Luke blinked awake against the rain. He shifted to shade his eyes and felt something rip apart at his back.

Origo Times, he thought ruefully. Cheapest newspaper in the city. Wonder why.

Water beading down the side of the dumpster increased to trails. More flowed at his legs. It was a storm, all right. The sky had drained of color, the clouds a rumbling dark mass stretching across that gloomy gray canvas. There was no such thing as a good day with a sky like that.

Sandals clacked off the pavement, splashing water. There was a third splash accompanying the clacks, a cane glistening with raindrops. The sounds stopped, and his ears returned to the pattering downpour.

“What are you doing?” the old man said, and Luke saw that he was looking down at him. Rain ran down his cane and dripped off the umbrella in his other hand. Wrinkles and scars littered his face like the aftermath of a battlefield. He held himself perfectly steady in spite of the apparent need for a cane.

“What’s it look like?” Luke muttered. “Sleeping. Beat it, old man.”

“Don’t call me an old man,” the old man said. It was not his voice. “And get up. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

Realization struck, and the world vanished. Captain Deen Daniels stood over him with a bucket in hand.

“Get up,” Daniels grunted, “or I’ll douse you again.”

“I’m up,” he said groggily, sitting up on a comfortable mattress Elinor Daniels had prepared the night before.

Dreaming of that day, was he? A nice change of pace from the places his mind usually took him. The memory of light that shouldn’t have shined skittered across his surface of his thoughts, but he buried it deep.

An hour later, he walked the streets of Ulciscor alongside Captain Daniels, clad in a coat of the city’s black and silver colors overtop his second shirt with the same design as yesterday’s of a yellow spiral on the chest laid over a cyan canvas. The coat’s silver was more of a muted gray in this swirlsheep fabric. Sturdier, but not as enticing to the eye as spiralsilk. Occasionally, passersby would gawk at his scarlet eyes, but he had long since learned to pay them no mind. Aetas Origo had plenty of fools who would often ask him outright if he was related to the emperor.

The general mood of the crowds still amazed him. There was a hum to the streets, from hawkers announcing newspapers and other wares, pockets of people chattering, the clatter of horse hooves and the rumble of wagon wheels. There was a certain sort of life to cities, but none he had ever been to had looked quite so pleased. Back home, the sudden cry of a hawker would cause those trudging near him to grimace in annoyance, men would keep to themselves and speak only to those they had business with, and those clipping automobiles were far more common in the Empire.

They passed by that odd mixture of buildings old and new, the old displaying large windows untouched or replaced by war, the new with much smaller windows or even none at all, only arrowslits. All of them had slate roofs or similar, no thatch, only durable materials. When the Razing came to Mintaka, Amon Munitio had implemented great catapults bearing heavy stones. The man had brought the art of warfare to Asundria in an eyeblink. Not long before Luke was born, men with swords or spears would have sufficed.

Daniels looked relaxed, but he moved with the grace of a soldier, treading lightly and glancing occasionally elsewhere. It was probably all unconscious. He wore his captain’s uniform, black and silver stitched with the mark of his station at the South Wall.

The sun was high on the morning of the third day of the Imperial year. The clouds seemed as high, feathery things spaced apart in the vast blueness of the sky. The city’s smell was not as pungent as Aetas Origo, though it still wasn’t very pleasant compared to the unpopulated wilderness he had traversed in the last several weeks. He noticed that there were not as many dumpsters, and those he spotted were closed and carefully maintained. Vander Wolf kept a clean city. Of course, Luke wouldn’t complain. Those unkept, haphazard dumpsters in Aetas Origo had made fine beds. Sometimes, anyway. A few newspapers would do the job, otherwise.

He stopped suddenly.

“There’s no homeless.”

Daniels’s own boots halted and he turned toward Luke.

“What was that?” Daniels asked over the hum of the city.

“Where are Ulciscor’s homeless? We’ve been walking and walking, and I haven’t seen any. I didn’t see any yesterday, either.”

“General Wolf puts them to work in the Guard,” Daniels said. “If not on watch, then in the kitchens or washrooms. The discipline is good for them. Most stay.”

Luke nodded slowly, and they resumed walking. Was the Guard really so great a place? He admired Vander Wolf’s role in recent history, but never the Guard itself. To him, it always felt like a means to an end, whether it be defending a city or tracking a man with blue eyes down. He knew, though. When you slept on newspapers, and someone approached you offering more, anything was fine.

This rain sure is something. Let’s find some shelter together.

It wasn’t much longer that they came to an open square with a smaller circular pattern on the stones, outlining a large stone fountain spraying clear water into the air. The stone had been carved by a master artisan into Cygnus the Swan with wings raised, splashing in water both real and stone. Several benches rested at the fountain’s edge, and seated upon one of them was Cyrus accompanied by a tall, broad-shouldered man and another ridiculously tall, broad-shouldered man. The two of them did not wear the uniform of the Guard, but rather sported the same outfit as Cyrus, a long-sleeved shirt, predominantly pine green, and a pair of trousers the color of soil.

