Ostalath stood at the westernmost curve of Greatsaad Bay, occupying the entirety of a much smaller bay—at least, small enough that Myraden could see the entirety of it from her perch on a nearby hill.

She’d smelled the city first. Fish guts, salt, and smoke wafted across the shoreline road ever since they’d left Ulan-Ost, and now, finally seeing the scale of the city, she understood why.

Enormous piers reached out into the sea, all made of cobblestone and flagstone. They were each as wide as a ship, and they reached all the way down to the deep, dredged ocean floor. Gantry cranes straddled them, reaching over their masts and hoisting cargo to and from their decks.

Each cargo hauler was five hundred feet long at least, with a mast in its center and pastel-coloured wooden boxes nestled across their decks. Their glass-enclosed bridges blessed with torchlight in the evening, and all across the harbour, millions of candles flared to life. Arcane Smokes bloomed across the city, begging civilians to stay at their inns or to buy their wares. Lumawhale oil signs blazed with bright colours, and windstones echoed through the streets.

The farther Myraden looked from the harbour, the taller the buildings grew, until she identified a central business district with titanwood and stone towers nearly as tall as a mountain. A circular wall surrounded it. The stone was pale gray, but in the evening, bathed in torchlight, it turned into a blazing ring of light.

Most of the buildings had sweeping, tall roofs with green shingles or bales of dried kelp like thatching, but there were a few administrative nodes throughout the city that looked more like castles—with utilitarian ramparts and merlons.

A large, rideable bird swooped overhead, its wings creating a downdraft that nearly pushed Myraden over the edge of the cliff. She shifted back, then followed the bird through the sky with her eyes.

If it had been a scout, or a spy of some kind, that spotted her…

It’s a mail-carrier, Kythen said calmly. Look at its saddlebags.

Short-ranged mail hauler. Sure. But it was flying low. She was about to whisper the same thing to Kythen, but he already sensed it in her intent.

If it was a Dominion scout, it’d be a rockwing. That was a saadthrush.

“How do you know?” Myraden whispered in Íshkaben. Looking closer, she realized he was right, but she was more curious how Kythen knew what the bird was called, or that it was native to Greatsaad.

My herd frequented the southern shores of Ískan, where we’d see wild flocks of them dancing and fluttering. I, of course, didn’t know the species’ name back then—it was well before I formed a Reyad with you—but I recognize them.

“It was probably a daredevil pilot trying to make his run before the sun sets entirely,” grumbled the Red Hand. “Which we would be wise to do as well.”

Myraden took another step back from the ridge, then pulled her mouth shut.

“You’ve never seen Ostaloth before?” the Hand inquired.

“Not once.” Myraden set off along the top of the hill, then followed the road as it wound down the edge toward the city outskirts. “I lived in northern Ískan my whole childhood,” she said. “The largest city I had ever visited was Tejkravi, which is not saying much. And then I fled to Sirdia after the Burning.”

“I…see.” The Hand walked slightly faster, again using his sheathed sword as a walking stick. He trailed his left foot slightly, and it didn’t raise as high with each step. When he planted it down, he almost seemed to nurse it.

After all, he was only a man. Not a wizard. Eventually, his life would catch up with him.

Myraden exhaled. She still needed him, and she needed to complete her task before that happened. “Where do you think this…Marshal Theämir will be?”

“You see the second ring beyond centertown?” the Hand said, pointing his sheath just to the left of the mountain of towers at the city’s center.

Beyond the ringed tower district was another circular wall, its ramparts lit and distinguished from the rest of the city with blazing light, but its innards weren’t nearly as tall. An ancient palace of patinated stone bricks stood at its center, with gardens, elaborate housing districts, and plazas surrounding it.

“That’s the old city center,” said the Hand. “It was once the grand palace of Greatsaad’s wizard-king, and now, the governor-king. That is where the Autumn Council will be.” He snorted. “Is taking place. It has likely already begun, and will last a few more weeks.”

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“And how…will we get in?” Myraden asked. “I do not suppose we can just walk into that ring, such a fancy district, and hope they will let us get close to their old establishment types and important generals.”

“Not important,” said the Hand. “Not anymore. And with Lady Neria taking a large portion of the Dominion’s elite army overseas, you may find security more relaxed than usual. First, we will need to look like we belong. Then, we will need to act like it.”

“We are going to impersonate Dominion marshals?” Myraden raised her eyebrows.

“I am going to impersonate a marshal, yes. You—”

“Yes, I will be a servant. A northern sprite.”

“A wizard in my employ, who enjoys special privileges despite her disgraceful standing.”

Myraden nodded. “Then we will need to clean ourselves up.”

