Missolen is a Rikenaar word that means “white city”. Tallonius the Great, founder of the Tallonid dynasty, ordered the beginning of the new empire marked by the erection of a new capital. As fate would have it, however, Tallonius himself did not live to see even the first completed palace, leaving the cares of city-building to his descendants. In Demos’ opinion, they did a pretty good job. Missolen was the greatest city in the empire, at least, of all the cities he’d been to. Demos especially appreciated the perfectly designed grid of straight, wide streets, cozy alleys, and stone houses lost in their gardens. The whole thing made for a delightful evening stroll. He saw meaning everywhere he went, a great plan that was missing in the other ancient cities. And the abundance of white stone made Missolen light no matter the time of year. It was the kind of place that made you want to breathe, the kind of place you want to live in.

At least, until you find yourself in the slums. They’re the same everywhere.

The White Shrine bell tower was ringing out unbearably. The wide streets were starting to fill with busy people shouting in all the different imperial dialects, though Demos’ personal guard, as always, kept their mouth shut. Ihraz was a tall, swarthy Ennian with a scimitar and a pair of daggers in his belt. He was a step behind the duke, his black eyes scanning the passers-by as he moved smoothly and calmly. Lahel was to Demos’ left. Both bodyguards had their faces covered by colorful silk scarves.

Despite the protests of his mother, Demos preferred moving around the city on foot. It perked him up, loosened the muscles in his bad leg, and gave him time to think. There was plenty to ponder about that morning, too. For example, he’d found out that Gregor Voldhard of Highligland had arrived in the capital to pay his last respects to his uncle and attend the Council. The young lord of Ellisdor was Demos’ cousin on his father’s side, though he didn’t stop by, the custom for relatives.

Managed to stir up a scandal without saying a word. What’s going to happen when you open your mouth, my dear cousin?

“Where is Lord Gregor staying?” Demos asked Ihraz. “The palace kindly offered him and his retinue quarters, but he declined.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“At Enrige the Gatson’s residence, Master.”

“Of course. Enrige betrothed his son to Gregor’s sister. They say Lady Rhinhilda inherited her mother’s beauty and her father’s personality.”

In other words, she’s as terrifying as heavenly punishment and as direct as an Osvendian woodcutter. I wonder if Gregor asked for their hospitality or if the Gatsons insisted.

The sunlight glistened on the bright cobblestones paving the street that stretched from the enormous palace complex to Eclusum. The climb started taking its toll, while the buildings peeking out from behind the curbs and gardens got larger and more impressive—that was where the aristocrats and rich guilds lived. Pulling his glance away from the intricate stained glass, Demos turned his head toward the imperial gardens. The park was fragrant and invitingly quiet.

The treasurer jumped when a stooped beggar jumped out to block his way.

“By the grace of the Keeper, spare me a couple azu,” the tramp boomed. “I want to buy a black wax candle and pray for the soul of the emperor in Gillenai chapel, the one down the river.”

Lahel was about to shove him out of the road when Ihraz motioned for her to stop.

“He’s one of mine. Give him a duppa.”

The woman pulled a small silver coin out of her purse without taking her eyes off the beggar.

“Master Archella sends his regards,” the latter said to the duke. “His people are going to stop by for a visit soon! And in the meantime, a bit of news.”

“Well?”

The beggar smiled, baring rotten teeth.

“Word for word, here it is: the one you’re looking for isn’t at that location. That’s all I was told to say.”

“Thank you,” the duke nodded. “Go ahead.”

The beggar deftly caught the coin Lahel tossed him, bowed, and backed into an alley. Demos looked over at Ihraz. He shrugged.

So, Izara, or Sister Tanal, as she’s calling herself now, isn’t at the monastery she claimed she ran away to. But who could be hiding her? The maids have all been questioned—they don’t know anything. The servants didn’t tell us anything new even when we tortured them. And the empress didn’t have any friends in the palace, that’s for sure. Still, she was able to disappear. Someone did such a good job helping her that even I’m in the dark. But if she isn’t at the monastery, why are even the clergy sure she’s there? Sister Tanal may not even exist at all. And, of course, we can’t rule out that Izara could long since be fish bait in one of the Uli’s tributaries.

Demos took his time getting to the palace gates. His servants didn’t say a word.