"A paradox.

  "A paradox, my friends. It is two things that cannot possibly co-exist—and yet do so, nevertheless, in spite of all logic or reason. In spite of nature herself.

  "Look first to our beloved Vokia—she of order and harmony; she of progress and reason; she of unceasing, inexorable achievement. Look to we, her loyal citizens, who march on ever-forwards; we who would yoke all the world to our purpose of a better life, a cleaner life, a nobler life. Look to the bastion of freedom and sanctity that the Vokian Dominion represents.

  "Now, my friends, cast your eyes to the far north. Look now to ancient Shalashar, to a place and a people so obsessively predicated upon the values of a past long exolete. Predicated upon a whole history of failure, of deceit! Look upon my face—and see the scars there, the disfigurement inflicted upon me by the same Shalasharan Sorcerers and assassins who murdered my sister and stole our Empress away from us! Who robbed the whole world of our beloved Ibis!

  "I will not speak softly on this—I will not! I refuse! No longer shall I hold my tongue! And if I am to speak honestly now, if I am to bare openly the true feelings of a brother bereaved, then I shall tell you all that their existence is a crime! Their poisonous ideals, their savage greed! Their insidious dealings with dark powers the likes of which they scarcely understand! Shalashar is a nation of thralls, I tell you, a sinister coalition slaves to forces from beyond!

  "...I cannot help but think now of my father, Sharo. In dire times like these it is difficult not to think of that great man. That gravelly voice, those wise old eyes—wrinkled eyes, yes, eyes clouded over and shrunken down to pinpricks and yet still brimming with boundless wisdom. That wisdom never left him, you know. Even on his deathbed. Even on his dying day, Sharo Zhon was himself. And he was brilliant.

  "He told me, once, after I had returned from a schoolyard scuffle with a broken nose and a busted knee—don't ever start a fight, Taro, if you don't intend to finish it. Yet now, upon somber reflection, I cannot help but conclude that my father had failed to follow his own axiom. Every day, these scars upon my face—these markings, these mutilations—serve as a stark reminder of the burden I have been left to shoulder alone. The unfinished business my father and half-sister have left me to attend—the fight that neither one of them was ready to finish. The bastard-Primarch Ralan Qelas took advantage of dear Ibis's boundless capacity for forgiveness, for grace...but I am not nearly so forgiving as she. Know, all of you, that once I sink my teeth into something I never let go. And I will die before I ever fail to finish a fight.

  "For we are the masters of war, are we not? We are that lumbering titan, that ironclad beast of muscle and brawn—slow to wake, yes, and slow even to anger, but unstoppable once roused to motion. And oh, my friends, now we are very much in motion. Watch now, my friends, as the mountain rushes like a river.

  "I shall leave you with this. You are all familiar, no doubt, with that old insult so often favored by our neighbors to the north. That derisive, sneering claim that Vokia is a nation with no past. No history.

  "I am Taro Djin Zhon IV, Eleventh Emperor of the Everlasting Vokian Dominion. I am the Guiding Palm, the Burning Wheel, the All-Seeing Eye and the Harrowing Fist! I am the Adjudicator, and the Castigator, and the Final Deliverer! I am Consequence personified!

  "And I tell you now that Shalashar is a nation with no future."

  He stands there atop a vast monolith of frigid iron: the Emperor newly coronated, his arms spread wide, his voice amplified ten thousand times—by a clockwork panharmonicon of innumerable copper pipes—and booming out to a whole colossal amphitheater below. Look, now, upon the sheer breadth of that which he has wrought. See fifty banners flying for fifty of the Old Houses, each as long as a barn and each fluttering in the wind beneath a pale and cloud-streaked sky. See ninety-nine Chancellors of the Vokian Synod, the parliamentary body to which the Emperor was in theory subservient—though never in practice. See eight of the ten Lord-Commandant Generals, flanked by twenty black-jacketed Oculus Inquisitors on one side and twenty changshan-clad Archons of the Vokian Sorcery Corps on the other.

  See, now, as so very many soldiers are marching below. Hear the thunder of their sabatons against the pavement. See ten legions of gray-armored Torai, and four legions of bronze-armored Sathai, and two legions of grinning-masked Mirai all streaming past like an endless tributary of living metal, with each boot-step in perfect time to the beat of thunderous percussion and doom-blaring horns. See those vast bonfires, those immense pillars of smoke curling like long fingers to scrape at that pallid sky. See the counterweight trebuchets lurching along like living golems of timber and steel; see the iron-plated mangonels and tight-wound ballistas wheeling forth in the shadows of those calamitous giants.