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“If we had time,” Chancellor Ivescent said, “we would’ve tailor made armour for you. But this is the best we can give.”

Pirin rolled his shoulder, letting the cured leather slices adjust with his movement. The rigid pauldron lifted with his arm, but it wasn’t big enough to block his range of motion, and it wasn’t heavy enough to interfere with the techniques he’d learned.

“Thank you for indulging the request for riding armour,” Pirin said. He stood at the stern of the leading barge, under the tarp at the stern. Midday light poured in through the gaps between the tarp and the boards below.

And that meant they had almost reached Vel Aerdeil

He’d donned a leather chestpiece with ornate, knotted engravings down its front, and overlapping layers of leather to protect the shoulders—with a single sliver pauldron overtop, on his right side. Beneath, he wore a blue military gambeson and a set of belts to keep it all tight, and a half-skirt of light chainmail around the back. Steel kneecap covers, leather greaves, and it made as complete of a set as possible while maintaining his mobility.

Really, at his stage, his skin was tougher than the outer leather, but it was best to let armour take a blow if it could. Besides, it’d do wonders for troop morale to see him finally in proper armour. As if he was taking his role seriously.

“The leather pieces are two-hundred years old,” said an elven attendant. “Commissioned for Mransil II of Khirdia just before his passing.”

Pirin gulped. “So…they’re antiques. Those should be put on display. I really don’t want to—”

“It is armour, my lord,” said Marshal Velbor, who stood at the opening of the tent, holding his hands behind his back. He’d polished his armour and donned a new blue cloak. “It was made to be used, whether by you or a king of old.”

Pirin brushed his fingers down the cuirass, and a set of blue sparks trailed off the armour behind his fingers. Beyond its physical weight which, with his enhanced body, was completely negligible, it had a slight spiritual weight. Maybe that of a Catch, or a newly-advanced Flare.

He turned back to Chancellor Ivescent. “Is this armour…enchanted?”

“The armoury was supposed to soak it in an elixir for ten years upon Mransil’s request.” Ivescent had also donned armour—a chainmail hauberk and a standard set of Sirdian plates overtop. “It instead ended up soaking for two centuries. It has no effect yet, only a base for applying strong Essence enhancements to it.”

Nomad, who stood a few paces to the side of Velbor, said, “I reckon it’d make an excellent base to craft whatever sort of armour you want atop it.”

Pirin patted the chestpiece. For now, ceremonial, but it’d get better. He liked the sound of that.

The chancellor raised a finger in protest, “Your majesty, are you sure you don’t want anything heavier for the time—”

“This is alright, Ivescent,” Pirin said. “Thank you.” He tightened the side buckle of the chestpiece and adjusted the shoulder pad, then retrieved his shattered sword’s hilt from his void pendant. If for nothing else but show, he slid it into the sheath at his hip.

“We need to repair that as well,” said Ivescent. “We can’t have Kalénier’s old sword staying broken like that.

Pirin held the void pendant open a few seconds longer, showing everyone the shards of the shattered blade. “We’ll have to melt it down and reforge it. It can wait until we arrive in Vel Aerdeil. When we take the city.”

“You have valuable ingredients there,” said Nomad. “Melting them would be a waste, but it’d also destroy your Reign over the sword.”

“It…would?” Pirin’s stomach plummeted.

“You developed Reign because of your intense connection to the weapon. I reckon it’s the only reason you developed such a strong Reign so early in your life. To reforge it into a new sword, to throw that away would be like chopping off one of your hands and expecting to gain something.”

Pirin exhaled slowly, then said, “So we need a way to reforge the chunks…as they are? To put them back together in exactly their original form?”

“That would be impossible,” Marshal Velbor grumbled. “He may be a powerful wizard, but he knows nothing of metalwork. If you just hammered them back together like you were fixing a puzzle, it’d shatter the moment you struck something with it.”

“Shatter.” Pirin chewed his bottom lip. “I somewhat like the sound of that.” He flexed his fingers and cycled Essence, as if about to use the Shattered Palm.

“You wouldn’t like it when your sword broke mid-fight,” Velbor grumbled.

“But the point remains,” said Nomad. “We cannot melt the sword down and reforge it, or we will significantly weaken Pirin.”

“We can figure it out later,” Pirin said. “Right now, we have a city to take, and I have a vanguard to lead. I shouldn’t need the sword right away.”

“Be careful.” Ivescent walked to the flap of the tent and held it open for Pirin, then added, “I suspect there will be a few Dominion wizards among the garrison. There would have to be.”

“I’ll keep my eyes out. And I’ll clear the way for the non-wizards behind me.”