hidden but genuine.

First, she heard the rhythmic cadence of a hammer pounding hot metal. Then, she heard Hakon, instructing his apprentices. Two sounds as familiar as breathing to her. “Remember, each strike must be like a note in a symphony—intentional, harmonious, and perfectly timed.” His hammer met the glowing steel in a finale of sparks before he plunged it into the quenching barrel with a satisfying hiss. “Class dismissed.”

Lithas had approached Hakon as unobtrusively as possible, so as not to interrupt, but as soon as the big man turned—a surprised expression spreading across his rough features—she was greeted with a warm embrace, “Lithas ak’Var,” his voice held a gravelly timbre, but his eyes sparkled with genuine warmth, “it’s been too long since I last saw you.”

“It’s always too long, Hakon,” she replied with a smile, trying to find her breath after being released from the crushing embrace, “I’ve just returned from Limrod. You should’ve seen the quality of goods I found there. Pure art, I’m telling you. Almost a pity they’ll be used for warfare.”

“Without war, who would buy dust-steel goods?” Hakon let out a hearty laugh. “They aren’t exactly fit to serve as good soup ladles or horseshoes, are they?”

“Quite so,” she conceded with her own smile. Her eyes wandered over the pieces arranged in the smithy. “What are you working on? Is that a new dust-steel blade?”

“Oh yes. And not just any, mind you. The best damn dust-steel you can find on the continent. I’m just having a bit of trouble getting the temperature high enough to melt the dust. My apprentices are good lads, but their control over the furnace is still too inconsistent. You know how difficult it is to weld the dust onto steel, without melting the whole bloody thing. A few degrees too hot, and you’ve got molten slag instead of quality steel. A few degrees too cold, and the dust won’t adhere properly. It’s like trying to catch a fish with your bare hands; it keeps slipping away just when you think you’ve got it.”

He sighed heavily, brows furrowed in frustration as he looked toward his apprentices, who immediately stopped eavesdropping and returned to cleaning the workshop. “It’s just so hard to find someone with enough skill to heat it that high without messing it all up.” Hakon eyed her suggestively. He had never been a very subtle man.

Smiling, Lithas reached out and gently tugged on invisible strands of energy. A soft wave of warmth radiated from her fingertips, heating everything in her path as she slowly bundled the strands and directed them toward the blade. Methodically, Lithas increased the temperature just around the inlays, where the dust was arranged in lines of powder. Delicate work, that. She registered the familiar but uncomfortable feeling of resistance when directing heat to the dust itself, like stirring honey with a feather. Lithas refused to yield. Eventually, she breached the resistance. Around the channels in the blade, the steel burned bright yellow but, within, the dust was slowly melting, forming pale blue rivulets. It was a thing of beauty.

Hakon seemed to agree. His expression bordered on reverence as Lithas’ powers worked their way into the metal, subtly melting enough steel just below the lines to ensure a thorough weld, without reducing the weapon’s strength one bit. It felt almost natural by now, like an extension of herself. She controlled the heat. She was the heat.

Releasing her control, Lithas pulled out the heat and let the blade cool and harden. They both waited with bated breath, for as long as they could endure. Which was not very long at all. With a flourish, Hakon swept the weapon off the anvil before offering her a hearty handshake. “Lithas ak’Var. You truly work magic with dust-steel. Are you sure you I can’t offer you a job?”

He gestured her to take the weapon for inspection. It was a beautiful khopesh; elegant, deadly dust-steel without any flaw or blemish. Unbroken lines of aquamarine snaked across the flat side of the blade, glistening in the sunlight. The sight brought a wave of nostalgia, reminding Lithas of other days of relentless sun, other anvils, other weapons. They had done this so often.

Oh yes, the early days… Coming back to her hometown from Lhasa—finally leaving the Belt behind—she had the rare privilege of returning to familiar faces, like Hakon. The man had practically raised her, with Lithas’ own parents being ambushed and killed on a caravan to Tibara when she hardly could remember them. The Tetrarchy, preferring to avoid any concentration of power, rarely assigned new Elevated to their city of origin. Too easy to build an independent power base, too tempting for newly minted gods. So Lithas had cherished this chance to reconnect with Hakon. Not everyone had that chance.

Reconnecting in ways she could never have imagined. After she scampered through his forge as a child—Hakon in panicked tow—they now forged the most impossible weapons and pieces of armor together, combining his exceptional blacksmithing skills with her control over heat. Lhasa had given her power, yes, but Hakon gave her precision. The wealth that eventually came with her status and business acumen were gratifying, but so was this act of pure creation.

“Thank you, Hakon. For this,” Lithas remarked as she carefully set the blade on the workbench, bowing her head slightly. “I appreciate it more than you know. But I cannot stay. Duty calls.”

“Of course,” he responded with a knowing wink. “Come back anytime though, we should have dinner. It really has been too long. And be careful!”

“As they say,” she winked back, “ask no questions and hear no lies.”

And so Lithas turned and was immediately swallowed by the bazaar again, furtive glances washing over her—even the occasional genuflection, when there was no prayer guard in sight. You could outlaw personal worship as much as you wanted, but there was always this urge in people, to touch the divine, to have it brush their lives.

