Everything was falling into place.

The Consul studied the fresh notations on the map spread out before him, the ink still wet upon the vellum. He paused on the final mark, a black circle on an otherwise unremarkable plateau. His brow furrowed and a long, pink tongue flicked across his pointed teeth.  “You’re certain?” he said, his voice a thickly accented rumble.

Rexis stood opposite him on the other side of the table, back rigid, his thin figure draped in a heavy cloak of drab brown.  Much of his face was concealed by a sand-warding scarf, but his deep-set eyes followed his superior’s every move. He inclined his head. “Absolutely, Consul,” he replied, his own tone a thin rasp.

A slim hand, covered in sea-green scales, emerged from the folds of the cloak. The ink smeared as he traced a line between each of the points with two fingers. “They followed the ridgeline, I observed as much myself. The only place they can be mustering is the plateau.”

The Consul rose to his full height, towering head and shoulders above Rexis as he let the information sink in. He strode three paces alongside the table’s edge, turning his back to the scout. “Then you know my next question. Is he among them?” he asked, while casting his eye about the tent.

Rexis remained standing at attention, only adjusting himself to keep his eyes upon his lord. His reply did not come immediately, and the Consul’s gaze slowly wandered around the small space.

They stood under a canopy of carmine cloth, open at the sides to allow the sand-laced wind to relieve the worst of the heat. Soldiers and their attendants rushed back and forth outside, carrying sheaves of arrows, freshly sharpened blades and bundles of firewood.

“Rexis.” The Consul rumbled, looking away from the scene outside to fix his subordinate with a glare.

Rexis looked down at the map, his fingers playing with the fabric of his cloak. “I saw his standard bearer, Consul,” he said after a short pause, knowing it was not the answer his lord desired. “Nothing more.”

The Consul closed the distance between them in several long strides and placed one hand upon Rexis’ shoulder. Rexis tensed under the firm grip, his deep-set blue eyes slowly meeting the Consul’s crimson glare.

The Consul’s face split into a tooth-filled grin. “I have a name, Rexis. I respect you enough to let you use it,” he said. The heavy chuckle that followed made the metal scales of his cuirass rattle.

Rexis’ shoulders relaxed when the Consul released his grip, and his breath hissed out from tightly pressed lips. A cursory glance to either side reassured him that the attendants waiting just outside the tent had also relaxed.  A soldier who had frozen a half-step inside let out a small sigh. An angry Consul made for a tense camp.

“Yes, Consul. My lord. Aiur.” Rexis whispered, taking a step back and a deep breath.

All here were Saszrukai; the tall, saurian folk that dominated this desert land from the Cyran Ocean to the Sea of Snakes. They each possessed long limbs, a slender neck, and a flexible, leathered tail… Their every move was poised and elegant, slipping around one another with practiced ease.

With the tension defused, the yellow-scaled soldier darted further into the tent. He pressed a small scroll into Aiur’s hands, saluted, and rushed out as quickly as he had arrived.

Aiur unfolded the scroll, scanning over its contents. He flicked it away, letting it land amongst other scraps of parchment on the map-table.

Aiur Zerkash was a proud creature of noble bearing and patrician style. What set him apart from his loyal host were his sharp features and angular face, his corded, athletic figure and his scales of arterial crimson. A lighter shade of red formed the daggers of his caste-marks around blood-drop eyes, their combination marking him out as nobility. On their own each feature was not wholly uncommon, but their confluence in this one man created an imposing figure; a refined elegance with power lingering just beneath the surface.

One clawed digit stabbed repeatedly at the wooden table as a quick calculation ran through his mind.

“We have enough,” Aiur declared. He raised his finger to hover over the circle marking out the plateau and sank it slowly into the vellum. “Gather the centurions. We make our move.”

***

The shutters were pulled half-closed and all of the clutter had been dragged to the sides of the small, wood-panelled room. Shafts of light slipped between the gaps, pooling along the table and wall, leaving a thoughtful gloom deeper into the room.

Sprawled out across a dark oak table were the pieces of her thought process. The map, old and faded but covered in scratchy handwriting. Her ledger, open on the page recording her latest accounts. The stack of parchment, a number of bundles each bound together with leather cord.

Syla paced around the cleared space, her scaled tail snapping back and forth with each stride. In truth, she should have reached a final decision days ago. There were so many factors, she just had to be certain it was the right one.

Where was simple, and had been decided long ago. There were only two really viable options, but one was so full of old venom that it would never work. That, and everyone who lived there had a rod so far up their arses that the mere concept of speaking to her would be offensive.

With her options narrowed, the numbers told her clearly that she could afford it. Albeit with a little creative accounting. She had long since bought a house within the city, large enough for her purposes though in dire need of redecoration if memory served. To add to her fortune, there was enough business there to keep her afloat even if she lived a little extravagantly. Though, she had always found money easy to manage.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

That only left the stack of papers. It was a short list, but still not short enough for her liking. She snatched the first bundle from the stack and held it up to the light.

House Scipius. Well established. Mercantile. A lot of money there.

But she didn’t need money. She tore the parchment in two and let the pages flutter to the ground as she snatched the next.

House Natir. Young, full of fresh faces. Overflowing with ambition and drive.

She mulled them over for some time, flicking through the pages. Names, property deeds, finances. There was promise here, little details that shone through. Then she saw it; they had been accounting creatively too, but it was already beginning to catch up to them.

She lit a candle just so she could burn the papers, one by one.

Each bundle was page after page of promise laced with disappointment. A lack of ambition, tragic finances, or merely an absence of might. There was always something missing.

It took hours, but she tore through them all until only one house remained. The bundle was spread across the table, its leather cord lost somewhere in the pile of discarded parchment about her feet.