  See a dark-eyed man called Cao Feng—formerly Taro's closest advisor, now his replacement as Director of Oculus—hovering close by the Emperor's side, listening intently as the Emperor asks in sotto voice: "What news of our operation to the north?"

  "All is as it should be, my liege. The Kitai remain uncompromised and are prepared to begin."

  The Emperor does not glance back. His expression does not change. "When will it happen?"

  "Sundown, my liege. By sunrise you shall be the very first to know the result."

  "Good. Thank you, Feng. That will be all."

  To which the Director just inclines his head, and steps back without another word. And Taro, in unison, takes one step forward. Then two. Now three. The wind grows louder, grows wrathful, bites painfully at his bare skin. He is one hundred feet in the air and the whole world is rumbling beneath his feet.

  And once more her words are echoing in his head:

  We're both such abominably sore losers, aren't we?

  Yes, dear sister, thinks the Emperor, to himself, as he gazes down upon all his ire works. We most certainly are.

  Two knocks; a pause, and then two more.

  Ralan's eyes flick up.

  He sits there at the end of a long table, amidst a whole myriad of empty chairs—himself the lone lingering remnant of a most dire convention indeed. Lately it seems that every meeting Ralan attends is tinged with that distinctly funereal quality, that keenly perceived sense of impending doom. It pervades everyone and everything around him. By this point the First Pillar has had neither adequate sleep nor adequate food in quite some time; it is stimulants alone that keep his heart pumping and his mind churning as he sits there with chin propped up on one tattooed hand, the other tapping a quill in asynchronous rhythm against a blank sheet of parchment. Resting there up upon his nose are a pair of wiry half-moon spectacles, spectacles without which he can no longer read clearly—spectacles from behind which those ruby eyes are now peering up, for two and two knocks is the informal signal that this is to be some manner of welcome intrusion. Two and two means You'll want to hear this. And so: "Enter," Ralan commands, grateful if nothing else for a reprieve from the unsolvable puzzle dancing such mocking circles 'round the circumference of his skull. And thus does the lock click, and the door swing open, and thus does a giant step right into the room.

  Ralan Qelas is a big man, no doubt. A giant in his own right. But this newcomer is a broad-shouldered colossus towering nearly seven feet in height and ducking his head to avoid congress with the doorframe, his whole body rippling with lengths of sheer corded muscle. Beneath short-cropped shaggy-blonde hair and an aggressively angular jaw, he wears only baggy pants secured in place by a thick sash; his exposed arms and torso are ringed with all manner of black-banded tattoos, a series of geometric lines that converges overtop his heart and creeps surreptitiously up his neck and his chin, all the way up to his eyes—eyes of brilliant orange, eyes so much like the apocalyptic sunset burning just now across the horizon.

  This stranger's form exudes nothing short of raw power—even as he wears a rather sheepish expression upon his face, even as he immediately puts fist to palm, and bows at the waist, and intones, "Hail, Primarch. And hail to the Four Pillars."

  To which the Primarch in question rises from his seat, and takes two steps closer, and waits patiently for the bow to conclude before extending a hand—and then immediately pulls the other man into a stiff, stilted, and nevertheless genuine hug. "My son," says Ralan, with some measure of warmth. "It is good to have you back."

  "It is...good to be back," replies Obelan Qelas, first prince of Shalashar and eldest son of the First Pillar, with just the slightest hesitation between those words. And then father and son each abruptly pull back, in mutual acknowledgement of their growing discomfort, and so now there yawns a vast and invisible gulf between them.

  He makes for an almost comical sight: the incredibly imposing Oblean Qelas, standing there in an empty conference room looking so very much like a bull in a proverbial china shop. The expression on his face is all but outright apologetic. "Well," says Ralan, brusquely, after a few moments more. "Have a seat. We have much to discuss."

  And so the Primarch observes his eldest son closely, as he moves to comply—observes all the ways in which he has changed and all the ways in which he has not. Ralan is no fool. He understands full well the source of the discomfort between them; understands that he has been, for much of Obelan's life, a cold father and brutal taskmaster both, and that this strict upbringing has made the gentle Obelan both wary to offend and very much eager to please. The firstborn's face has always been so open, his emotions always writ so loudly upon it, and in this face Ralan now sees all that familiar apprehension plain as day.

