1. From the Illymium Codex

Corellas Davadas stood above the dying king, Shyzarr Nazeer. Corellas’ dark, battle-scarred skin glistened in the flickering firelight fanning out from the enormous hearth of the imperial bedchamber. Facedown on the marble floor beside her husband, Queen Natal Nazeer, of the pale skin and rich, fire-colored hair, wept bitterly, knowing she would be the next to feel the thrust of the warrior slave’s steel. But Corellas looked down on her with pity, and his coarse features softened.

Then, extending his hand soaked in her husband’s blood, he said, “My Queen, it was your beauty that kept me laboring each day in the pit to build your grand palace. While other mens’ backs broke beneath the slaver’s whip, mine strengthened. Each time I stole or killed to advance my cause, your image, like a precious jewel shining through the gloom of night, fortified my resolve. Your slave is now your master, charming lady, and I will be your master and your slave if you will be my wife.”

The queen, looking up at Corellas, quickly dried her tears and slipped her slim white hand into his thick, dark calloused one without hesitation. That night, while stumps of candles flickered around the dead king, the last of the Nazeer royal line, the queen secreted her new lover to her private chamber, and together, they made a child, the first of the great Davadas people. And for the next Zar, Ardelym flourished and prospered under Davadas rule.

Chapter One: The Queen's Bedchamber

Scipio Davadas rolled off his queen with a groan and climbed out of bed. He would love to remain in Hyperia's arms the entire afternoon, revel in the pleasure of her soft, iridescent flesh, to breathe in her unique scent. But it wasn't easy to relax with the festivities starting today. For the people of Ardelym, the new Zar Festival was a time of celebration. For the King of Oran‑the greatest city-state in all of Ardelym‑it was a time of tension and risk and of proving he was still worthy of leadership to his people.

Hyperia brushed aside her curtain of black hair and rested her cheek against the silk pillowcase. She watched with satisfaction as her husband crossed her bedchamber. His tall, muscular form silhouetted the hazy, pink light of late afternoon streaming through the balcony door. With pleasure, she noted how his body hadn't lost any of its strength in twenty years of marriage. Daily rides through Oran's vast farmland kept him fit. In Hyperia's eyes, he was still the warrior she fell in love with when he liberated her home city, Mynimium, during the Nazeer uprising, and was awarded, for his valor, the Illymium princess with the strange, lavender eyes and pale flesh that shimmered in certain light. The only quality that had changed about her husband was his face. The lines around his mouth had deepened, and a darkness rested in his eyes that none of her feminine soothing could erase.

As she closed her eyes and breathed in the fragrant candles she had shipped from Mynimium each moon, she could almost see the clove trees dotting the cinnabar-studded cliffs of her homeland. The carpets of pink desert sand stretched beyond the city walls in her imagination and she could almost hear the bell ringing in the tower to mark the daily prayer to Illym.

Scipio had promised her they would visit her home city soon, when the Zar Festival was over and everything had settled. But there was so much to do before then.

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She opened her eyes and sighed with disappointment when she saw that Scipio had slipped on an ornately embroidered robe, depriving her of a view of his strong, battle-scarred back and tattoos marking each victory on his dark Davadas skin, his round buttocks and muscular legs.

He slipped through the fluttering drapes and stepped barefoot outside onto the marble balcony to watch the ships and caravans arriving from the Four Corners.

He's thinking about the speech he will deliver on opening day of the festival.

Hyperia pulled her legs up to her chest and squeezed her thighs together, trapping her husband's seed.

Through an extensive analysis of the Heavens, the ancient mage, Flenn Illyminum, had told her this was the optimal day in her moon calendar. Not only that, the Zar was the most sacred time in Ardelym history.

What better time for me to conceive Scipio's son.

Even after twenty years, the Oran people were still not happy with Scipio's choice of mate‑the Illymiums were a dying breed belonging to the past. But a male heir would change that perception.

With great difficulty, Hyperia had managed to produce their daughter, Tylla. But the eighteen-year-old princess was headstrong; she had failed to win over the hearts of the people by marrying young and strengthening the Davadas rule. The royal couple hoped to make her a match during the Zar. That might help them politically, but what they really needed was a male heir.

Scipio never voiced his disappointment when month after month, year after year, Hyperia remained barren. At thirty-eight, she was as the peak of her sensuality, but secretly she wondered if her husband ever thought of taking another wife, a younger woman, of his own fertile Davadas blood, not one from the star-kissed Illymiums, children of a dying star.

Don't think like that! She embraced her naked belly beneath the silk sheets, willing the conception to take place. This time it will work!

Scipio emitted a weary sigh and pressed his eye to the spyglass that sat atop a carved bronze tripod and panned it over the northern citadel wall toward the Crimson Sea, a clear carpet of lapis with red-tinged mist clinging to the rocky shore. His jaw tightened when he spotted a small fleet traveling at a fast clip twenty leagues past the shimmering Quartz Island. From the mast of the boat at the fleet’s point flew a faded and battered flag, its sigil depicting an ax splitting an icy mountain peak. The Skaards!

He expected the Skaards to send someone to represent their people, a toothless elder perhaps or a group of women with one or two men in attendance. But here were three ships carrying fifty men each in warrior garb and fully armed.

They want something from me, coming all this way, leaving their families vulnerable when they are at war with the Nazeer renegades. But what could it be?

Scipio swung the spyglass away from the Skaard's ships to where Pendulum Road snaked along the jagged coast. Already he could see the Nazeers, their sigil depicting the dragon, Quetzex, circling the Great Vulcan volcano, flying proudly over ostentatious wagons draped with colorful tapestries. A small army of horse-drawn chariots studded with bright metals from their rich southern mines led the caravan. Behind them marched fifty soldiers with axes and gladii blazing in the hot afternoon sun. Scipio had no doubt old Duke Nargos himself would be among them. His thoughts flew darkly to the past, when Nazeera, the mining city located deep beyond the Crytombe Crags in the shadow of the Great Vulcan, had dared to lay siege on Mynimium. Scipio had won that battle, and although Nargos had surrendered, the king always regretted sparing his life.

The Nazeers have wealth, but their tempers are as combustible as their smelting pots and their hearts as black as the pitch left behind.

Scipio lowered the spyglass and called back irritably to his wife, "They're nearly here. It's time to make yourself ready."

"Just a moment," Hyperia sighed.

Please, she prayed silently to Illym, raking her nails over her belly. Let me conceive a son today.