Daniels grimaced.

“Something wrong?” Luke asked.

“That man, Fauke. He’s too… loose.”

“You’re too strait-laced,” Luke said offhandedly. Daniels grimaced again. They stepped toward the bench, and the three stood in unison. Cyrus struck him as a bit different. Something about the way he carried himself and his expression was more resolute than before.

It was Cyrus who asked to meet Luke before going off. Daniels had told him shortly after waking what had happened. They had both managed to wrap themselves in the coming conflict in their own way, it seemed. Odd. Cyrus seemed too bright for that.

Luke thought fondly of him after their short time traveling together, but he didn’t think of them as friends. He didn’t think of anyone as a friend, except, perhaps, a boy he had met several years ago, in the most interesting week of his life in Aetas Origo. Still, it was apparent that Cyrus felt the opposite way. Old man Snare had told him once that a person in an extreme situation tended to form an emotional connection with whomever was with them at the time, even if it were a hostage and their taker. Unfortunately, there was no room for that in his heart. He had to keep his hate fresh and sharpened for the man with blue eyes.

“Luke,” Cyrus said. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity.”

“Huh? What’d I do?”

“You inspired me.” Cyrus grinned. “To sneak out when I’m not supposed to.”

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He paused. Then, he returned the smile.

“How dangerous is this, anyway?”

Cyrus looked to Fauke. The man shrugged and said, “We’re keepin’ our distance for this one. Done hundreds o’ missions durin’ the war, me and Korsak. We’ve dealt with Cathartes plenty o’ times. Should be fine, long as the lad here doesn’t start stampin’ his feet or shoutin’ his head off. Just gonna get a quick peek o’ the village and scuttle back.” Korsak nodded solemnly.

“I see,” he said, and realized he could think of nothing else to say. True, they had only known each other for two days, but… he really wasn’t so bad. For a moment, the only sound was the ever-present hum of the city and the rushing water of the Swan’s glistening stone fountain.

Fine.

“Take care, Cyrus.” Luke held out his hand.

Cyrus clasped it. “Take care, Luke.”

After that, they went their separate ways. Cyrus would be leaving right then and there— they had only delayed so Luke could see him off. As for the trip to Filose, it would not be until sundown.

“So,” he said, spinning to face the captain after his… friend had departed. “What now?”

Daniels sighed. “Unfortunately, I have to bring you to work. It’s my shift at the gate today.”

Oh, what he wouldn’t give for a paint-drying contest right about now. This was going to be a long day.

———

Levian Vega drove the knife in deeper.

“Stay still,” Levian said softly. “Still. Good.”

The Ahraran assassin named Zaba obeyed, wincing as sharp metal sank into his shoulder. His mouth was gagged by a strip of cloth, and his arms and legs were affixed by straps to an upright board. Levian was a master of the arts, he knew precisely where he could harm but not kill.

Typhos watched impassively, standing by his master’s side with hands hidden beneath his ragged cloak. Niya watched with nearly equal dispassion, but he could just faintly see a line on the woman’s face twitch as her twin brother was stabbed. Typhos’s master had not taken kindly to their empty-handed return.

They were in a vacant house some streets away from the constable’s office and the mayor’s residence, a private place away from the prying eyes of Capella’s brown-and-yellow soldiers. Sunlight bled through thin, dark sheets hung across the windows, barely illuminating an abandoned kitchen with chairs moved aside and a table still bearing a cold breakfast two days past its intended time of eating.

“You’re doing great, Zaba,” Levian said soothingly, polar blue eyes hard and lips curled up in a smile. “Very good, very good. Why can’t you be this obedient all the time?”

“Forgive me, Master Vega,” he mumbled after his screaming ceased.

Previously, the siblings had tried to explain themselves. In Typhos’s opinion, it was a very reasonable series of events. Not much could be done about those two escaped boys— they knew for certain now that one was Cyrus Alder, the other likely the traveler who had left his bag in the mayor’s office— nor could anything be done about that troublesome Guard. The situation had spiraled completely out of control. Only, Levian did not see it that way, and that was enough.

“I forgive you,” Levian said solemnly, twisting the knife. “I forgive you, Zaba.”

This time, the assassin screamed in agony, muffled by the cloth. He shook in his binds helplessly. His body shuddered, eyes unfocusing and refocusing, and his breath returned in heaving gasps.

Levian released the knife— leaving it buried— and dusted his black-gloved hands, walking away as if he had become bored with a game.

“Tend to him,” Levian said idly to Niya. Colder, he added, “And when next I call you, do not fail me again.”

Niya dropped to one knee as he passed. “As you say, Master Vega.”

“Come, Ty,” Levian called. He followed his master out the back door onto the sunlit streets of desolate Castitas.