  Nevertheless. "So," Ralan prompts, his quill tapping idly once more, "I take it you've heard the news?"

  Everyone had heard the news. It was quite literally the only thing on anybody's mind. Obelan just sighs, and shakes his head. "I have. An open declaration of war—I almost can't believe it."

  "Can't you?" Ralan arches one thick brow. "War with Vokia has been inevitable from the moment Taro Zhon seized power. This has all been a long time coming indeed. No, the message I had more than expected—it is the medium that unsettles me. Have you read a proper transcript of the new Emperor's speech?"

  "I—no. Apologies, father, I just haven't had the time."

  "Well, the material therein oscillated between incendiary and outright disturbing. The new Emperor casts not only the military and political institutions of Shalashar as an enemy, but the very Shalasharan people themselves. Our poisonous ideals, he decries. Our savage greed. Make no mistake—nine years ago, Sharo Zhon set out to conquer. Today, his son seeks only to destroy. Taro Zohn will not be satisfied with anything less than our total annihilation."

  "Stars above. He's out of his mind."

  "Not at all. He is simply cognizant of his own strength."

  A grim prognostication, that. And a grim silence inevitably to follow, neither quite knowing how to continue—until Obelan ventures, cautiously, "So how have things been going, otherwise?"

  Again, the Primarch arches one brow. "Things?"

  "I mean here, father. At home. How are Naijja and Rizo? And how's little Vaika been doing?"

  "They are...fine," Ralan dismisses, with brow still furrowed, and with a faint note of bewilderment in his voice. "Naijja is undercover in a Fifth Pillar operation the nature of which I cannot discuss; Rizo still administrates from his seat upon the Oversight Conglomerate, and Vaika...ah, Vaika is working studiously in preparation for her quaternary exams. They should be taking place next week, if I'm not mistaken."

  "And how are you? Have you been, uh...seeing anyone, lately?"

  Ralan's eyes had been drifting steadily away with each and every word, his attention waning—but now they snapped back to his firstborn with startling alacrity. "I'm sorry," Obelan blurts, immediately abashed, "I shouldn't have—"

  "Look," Ralan interrupts, cutting that whole line of discourse mercifully short. "I know that you must be enormously unhappy to be here, to be called back from the front line at what must feel like the most pivotal moment in our history. I would be neither surprised nor chagrined to learn that you harbor some measure of resentment towards me."

  The firstborn's expression twists to something that is, for once, totally unreadable. "Actually, father—"

  "You are, after all, a warrior at heart."

  Obelan Qelas was more than just any ordinary warrior. Earthbreaker—that was what Obelan's fellow partisans called him, for his legendary feats in the latter stretch of the Seven Years' War. Though Obelan had failed to inherit the prized Gravitic Sorcery of the Qelas bloodline, his own Sorcery nevertheless boasted astounding output and impeccable control. Here was a man who could have been anything and who had chosen, much to Ralan's eternal vexation, to be a soldier. That was the paradox of Obelan Qelas: his understanding of Sorcery was at once utterly masterful and brutishly, boorishly simple. He had only ever honed it in hopes it might better serve him as a weapon.

  In Ralan's eyes, his eldest son was forever focusing so much energy in so many of the wrong directions.

  "But please, Obelan. Indulge me." And now the First Pillar was leaning in close; now the daylight was drawing long and low behind him, and those ruby eyes were glittering against that fiery projection of sunset. His voice was equal parts gravely portentous and almost sociopathically matter-of-fact, as he spoke: "Our forward line will be broken by the end of the week. The border will be shattered. This is a foregone conclusion. Our enemies outnumber us five to one; whilst Shalashar was reeling, licking its wounds, under Ibis's tenure every facet of Vokian industry and artifice was thriving. Now Vokia has leapt far ahead, and they are further beyond us than ever before. These are facts, Obelan. These are things that we all must accept. So I tell you, again, that our border is merely a foregone conclusion. There will not be some valorous, drawn-out conflict to see it preserved. The real battle will be fought right here." A heavy ring-laden finger thumps once, twice against the tabletop. "And so I intend to keep you close."

