Red banners greeted Durrin on the other side of Wyvern Way.

He had forgotten just how much he missed seeing that color. Red—the color of strength and courage. The color of Calamar.

The color of home.

At the foothills of the mountain pass, he came to a Calamarvan outpost, its red banners snapping proudly above a wooden stockade. The soldiers were initially suspicious, and rightfully so: Who was this cloaked figure, riding alone out of Elandrian territory? But their hostility had disappeared with the drop of a name.

“I am on the special errand of His Excellency, Lord Salidar Aram,” Durrin announced. “He will not be pleased if I am delayed.”

The soldiers immediately responded with bows, apologies, and fresh provisions.

Over the next few days, Durrin rode through the plains and highlands of Western Elandria, its war-ravished towns now flying the red banners of Calamar. Then he crossed a low mountain range into a prosperous, bustling province of Calamar called Wormul. Wormul had once been a collection of independent city states, until trade wars devolved into actual wars two decades before. To keep the trade routes flowing, Calamar had been forced to step in and annex the whole region. Durrin still remembered his disappointment as a young lad, when the conflict had ended before he could enlist.

From Wormul, he and Raggedy Ruby took a barge upriver into the heartland of Calamar. After a week of sailing, they reached the capital, Imperium.

No other city in the world rivaled Imperium in size—some said as many as a million people lived within its walls. It had only grown in Durrin’s seven-year absence. As his barge approached, he passed hundreds of laborers raising a wall to enclose a new urban sector.

Where the river met the city, a splendent new statue greeted him: a magnificent swifter, carved from one massive slab of red marble thirty feet high, its regal mouth turned in a snarl to ward off Calamar’s enemies. An inscription at its base identified it as a depiction of Emperor Stoneclaw’s eldest son, Crown Prince Thundertail.

Imperium sprawled across a plain, with the river on the south and a mountain range on the north. Four massive spurs of rock jutted out from that range, extending like fingers into the city. Those spurs defined both the physical and the social hierarchy of the city.

Crowning the easternmost and tallest spur was the Imperial Palace: a soaring complex of columns and arches, brimming with rooftop gardens and hanging ivy.

The second spur, not quite as tall but sticking farther out into the city, was dominated by a palace built in a markedly different style: monolithic walls instead of columned porticos, blocky battlements instead of gardens, with the balustrades decorated with carved reliefs rather than ivy. Though technically smaller than the Imperial Palace, its towering profile made it appear bigger to those walking the streets below—no doubt the intent of its architect. This was the palace of Salidar Aram, high vizier to the emperor himself.

Imperium’s third spur was adorned by an ascending series of columned structures. These were the archives, sanctuaries, and courts of the Knights Vigilant, Calamar’s dominant religious order and the administrator of its laws.

The fourth and final ridge held schools dedicated to each of the five mancery arts. From the docks, Durrin could barely see the spires of his alma mater, the Imperial Pyromantic Academy.

In the shadow of these towering buildings, the sides of each spur held estates and manor houses: the domain of the wealthy. In the valleys between each spur, and in the plain spreading out to the river, lived the city’s poorest classes—craftsmen, laborers, and slaves, packed into ramshackle neighborhoods.

Durrin didn’t hesitate. Once off the boat, he steered his horse through the crowded streets, charting a course straight toward the palace on the second spur.

It was time to reunite with his old master.

Memories flooded him as the door guards admitted him into the fore-chamber of Salidar’s palace. How many times had he come here, hooded and cloaked as he was now, to report on a mission or accept a new assignment? And yet the palace was not without its changes. He strode to the wall to study a new mural. It depicted a battle in ferocious detail, probably one of Calamar’s triumphs in the war with Elandria. In the center of the mural, painted larger than any other figure, towered a man in golden armor: Salidar. He held his arm outstretched to order his troops onward, as terrified Elandrians turned and fled before him.

Footsteps sounded on the cold stones. Durrin turned to see a stocky human enter the chamber, a scowl engraved upon his face. He wore an immaculate suit of blue livery with purple highlights.

Durrin leaned back against the mural. “Yorid! What a surprise. I hope you haven’t been glowering like that since I last saw you seven years ago.”

The steward stopped and scanned Durrin up and down. Finally, he let out a grunt. “I thought I was rid of you.”

Durrin shrugged. “No such luck.” He gestured at Yorid’s elaborate clothes. “I see your uniform has seen an upgrade.”

“Your manners haven’t.”

