The meeting with Amrû had gone as well as could be expected. After searching S̆ams̆ādūr’s ragtag fleet, the imperial commander had agreed to allow them to continue down the river. An escort tagged along with them, five well-stocked imperial galleys there to make sure he proceeded to Sāpīya as he had been directed, but for the most part, they left the durgū alone, for which S̆ams̆ādūr was grateful.

The River had been a revelation. S̆ams̆ādūr was a bit of an oddity for a dwarf, his love of sailing a love shared by few of his kind, but even he had never made it far enough south to reach the River. There were many rivers in his father’s kingdom, three alone running through the heart of the capital of Birānāti, so he’d always found it strange - and perhaps a bit conceited - that the Corsyths referred to the river dividing their lands from the Gemlirs as the River, a name spoken almost with reference. That changed when he finally saw it.

The River was almost unfathomably large, so wide that when sailing close to the middle, the land would be barely visible, no more than a tiny sliver on the far horizon on the brightest of days. Despite its size, the current raged so strong that the ships struggled to progress against it, and if it were not for the strength of the frigid northern winds, their journey might have been near impossible.

As it was, the slower speeds at which they were forced to sail was perhaps a blessing, for the navigation of the River was exceedingly treacherous. The River’s raging waters were filled with obstacles seen and unseen - razor-sharp rocks lurking just beneath the surface, thousands of tiny islands, and vicious whirlpools whose raging tempests were strong enough to drag a fully loaded galley to the unfathomed depths below.

As much as it pained him to admit, S̆ams̆ādūr ended up almost glad the Corsyths had insisted on accompanying them. The imperial vessels navigated the treacherous waters with confidence, leading the fleet back and forth across the wide waters of the River in a winding path that avoided the lurking dangers. Indeed, without their guidance, he questioned how many of his ships would have survived the trip.

The sheer scale of the Empire was almost as impressive. Like most of the durgū realms, Biranāti’s strength lay in the carefully preserved power of its mages, rather than the size of its territories or the mass of its population. Yet, even though sailing was far faster than journey by foot, after two weeks, S̆ams̆ādūr’s had only progressed halfway down the Hapīyan coast, just one of the more than forty provinces in the Empire.

While they passed only a handful of bustling cities, the sheer scope of the territory made him question whether his father’s plans were a bit too ambitious - a creeping doubt that was only magnified when the province of Stryn - the only Corsythian province on the far side of the River, loomed on the left side. Unlike Hapīya, whose steep mountains and dense forests often continued right up to the edge of the River, the wide plains on the Stryn side boasted a booming population. From that point on, every night was spent - if they chose - in the safe harbor of a new city. I see now how the Empire has held off the Zalancthians for so long.

It was late in the day when they reached the first of the great tributaries which merged with the River. The great Dayyān River was fed by the many glaciers of the Sapīyan. Its wide banks, only a bit smaller than the River itself, were prone to widespread flooding in the springtime melts that farmers had long since learned to tame, leading to a flourishing of the bounteous crops the northern edge of Sapīya was known for.

It was there, too, that one of the great cities in Stryn called home. Seated at the joining of the Dayyān and the River, Dūr-Sebe occupied a vast horn that jutted into the river. The city had long since surpassed its humble origins as the seventh fortress along the province’s borders to become one of the greatest cities in the Empire. Indeed, all trade that passed along the River filtered through its bustling ports, bringing in the gold that funded the Lord of Stryn’s ceaseless attempts to dominate its neighbors.

Even S̆ams̆ādūr had to admit he was impressed as they sailed into the heavily fortified harbor. The durgu prided themselves on their fearsome architecture, but the walls here were nearly as tall and thick as those of Birānāti. The flat plains of Stryn afforded few hills on which to fortify, but that had not deterred the lords of Dūr-Sebe. Instead, a stepped fortress rose above the city nearly as high as if it sat on an acropolis, its size so monstrous that the Dwarven prince doubted it could be adequately guarded by fewer than 50,000 men.

Yet, unlike the lands of Hapīya, the power of Stryn gave him no concern for his father’s success. Stryn was ever rebellious; with their lips, they served the Empire, but in their hearts, Gemlir’s teachings held sway. Stryn would send a token force and nothing more; indeed, they would likely use the opportunity to finally seize Sapīya for themselves. The lords of Stryn held no love for the durgu, but that mattered little for their actions would aid his father’s plans.

Thus, when their fleet docked in Dūr-Sebe’s harbor, S̆ams̆ādūr was ready to hit the town. In the bustling port, the disembarking durgū barely drew any attention. The market swarmed with not just Corsyths, but Fey, Elves, Strythani, and, in surprisingly large numbers, Gemlirians.

Until his exile, finding ways to slip free of his father’s men had been a challenge S̆ams̆ādūr had relished in, but the soldiers that had rallied to his cause were no replacement for the watchful eye of Birānāti’s guard. Eschewing fine garments, it was an easy task to slip into the crowd and, for a brief time, leave free of the neverending responsibilities of power.

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He wandered the docks for a while, keeping a careful eye on the traffic to and fro the nearest taverns. Their clientele told him everything he needed to know about them, and he soon was headed to the Old Man’s Hand. The tavern was all he’d expected, a midline pub whose offerings were expensive enough to keep the worst of the lower classes out while being far too cheap for the merchant lords to deign to be seen in it.