They were not perfect, but then none of her options were. Imperialist dogs they might be, but they backed that aspiration with military might. They had no shortage of funds, and by Aten they ensured everyone knew it. Perhaps it was not surprising that one of the Founding Houses had turned out to be her best option.

House Zerkash. It had to be House Zerkash.

***

At his behest, the camp had been roused from its slumber. The air was filled with the pounding beat of hammer and anvil and the heady smell of cooking on the open fires seeped into fabric and cloth. At the camp’s edge, the surly old quartermaster was making his displeasure at a misplaced blade particularly known.

Five hundred battle-ready souls awaited his inspection in disciplined ranks in a valley betwixt the dunes. Five centurions stood before them, each an exemplar of those under their command. In turn, they looked up to Aiur, resplendent in full battle attire with his khopesh sickle-sword hanging from his belt.

At his left shoulder stood red-scaled Daiss, his tall, muscular confidant and personal praetorian, his bladed polearm braced against his shoulder, keeping its edge high. At eight feet the glaive was a foot longer than Daiss was tall.

Looming at his right was sand-scaled Cleonar; his bulky standard bearer and second praetorian. Grasped in her fist was the gilded standard of House Zerkash: a grand spire rendered in silver atop a landscape of regal purple, with bright carmine edges etched with flowing golden script. The standard towered above her, half again as long as she was tall.

Both were clad from head-to-toe in full scaled armour of clean steel layered over coats of chainmail. Each bore a veil of chainmail to hide their faces, leaving only their red eyes visible.

With his praetorians at his side, Aiur marched the length of the assembled line. Every soldier bore the black marks of voluntary service upon their faces. They had all ejected themselves from the caste assigned to them upon their hatching and now followed his every command. They were once merchants, farmers, priests and nobles, marked with their place in society the day they emerged from the egg. Such marks took a range of forms; slim lines, star-blots, and curling waves were among the most common on display here.

“You have impressed me with your speed, and your discipline,” he said, pausing to let his voice carry as he reached one end of the formation. He turned on his heel, beginning the march back down the line.

“I expect both from you in great quantities today,” he continued as he swept an arm out in a wide, theatrical arc. “I expect you to answer the insult levelled at our fair city by House Krie, and outclass them in every respect. You should expect nothing less of yourselves. You are Legionaries. You are warriors of House Zerkash. Be proud of that fact, for it is an achievement to stand amongst us.” He paused at the centre of the formation to face his warriors and lifted both hands skyward. “You bare upon your shoulders a legacy of victory. Uphold that legacy today and bring House Krie to their knees.”

The rhythmic stamp of spear-hafts on sand rose up to answer him. His face split into a smile. He could not help it, their energy was palpable, infectious.

“They are gathered in a crude camp upon the plateau. We shall put it to the sword,” he declared, his own enthusiasm lacing his words. “Mavan is among them. The old guard.  We have seen every trick he has to offer, and today we shall lay him low.”

He lowered his arms and placed them behind his back. “Cervun, Vellica, Kyban!” he shouted, calling three of the centurions forward. They were all broad-shouldered brutes, clad in full body scale armour with their faces sealed behind helms. “You will command our centre at my side. We are the anvil, and they shall break upon us.”

“Yes, Consul!” three voices bellowed back.

“Arian, Melico! You will hold our flanks, and prevent any escape attempts.”

Two more voices, sharper and lighter than the first, responded as they stepped forth. “As you command, Consul!” They were each clad in loose shirts of light chainmail and simple bindings of leather and cloth covered the rest of their bodies, openings around the wrist and neck displaying their scales of green and brown respectively.

“Rexis!” Aiur called, knowing the scout was amongst them somewhere. “You know exactly where you need to be.”

There was no reply, but he did not need one.

“The eyes of Aten are upon us! Show these fools you are worthy of that light! Now march! To war, to victory!”

The roar that erupted was deafening, triumphant. As though they had already won.

***

Zerkash was old and venerable. It came as little surprise that the list of names and titles of its members was maddeningly long.

They all had their own little crowns. Lord of this, commander of that. Syla expected to discover the High Overlord of the Pantry at some point as she leafed through the parchment.

She had ceased her pacing and braced herself against the wall. The sun now hung at its zenith, leaving the light shallow and hazy.

She put together a list of prospective candidates; those who might reap her the greatest influence. She would formulate her plan around their best.

There was a treasurer, he had a mean streak that she liked, but his skills were too similar to her own. A number of the diplomats were promising, wily in their words and well-connected, but their deeds gave her the distinct impression that their influence on policy was limited.

Their leader was an absolute bastard, and she loved that. He had torn his way to ascendancy with a ruthless efficiency that she could only admire. It was a shame he was just as arrogant as he was effective, she had no doubt working with him would test her patience to the extreme. But she had no intention of playing second fiddle.

That narrowed the prospects sharply. One option caught her attention; it was good but it would be slow.  She could manage it; playing the long game was something she was used to.

She spread the documents out on the table and began organising them, piecing together associates, allies, and addresses. A web of intrigue began to form, and steadily a plan came together.

She had to decide now, otherwise she would second-guess herself. Syla pushed herself from the wall and moved towards the far end of the room, away from the shutters and the light.  She pounded hard on the wall three times. “Nerkai, before sundown!” she called.

The entire room shifted with a jolt as wheels began to turn beneath her feet. Parchment fluttered to the floor as the entire room began to rock and sway. She quickly collected up the pages she needed, pulling another leather cord from her coat to bind them together.

She paused as she lifted the bundle from the table, staring at the first page. “Send a rider ahead,” she said, turning her head towards the back wall of the carriage. “I want eyes on Aiur Zerkash’s every move.”