Societal rules demanded that Durrin keep his head bowed in Yorid’s presence. Yorid, as the chief steward of a high nobleman, was several social tiers above Durrin, who was in effect still just a tradesman. Seven years before, when Yorid had been a mid-level servant, they’d been on roughly equal footing.

Durrin made an overly elaborate bow. “My greatest apologies, my liege. Would it please my liege to inform his liege that my liege’s humble servant requests an audience with my liege’s liege?”

Yorid’s frown didn’t budge. “I’ll tell His Excellency that you’re alive—somehow—and you want to talk to him.” He turned to leave. “And no snooping around while you’re here, Rendhart. I don’t want to find you in the treasury again.”

“That was eleven years ago,” Durrin said. “And besides, I was exploring, not snooping.”

“You picked two locks and impersonated a guard,” Yorid grunted as he stomped away.

“I could have sworn it was three,” Durrin said to himself.

In the steward’s absence, Durrin wandered over to a window and looked out over the city. In the last half hour, something had appeared over the city’s fourth spur. Ascending straight up from the crown of the ridge was a column of pulsating light, swirling like a multicolored ribbon until it disappeared into the clouds.

The phenomenon was called a leyline: a natural fountain of terramantic energy, one of a hundred or so dotted across the world. Leylines were essential for the operation of terramancy: every terramantic talisman had to derive its charge from a leyline. As a result, nearly every leyline in the world—except for a few in extremely remote locations—was highly coveted, heavily fortified, and rigorously taxed.

Imperium’s leyline appeared consistently every late afternoon. It was the strongest and steadiest in the entire empire—and the main reason Imperium had been built here centuries ago.

The long blast of a horn shook Durrin out of his thoughts. The crowded streets below were alive with voices and the clack of wood on stone as storekeepers closed their shops and carts rumbled toward their final destinations for the day. Dusk was approaching. Soon the Knights Vigilant would blow the second evening horn, marking the onset of night.

In Imperium, no one stayed out at night. Night was the domain of cutthroats, thieves, and demons.

Not that that had ever stopped Durrin.

The stomp of surly feet marked Yorid’s return. “His Excellency has decided, contrary to my most strident objections, to admit you into his presence. Follow me.”

Durrin shadowed Yorid up a staircase, through a dining hall bustling with servants cleaning up a meal, and to an armed checkpoint, where Durrin was searched for weapons.

“Seven years ago, I was exempted from these searches,” Durrin grumbled as a guard patted him down.

“So were a lot of people,” Yorid grunted. “His Excellency doesn’t take chances anymore.”

Yorid paused at an ornate set of bronze doors. “Don’t take too much of His Excellency’s time. He just entertained the emperor for supper and was hoping to enjoy some quiet reflection.”

The guards opened the door, and Yorid gestured for Durrin to enter.

Walking into Salidar’s office was like stepping into another world. The glow from a chandelier reflected off a hundred gilded treasures and thousands of precious jewels. Each wall boasted an exotic array of weapons, statues, and paintings—the trophies of forty years of military triumphs.

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In the center of the glistening room, clothed in velvets so fine that they were worth their weight in gold, stood Lord Salidar Aram, Governor of the Western Provinces, Captain of the Host of Ten Thousand, and High Vizier of the Eternal Empire of Calamar.

image [https://i.imgur.com/ivyV6WS.png]

Lord Salidar Aram, High Vizier of Calamar. Generated by the author via Midjourney.

Salidar waited for Yorid to exit, then swept toward Durrin with arms outstretched. “Durrin Rendhart,” he announced, his voice as magnanimous as seven years ago. “Welcome back, my most talented and loyal friend.”

Durrin pulled back his hood and gave a slight bow. “It’s been a long time, Your Excellency.”

Salidar put an arm around Durrin’s shoulders, steering him further into the room. “Who would have believed that the legendary Rendhart has been alive all these years? I thought for sure those treacherous Elandrians had somehow managed to kill you.”

“No such luck,” Durrin replied wryly. “Imprisonment was the best they could offer.”

“But you have escaped at last!” Salidar said.

“And I came straight to my old patron,” Durrin said. No sense in correcting the vizier. Durrin himself still could make no sense of his inexplicable release. Salidar would react to that detail only with suspicion.

Salidar noticed Durrin holding his gaze and frowned. “Given your long captivity, Durrin, I will forgive your lack of propriety this once.”

Durrin quickly averted his eyes. In Calamar, to look a superior in the eyes was a serious affront, punishable by law. Eyes betrayed motive and emotion, and to see one’s eyes was therefore to have power. “Forgive me, Your Excellency. I fear I have forgotten old habits.”

