In the morning Ser Mahdek rose with a new kind of energy. The energy of a conqueror. The energy of a long lost spirit that had traveled a great distance across The Land of the Real, across its great deserts and through its ancient ruins like an angry shit traveling through the bowels of a King after a great feast. In fact, King Ohmen was probably having such a shit this morning, clung to his chamber pot as the spicy mutton and the oysters from the night before shot from his body like a genie from a bottle to bring a bad smell to the castle. Mahdek amused himself with this thought as he put on his boots. Then he left to find his breakfast and steal a whore for his trip.

He decided he would keep the young whore who screamed his name on the rooftop the night before. Cindy. She would be useful to have at the citadel. She could read to him every night after she pleasured him. Her voice was something he had not found often. She spoke in a way that calmed that nerve of perpetual anger that lived inside of him. All his life he could not stay still. He always had a desire to kill ever since he was a young boy. But the sound of her voice seems to tame that monster inside of him. Although, he did not want it tamed for good—only temporarily. He was going to need that monster. He was going to kill a lot of Kings. He had a responsibility. He was a prophet, afterall.

Instead of returning to his chambers, he wandered through the lower bailey, visiting the stables, the armory, the barracks, the kitchens, the storerooms, and then the dungeons beneath the halls.

There were eighteen cells down here. Each held its own particular smell: stale straw, damp stone, blood, shit, piss, sweat, fear. Most were empty now. There were prisoners of war from at least five different Kingdoms and tribes. One cell contained four prisoners, all chained together in a line. Two boys, aged perhaps twelve or thirteen, and two men. They sat huddled against the wall, wrapped in rags, shivering under thick wool blankets. Another prisoner lay dead on the floor, naked except for a filthy loincloth. His throat had been slit from ear to ear. Three corpses littered the dungeon floor between the bars of the fourth cell.

One corpse wore mail and surcoats of bright yellow silk sewn with golden sunbursts. The second was clad in black leather, and the third in red velvet, though their faces were hidden by iron masks painted white. All three bodies bore wounds identical to those on the body lying near them, but none showed signs of poison. No one knew why these three captives had been taken alive. Perhaps some fool thought they could bargain for their lives. Or maybe someone hoped to ransom them.

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The wars had been going on for so long, Mahdek didn’t know how many territories had joined the war at this point. Some were still fighting the old enemies, others had allied against new ones. Still others had just decided to join whichever side offered them the best deal. It was all very confusing. But if there was one thing Mahdek knew, it was that a man's war went better with allies than without.

Mahdek went back up the stairs and started down the halls to return to his chambers before parting, when suddenly his spy Khorshid Lhej came out of nowhere and surprised him, appearing suddenly as if having emerged straight out of a shadow under the walls. Khorshid was big, but as quiet as one of Lord Dryfus’s rats, and had been growing his beard for twenty years giving him the appearance of a learned Maeson even though he was only forty years of age and worked as an inscriber in the Citadel of Edenfell. He wore a suit of black leather studded with silver buttons. He also wore a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. Khorshid was Mahdek’s shadow in Edenfell, head of spies.

"Shadow Khorshid," he said. "How goes the game of shadows, my friend?"

"Well enough," answered Khorshid.

"Have you brought me some good news today?"

Khorshid slapped him on the shoulder. "Yes indeed. One of my spies tells me that Malahneen has been found. I will speak with him soon."

“Good. We need men like him. This world is scarce of his kind.”

“Indeed,” Khorshid agreed. “And something else.”

“Yes?”

“The old rebels have gone into hiding."

"And why does that interest you?"

"There may be hundreds of those bastards scattered around Westmere. I’ve put out a whisper. We are recruiting."

“I hope the faintest whisper, Shadow Khorshid. We wouldn't want the wrong ears to hear.”

"My whispers are too but shadows,” he said. “I'll get them all eventually. First I will start with the biggest prize: my brother, Lord Dhavoshid; in hiding, but I know where to look. I will send spies."

Mahdek grinned. "Good."

“And you?”

“To the Island of Inzahthoth, in a few hours. Our revolution will begin in the coming months. When I return I will flee to the South of Edenfell, and we will take the Kingdom by the end of winter. Lord Dryfus is sending men to the middlelands, and across Southemere. Planting the seeds of revolution. The future holds many headless Kings.”

Khorshid grinned.

“I will see you soon,” Mahdek said, and began to walk away.

“May the gods make it so,” Khorshid replied.