  "I...don't understand," Obelan eventually replies. "Are we pulling our forces back?"

  "Let me be perfectly clear," says Ralan instead, leaning ever-closer and looming ever-larger. "I will not allow Vokia to besiege my city's walls. My people will not be forced to dwell in the shadow of their own impending doom. So if things do come to such a point—should the Vokians traverse the desert in full, and muscle their way through every one of Elket's defenses—then I will be authorizing the Prime Sorcerer to act. With no restrictions."

  And there it is. He's said it. And there's the expected reaction: Obelan's eyes go wide as saucers. "You're letting Uskimi off the leash?!" he blurts—thunders, really, all his hesitance momentarily forgotten. For even setting aside the obvious implications of Ralan's statement, long had Obelan and Uskimi been on acrimonious terms. Obelan was, ostensibly, her closest peer in strength, and Uskimi only loathed him all the more for it. In her eyes, the famed Earthbreaker was nothing more than an inelegant and dull-minded child whole fathoms beneath her—a fact of which she reminded him loudly and often. Let it suffice to say that Obelan knew the Prime Sorcerer far better than most. "Father, that is—"

  "That is the nature of our reality," Ralan interrupts, shutting his eldest son down with just seven low-spoken words. "We will fight, mind you. We will fight them with everything we have and everything that we are. But, at the end of the day—yes, Obelan. We are all gambling on Uskimi to save us."

  "Stars above..." is all a thoroughly cowed Obelan can mutter in response, as his initial shock curdles now to a distinctly sobering sort of despair. And so he turns in his seat to gaze out the far window; he stares out at that shimmering desert stretching endlessly on and on, the sun hovering above it all like the burning avatar of Taro Zhon himself. "What's it all come to?" Obelan beseeches, plaintively, as he is for the first time forced to reckon with the imminent erasure of his entire world. All those faces, all those names, all friends and family and home swallowed up by the grey leviathan calling itself Vokia. All for the ire of a single man. "I know that she was never really an ally..." he mutters now, gaze fixed still upon that boiling sun, "but stars above, if only we could have somehow protected Ibis from her brother. It feels like ever since the night she died, the whole world's just been...wrong." And then Obelan's head swivels to Ralan, and his eyes are alight with a new and sudden intensity.

  "I don't want to fight anymore," Obelan declares, clearly and confidently. "I don't want to do this anymore. I know that we're on the brink of war, and I know that you need every soldier you can get, but I—I'm tired, father. All this struggle, all this strife, I'm just...I'm so sick of all this death."

  And just like that, Ralan was paying attention. Because Ralan had always favored Obelan, his eldest—the only one whom the First Pillar had actually raised himself, in the time before he realized such tasks were better off delegated to others. Long had he desired to mold the firstborn into a worthy successor, into a Prime Celebrant to surpass even himself. He was no great thinker, Obelan, but that was quite alright—sometimes all that a good leader needed was keen instinct and indomitable strength. Instincts could be instilled with time and a careful tutor; strength, well. Obelan had strength in spades.

  Yes, Ralan saw it now. Mild-mannered and hesitant as Obelan was, in moments of dire import Ralan had seen that look in his eyes—that fearsome determination. When push came to shove, Obelan always rose to the occasion, because Obelan was a warrior. Yes, a warrior. It had taken Ralan so many years to accept that, to understand that—but now he did, and now he knew that his eldest son was ready to take a step towards something greater.

  And now Ralan Qelas was thinking only of the future.

  "You have..." the Primarch trails off, much gentler than before, "always been my most-favored progeny, Obelan. I have made no secret of that."

  "Thank you, father."

  "Nor have I made any secret of my desire to see you succeed me as Prime Celebrant of the Royal Government Apparatus."

  "Yes, father."

  "You say that you no longer wish to fight. Tell me, then, are you now amenable to the role in which I have long envisioned you?"

  "I...yes, father. I think so."

  "Very well. If that is the case—if I truly believe you my peer, my equal, my worthy successor—then it is time I begin to treat you like one. And that means you and I should not stand on ceremony; that there should be no secrets between us, that I should speak to you as frankly as I am able. Tell me, Obelan. Are you ready, in the interest of mutual cooperation, to hear one such secret now?"

  "...yes, father."