Durrin studied the room’s furnishings instead, conscious of the vizier looking him up and down. Durrin gestured to a set of throwing darts on a table. “I see you’ve taken up a new hobby.”

“Ah, the darts? Yes.” Salidar picked one up, hefting it expertly in his fingers before pivoting and throwing it at a map on the far wall, where it struck, quivering. “A simple game, but a diverting one. But I imagine you did not come here for small talk. What is on your mind?”

Durrin snapped his fingers, summoning a flame that he held in his hand, staring into its depths. “I have come to claim what you promised me.”

Salidar threw another dart. “Kymar’s scrolls, I recall?”

“Kymar’s scroll,” Durrin said, feeling his heart surge at the mention. “His sixth scroll. The last scroll.”

“Ah, yes, the scroll forbidden to all but the masters of the Pyromancers’ Guild,” said Salidar. “The scroll held in the deepest vaults of the Pyromantic Academy. The scroll that not even I—nor even the emperor himself—has access to.” The implication behind Salidar’s words was clear. If he could not access that scroll, how could he give it to Durrin?

“You made me a promise, Your Excellency,” Durrin said, forcing himself to keep his voice even. “If I carried out the emperor’s order, you would make sure I became a guild master, with all its privileges—including access to that scroll.”

Salidar did not immediately reply. Instead he glided his way to a table set with tea, figs, and tarts. “Guild mastership . . . is not an easy favor to grant at the moment,” he said as he poured them each a cup.

Durrin stayed where he was. “A deal is a deal,” he said. “I earned it, did I not?”

“Yes, earned it and double, my old friend and ally,” Salidar said. “What you pulled off, seven years ago . . .” Salidar shook his head. “No one else possessed the combination of skill, patriotism, and unflinching courage that the task required. You neutralized an enemy of Calamar mere hours before he would have unleashed irrevocable harm on our people.”

“And the scroll?”

Salidar sighed, then took a long draught of tea before resuming. “My relationship with the guild masters has not gone unchanged these last seven years. Some have grown slightly . . . discontented with me of late. Persuading them to elevate you to their ranks, whom some do not know, and whom others remember only with jealousy, will be difficult.”

Durrin raised his eyebrow. “You’re talking as though you were no longer the undisputed master of Calamar.”

“Then let me be frank,” said Salidar. “I am not. Much has changed in seven years, Durrin. Yes, my power and wealth have grown. For almost two decades now I have been the grand vizier, right-hand man to the emperor himself. Under my care, Calamar has become stronger and wealthier than ever before. The brigands on the South Sea have been quashed. We have expanded west, north, and east, subduing tribes of raiders and civilizing the populations. We have built bridges and roads, cities and harbors. Trade is blossoming, and the markets are busy.”

Salidar stepped over to the map. “But Elandria has been a thorn in our side. They fear us, Durrin; they fear our power and prosperity. So they seek to deny us the resource that we most need, hoping to make barren our fields and starve our people.”

“Haeber crystals,” Durrin said.

He was well-acquainted with haeber, and its strategic importance, from both lectures at the Academy and his subsequent career collecting intel for Salidar. Haeber was a precious commodity, mined at the edge of the world and then shipped thousands of miles over sea and land, at great expense. Haeber came in the form of soft, pale-white crystals, about the size of a fist. Farmers the world over ground the crystals down into a fine powder and sowed the powder in their fields before planting. Every field needed a sprinkling of haeber every couple of years, or the crops would begin to fail. In Calamar, most of the haeber supply came overland through Elandria.

Salidar nodded. “Yes. For over a decade Elandria has created a shortage. In the years before the war, shipments over the border steadily dwindled to almost nothing. For a long time, I advocated taking a harsher line against Elandria. But there are some in the court who harbor sympathies to the Elandrian nobility. When war finally came three years ago, it was much later than it should have.”

“What sparked the conflict?” Durrin asked, still piecing together the events of recent history. The other inmates at Irongate Isle hadn’t exactly been the best sources of international political analysis.

“Elandria broke the terms of a treaty and halted all haeber shipments to us,” said Salidar. “They intended to starve us. We had no choice but to invade. Our armies have already seized haeber crystals sufficient for all our farms in the central provinces, as well as much grain and livestock. Once we conquer their capital and assimilate Elandria as a new territory, we’ll be able to secure the trade routes once and for all.”

Salidar set down his cup and began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back. “But the war has not gone as well as the emperor and I hoped. Thanks to the incompetence of our generals and the cunning of theirs, it has dragged on for three years now. Some in the court have grown weary. They petition the emperor for us to surrender and retreat. Others have grown envious of me and are attempting to undercut the war, denying my army sufficient supplies or troops.