One flagon of ale followed another and it was not long before the prince, a few coins lighter, headed up the stairs with a comely woman who was not too picky to refuse a durgu. When his vigor was spent, S̆ams̆ādūr fell asleep, resting on the softest bed he’d had since fleeing his father’s courts.

He wasn’t allowed to slumber long, though; he’d paid for his time with the woman, but not for a night in the tavern, and it wasn’t long before the pub owner stormed up to the room to roust him out. Partially sobered up by now, S̆ams̆ādūr decided to head back to the ship, before his men began to worry too much.

As he staggered out the door, wiping away the sweat that had formed in the hot upper chambers of the tavern, the crisp night air felt like the healing breath of Selene herself. Placing a steadying hand on the tavern wall, he stared up into the night.

The dock lay before him, hundreds of ships crammed along the banks of the vast River. In the darkness, its water stretched as far as the eye could see, and suspended in their midst hung the great silver circle of the moon. Though the Durgū counted themselves as the children of S̆ams̆a, they held his Queen in reverence too, and S̆ams̆ādūr bowed his head, muttering a brief prayer.

It seemed the goddess was listening, for the wind picked up, and as it blew against his face, he found his mind clearing. Straightening up, he headed down the streets with a steady gait. If Dūr-Sebe suffered in one respect in comparison to his father’s capital, it was in the darkness of their streets. Though Selene provided enough light to see, the dark streets of Dūr-Sebe proved more difficult to navigate than he’d expected.

The market that had hummed with the voices of ten thousand traders earlier that morn was all but abandoned when he stumbled upon it, with naught but a few travelers scurrying around its edges. S̆ams̆ādūr paid no heed to them, his pace slow and relaxed as he headed toward the docks. It was only when he’d nearly reached the far side of the great pavilion that he realized he’d picked up some followers.

He dismissed them at first as travelers like himself, headed back to the waiting ships after a night spent in the taverns, until it became clear that they were gaining on him with a speed quite unsuited to a casual stroll. That was when he finally turned to look at them.

“S̆ams̆a’s Light,” he cursed. Though the young prince had never seen them in the flesh before, he recognized the uniform instantly. Their lamellar armor didn’t gleam in the moonlight, for each scale was painted black as night. Each gripped a one-headed battle axe with a shaft near as long as a spear, but it was the masks they wore that gave their identity. Each one was unique, a grotesque face mirrored after its owner, but with giant fangs and an absurdly long tongue that hung down below their chins. In the darkness, the masks looked nearly as black as the armor, but S̆ams̆ādūr knew they were in truth the deep blue of lapis.

The assassins made no attempt at stealthiness. “Ana Mūt-Lā’is̆.” They screamed the name of their dark goddess as they charged toward him, and the heads of their axes disappeared in a cloud of crimson.

S̆ams̆ādūr ran.

His feet thudded against the wooden docks like the thunder of distant drums as he tried to buy himself the time to summon a spell.

“Ana Mūt-Lā’is̆.” He felt the wind touch his shoulders as an axe flew just inches from his flesh and his steps redoubled. I can’t outrun them. Altering his path slightly, S̆ams̆ādur bounced off the mooring pole and flung himself high into the air. His body twisted to face his pursuers as he released a spell that consumed nearly his essence. Isrūr. A handful of assassins froze in place immediately, their mind trapped in whatever twisted illusion the spell had conjured for them. But not all of them.

With an angry roar, the nearest assailant hurled an axe blazing with the necrotic furor of Mūt-Lā’is̆ toward him, but S̆ams̆ādur had expected that. A swift cantrip altered his trajectory just enough to make the axe miss, and he waved cheekily goodbye to the assassin as he poured the last of his essence into a final spell a second before he plunged into the sordid harbor waters. Naps̆apsû. Altered by the power of the spell, the water flowed in and out of his lungs as freely as air as S̆ams̆ādur frantically swam toward the bottom of the mighty River.

The turbid waters hid him from the assassins who, lacking the spell, dared not follow him, but S̆ams̆ādūr was still in danger. Though the harbor provided some protection from the River’s raging current, its waters were home to all manner of predatory beasts and in the night, were so black he could not see his hand in front of his face. Suspended below the dock, the prince could only hope to wait out his assailants, silently muttering prayers to the celestial twins.

And one of them was listening. Despite the sordid waters, a bright ray of the moon pierced the depths of the river. A narrow thread of light unspooled before him and the prince followed it, trusting in the goddess’ guidance, and praying that the things residing in darkness stayed far away from him. With fear propelling his every stroke, S̆ams̆ādūr reached his ship in record time. Breaching the surface on the far side of the ship, the dwarven prince feared he'd have to clamber up the slimy sides of the vessel, until a gruff voice called out, and something slapped the water beside him.

"Grab hold," the captain commanded. Seizing the offered rope, the prince was swiftly lifted up the side of the ship. Sailors were already bustling around the deck, preparing the vessel to leave as he clambered over the railing.

"Saw what happened on the docks," the captain said.

"And?" It seemed a simple question, but they both understood its significance. The assassins of Mūt-Lā'is̆ were legendary, both for their excellent track record and for the ungodly amounts of gold it allowed them to charge. If they were after him, there was only one conclusion the prince could reach - his father was far, far angrier than he had realized and his exile might well be permanent. Would the captain stand by him, or turn over to the men?

But the captain's expression didn't change. "Where are we headed," he asked gruffly.