Some of the tiny, thatched buildings were occupied again— mostly by Cathartes, Levian’s personal forces. The bulk of Capella’s army was a few days off yet. Only one company, a drop in the ocean, had entered the village with the Elite himself. Were it not for that imposing wall, that army alone would likely be enough to overwhelm Ulciscor.

They made their way to the mayor’s residence, a secondary base of operations inside the village, where the two pairs of Elites and Aces had taken the rooms for personal quarters. It was the only other place in Castitas that did not look shoddy or lacking in craftsmanship. Crossing past an encircling white fence and a delicate stone-slabbed path, Levian and Typhos went inside.

The Third Elite, The Emperor’s Shield— Asmari Capella— ate quietly at a long white table in the spacious kitchen, snatching a piece of mutton with a silver utensil from a larger portion on a dinner plate. A drinking gourd with the cap hanging off the side waited for its turn, its swirling pattern a mismatch of light red and violet curling across a dark blue canvas. Those colored as such were the gourds of Capella.

The woman herself was of middling height, though she was seated on a high stool with a soft white cushion. Her face was hard and weathered and topped by short brown hair. Hazel Capellan eyes recognized the two of them as they entered and the Elite nodded slightly. One thing that struck Typhos as odd was the woman’s skin tone, light for a Capellan, especially once-nobility. She was flanked by two soldiers at parade rest on either side. One of them was her Ace, Vassago Rixator.

“Vega,” Asmari said in acknowledgment.

“Asmari,” Levian said.

Vassago frowned, likely at the disrespectful usage of his Elite’s forename.

Despite being a conversation between two of the most powerful people in all of Asundria, it was rather mundane and uneventful. Asmari Capella was not one for provocation, similar to Vassago. Small talk soon turned to legitimate discussion about the Shield’s army, mainly specifics about the positioning and rationing of the main body. There was a certain curiosity to his master, a thirst for the inner workings of everything, and warfare strategy was no exception.

Typhos listened intently, as instructed. He was not there to learn of strategy, but something else entirely. A clue, a hint, a whisper, anything about Rhea. His master was convinced that Asmari and Vassago were hiding the terrorist, knowingly or otherwise. Too many of Rhea’s activities had connections— albeit loose connections— to their military. Just the other day, there was the man they had hunted down. Though he was an officer in Boreag’s division of the Terra Daevan army, he had transferred two years prior from Capella’s. It was not unusual for a soldier to transfer branches for one reason or another, but his master saw a pattern, and after many months and dozens of leads, loose connections to the Third Elite’s military branch were piling up.

He could glean nothing from the conversation, though, and he told Levian as much when they retired to their quarters for the evening. A member of Cathartes, a woman with short-cut dark blonde hair, bowed her head to them as they entered. She wore a long-sleeved shirt and trousers, both dark to conceal. Grendelle, he thought her name was.

“Is that so?” Levian said after he had finished reporting on his observation. “Yes, I didn’t catch anything either.”

“I apologize, Master Vega,” he said.

Levian fell back on the bed he sat upon, crossing his arms behind his head. A very vulnerable position, but Typhos dared not strike. He felt the Shadow’s presence quite strongly on this night. And besides, why would he strike his master down? That was foolish.

“Rhea…” Levian muttered.

Rhea. If you asked Levian, he would say the name belonged to the greatest threat to the Empire since its inception. That name came from torturing the terrorist’s underlings, and they would not give more. They were a fiercely loyal lot, something that could not be said of most, nearly all soldiers. That was the point of soldiers, though, he had been taught. A soldier aims where pointed and does not question the morality of his actions. The same cannot be said of Rhea’s underlings, however. All of them display a sort of fervency for some unknown cause. That cause thus far has involved theft, primarily of supplies. Storages of grain, barrels of water, stockpiles of arrows and weapons, even information. Somehow, they had even acquired an outline of the secretive Highlight plan. That was concerning. It did not bode well for the Shield’s Ace.

“I think you are right to be suspicious of Rixator,” Typhos said softly. “He is who he is.”

Vassago Rixator was the nephew of Michel Rixator, a major figure in the civil war that led to Terra Daeva’s founding. Michel sat by Ganymede’s side as talks with Munitio broke down, and later stood by him in the war itself, lending troops and support. It was far too easy to think of his nephew as a traitor by association.

“I know.” Levian frowned. “I am often right. Amon, wise though he may be, does not believe Rhea can threaten him. He is naive, sometimes. He does not believe a single person can topple him.” He smiled wryly. “But is he himself not a single person who toppled most of Asundria? Ironic, for one so smitten with the individual’s kingdom.”

Typhos said nothing.

“Well,” Levian said, sitting up, “I think it’s about time to get back to business. Ty, patrol a bit, will you? Keep the rookies in line.”

“Understood, Master Vega,” he said, bowing.

Then he left.