Just as she was about to head to her next appointment, her gaze was drawn to a familiar figure at the edge of the market. That beggar. The old man seemed to be looking directly at her, brazenly. Several long moments into their staring contest, he just gave her a slight nod and disappeared into the bustling crowd. Who was that man and what did he want?

Reluctantly, Lithas shook off a nagging frown, her mind returning to her agenda. She was a woman on a mission. Or, rather, she sensed an opportunity for profit. Are the two not practically the same sometimes? Many things about Lithas ak’Var might be true, but what she was not—what she would never be again—was powerless. Being Elevated meant power in its rawest form, of course, and Lithas loved it. But so did gold.

Passing the earthy cloud of a stall selling leather belts, she weaved her way through the throng of merchants and shoppers, her eyes fixed firmly on her destination, making it hard for her guards to tag along. The docks of Sariz were teeming with activity, nearly as badly as the bazaar. Sailors, traders, and adventurers alike jostled for space on the weathered planks. The setting sun bathed the waves in the bay that lapped lazily against the docks in a warm orange hue. Lithas made her way to a large warehouse at the far end of the docks, her guards trailing her like distant shadows.

In front of the building, flanked by her own set of guards, stood a woman swathed in long robes and a hooded cloak. She must be dying inside, Lithas thought. Though it would have been hard to say anything about the figure, including that it even was a woman, had Lithas not known whom she was supposed to meet here. As she approached, she noticed an emblem on the woman’s chest, discreetly tucked into the folds of her robe—an eagle with its wings spread wide across a cerulean sky. Demis.

The woman looked up at Lithas as she came closer, carefully observing her before finally nodding in recognition. In Sariz, Lithas was a hard figure to overlook. “You must be Lithas ak’Var. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she remarked formally. “I’m Vexaria Corvus, here on behalf of His Majesty, Prince Cerax.”

Of course, Lithas had heard of Vexaria. Diplomat. Negotiator. Vexaria was one of the prince’s most trusted advisors. If some could be believed that woman even was a good deal more than just trusted by her prince. Useful to know these things. But Lithas also realized that this was not just a negotiation; it was a business transaction, and she intended to make the most of it. With a nod, she gestured toward the interior of the warehouse. “The pleasure is all mine. Come inside and have a look. Then we can discuss the weapons you want to buy.”

Vexaria flinched ever so slightly at the public mention of weapons. This was what you did, challenge and observe. It told her much about people. Vexaria quickly masked her reaction with an empty smile and followed Lithas into the warehouse. Inside, Vexaria threw back her cowl and looked up, a small gasp escaping her lips.

The open space bristled with sparkling weaponry; row after row stacked with dust-steel equipment, ranging from swords and spears to knives and khopeshs. Lithas had prepared a long time for this. It did not take a genius to realize that the decades of simmering conflict between Loratha and Demis would eventually lead to something. She liked to boast that an entire army’s worth of weaponry was stockpiled here. Probably even true. A small army, at least. As Vexaria fully absorbed the sight, her eyes widened in a mix of surprise and reluctant appreciation.

“So, what did you have in mind?” Lithas asked, voice professionally cheerful, as she observed Vexaria gauging the extent of her armory. She really was beautiful, despite that short-cropped hair, despite the severe lines in her face.

After a thorough inspection, Vexaria turned to Lithas, a contemplative look on her face now. There was calm there, as if she had simply discarded this disturbing revelation of Lithas’ armory from her mind. “We’ll take them all,” she said. Only that, nothing more.

“Forgive me,” Lithas paused. This had not been part of her calculations. “But if my sources are correct,” she started, gesturing around the vast warehouse, “Demis doesn’t need all of this.”

Vexaria smiled curtly and Lithas felt herself tense. “Indeed, we don’t. But Loratha does. If we cannot enforce our monopoly on dust,” Vexaria glanced reproachfully at Lithas, “then we will enforce our monopoly on dust-steel.”

Slowly, Lithas nodded. She could understand this logic. It did carry a certain efficiency with it. “Very well. The customer is always right. I’ll arrange to have all of it transported to Demis as soon as possible. I expect payment won’t be an issue.”

“One more thing,” Vexaria interjected. “Prince Cerax wanted to have something else.” She gave Lithas another long, scrutinizing look. “You. His Majesty wishes to meet with you. Insists on it, in fact. In Demis. He’d like to explore a more...permanent solution to our needs.”

Could Cerax know about her recent dealings with Loratha? Lithas very much doubted a reigning prince would risk assassinating an Elevated from a practically neighboring state. Not when their other neighbor threatened to invade them on an almost daily basis. So, what was this? Only one way to find out. “I’d need compensation for lost business during my absence. But, of course,” she responded smoothly, “I look forward to meeting my best customer.”

Without another word, Vexaria extended her hand for a shake, then walked out, followed by her entourage of guards. Lithas watched them go, her head tilted thoughtfully, as the delegation from Demis disappeared into the golden light of the late afternoon sun. She puffed her cheeks. What a day.