“And amidst it all, we have received this!” Salidar held up a scroll, sealed with the royal crest of the Everborn family. “It arrived just a few days before you did, carried by an official envoy of Elandria.” He dropped it contemptuously. “The young offspring of Everborn has been crowned queen, and now she thinks she can parley with us on equal terms. A ludicrous notion, but if some at court catch wind of it, they may twist it to their advantage.”

Durrin didn’t ask what Salidar was doing with an official message meant only for the emperor. Some questions were better left unanswered.

Salidar turned back to him. “I hope that helps you understand my position, Durrin. I want nothing more than to help you become the most powerful pyromancer in Calamar—the most powerful pyromancer in the world! But that requires a level of influence with the Pyromancer’s Guild that I do not currently possess—not until we win this war.”

Durrin stared into his cup. “So how can I help you win it?”

He could hear Salidar smile. “Ah, that is the right question, Durrin.”

The vizier selected another dart, turning back to his map. “You may have wondered why I throw at a map, not a target. It is a matter of aim. Unlike a target, where the bullseye is painted for you, the trick to war and politics is not just striking accurately, but knowing where to strike.”

Salidar stepped closer to the map, examining the kingdom of Elandria. “Our armies are already marching on their capital. They have gathered to stop us, but we outnumber them two to one. A crushing victory on the field of battle is imminent.”

“That will not be enough,” Durrin said. “I have spent many years among the Elandrians. They are not the type to surrender.”

“Not while a member of their precious Everborn family sits on the throne,” said Salidar. Quick as a snake, he sunk the dart into the capital city of Saven. “So that is where we must strike. The blow will be bitter. To lose their queen, mere weeks after her coronation . . .”

“Your Excellency, she is only eighteen,” Durrin said, a pit forming in his stomach. His mind returned to the young figure he had seen through the crowd. “Surely a youth on the throne is an asset to us, not a threat.”

“Any Everborn, no matter their age, is a threat,” Salidar said. “There are old sympathies in the imperial court that her name alone threatens to revive. No. She must be removed. The only question is how. If her death is traced back to Calamar, her people may only become more entrenched in their lost cause.”

Salidar began to pace again. “Your timing could not have been better, Durrin. I have ideas of how to solve this problem, but I have needed someone to take the lead, someone with great skill whom I could trust. Someone like you.”

“You’re too kind,” Durrin said, hiding his unease. He didn’t like where this conversation was going.

“My options have been severely limited of late,” Salidar continued. “My enemies in the court have formidable coffers, and I can no longer trust all my servants. Many of my operatives are being watched. But none of my enemies will know that you have escaped. Few even remember your existence. This opens whole new avenues . . .”

“Any assassination, no matter how subtle, will be pinned on Calamar,” Durrin said.

“And if it resembles an accident?”

Durrin shook his head. “The Elandrians will not be so naive a second time.”

“Then we must pin the blame on a different group,” said Salidar. “You have relations with the Mitrian tribes, do you not? Perhaps we could hire a strike team—”

“The Mitrians would never agree to that,” Durrin interrupted. “Their chiefs have made a pact of peace with Elandria. And they are a people of honor.”

“Then I will need some time to think and plan,” Salidar said. “In the meantime, lie low, and let no one know who you are.”

“I have old colleagues I was hoping to connect with,” Durrin objected. “Alumni of the Academy. Contacts. Former clients.”

“I’m afraid that is not an option,” said Salidar. “Not yet, anyway. No one must know you have returned. Can you do that for me, Durrin?”

Disappointment flared within him. No reunion with old friends. No public recognition for the seven years he had suffered in a cell for his country.

No scroll.

“I guess I have no choice,” Durrin muttered.

“Then start preparing for a long and dangerous expedition,” Salidar said. “Are you short on silver?”

“I just escaped from a dungeon, Your Excellency,” Durrin pointed out. It was an exaggeration—he should still have a line of credit with some banking houses in the city, but there was no point in passing up the generosity of the richest man in the world.

“I’ll have Yorid give you twenty pounds of silver,” Salidar said, scribbling on a scrap of parchment. “Outfit yourself with the best weapons and provisions, then come back in five days’ time.” He handed the note to Durrin. “Until then.”

Durrin took the note. So that was it. He was back in Salidar’s service, no more than a hired sword, still no closer to his goal than seven years before.

“Until then.”

He bowed stiffly, threw the cowl of his cloak back over his head, and strode angrily from the room.