  "Very well." The primarch stands, pushing his chair aside, and clasps both hands together behind his back. Paces around the table and over to the window, his shadow casting wide across the whole of the room. Gazes out upon the last dying streaks of daylight and states, so very matter-of-factly: "Taro Zhon did not kill Ibis. Not on his own, anyway. We were the ones to suggest it first. And we were the ones, ultimately, who made it happen."

  "Oh," says Obelan.

  Silence follows.

  And then, after a small eternity: "But why? She was—I don't understand, she was our first Vokian ally in decades, the first halfway amenable person to be called Emperor in stars-know-how-long—"

  "Taro Zhon was, and is, an existential threat to Shalashar." Once, Ralan swiftly silences his son—this time with a sharp one-handed gesture. "But Ibis was a...a different kind of threat. One far more dangerous. You won't understand right now, my son, for I cannot tell you everything I know and have come to believe. Not yet. But I ask you to trust me when I tell you that I made the pragmatic, rational choice at the moment it was presented. I made the right choice. And even now I do not doubt this."

  Obelan really wanted to believe him.

  Obelan should have believed him. Right? Ralan Qelas had always been Shalashar's voice of reason; the level-headed, clear-minded leader who stood in contrast to the more staunchly traditional factions of the Shalasharan government. Ralan Qelas was a practical man, everyone knew that. A far-sighted man. All his decisions were utterly unemotional—and he was, most importantly, a man who never hesitated to admit when he was wrong.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  And yet...

  "But—" Obelan gapes, wrestling with the words in his own mouth. "Father, look at where we've ended up! You're telling me that Uskimi Hast of all people is our sole recourse, even though you know full well that Taro will simply unleash [-------] in response! And then what are we to do?"

  "Then," says Ralan, quietly, "we are to pray that Uskimi wins." And then, much louder: "What other choice do we have? Look around you, Obelan. Take full stock of the board, of all the pieces. There is no other play to be made. Our enemies have backed us right into the corner."

  That's not true, Obelan thinks, in that moment. He thinks that they have backed themselves into this corner.

  But he does not voice these thoughts aloud. He is a man still very much afraid of his father and, more to the point, he is painfully aware that all this—these plots, these schemes, these delicate matters of triage and hedged bets—is hardly his strong suit. Obelan knows that his has never been a mind for politics; whilst his siblings were studying diligently, and watching closely the affairs of the Goverment Apparatus, Obelan spent his youth honing his body to a lethal apex. Learning to fight. Learning to kill. Never learning to think—or, perhaps, simply never learning the confidence with which to do so openly. He regrets that dearly now; he regrets those wasted days with every fiber of his being. He does not want to be a weapon anymore. He wants to get that time back.

  Obelan feels as lost as he's ever been. Not for the first time, he longs for Tiger's presence—for the voice of his incisive, quick-witted little brother to cut clean through all the noise. Not for the first time, Obelan wonders where Tiger might be—wonders if he's still alive at all. And then a dark thought worms its way into his head: Obelan wonders if his father wants Tiger back at all.

  "I don't know," Obelan begins, finally, after some consternation, "how I should feel about—"

  And then the words cut short, and his eyes snap very suddenly to something Ralan neither sees nor hears.

  "Obelan?"

  "There's—" the firstborn starts. And then his arm is a blur, and his palm hits Ralan square in the chest, and the First Pillar is thrown right down to the floor—just as the adjacent wall erupts.

  It is a violent expulsion, a whole storm of flaming brick and debris that would have killed Ralan then and there. But now, instead, something has him by the collar—something is dragging him fast, and hard—and then his head knocks painfully against the floor once again, and now Ralan is watching, with blurred vision as Obelan lifts one leg and stomps that granite tabletop with force sufficient to flip it upright. And now he is watching as a dozen black-clad men and women flood right around that makeshift barricade, encircling them both, long knives gleaming and faces masked by the symbol of a half-lidded eye. They ring the room in total silence—and then immediately that circle begins to close, those masked figures rushing in just like the darkness at the corners of Ralan's vision.

  And then Obelan rises to his full height. And everyone stops dead; every assassin comes to an abrupt halt just a scant few feet away, as though some invisible barrier had been erected between they and he. The firstborn's hands are balled to powerful fists; his head swivels slowly around, taking in each and every assailant with what feels like an impossible equanimity. It is as though a transformation has come over the firstborn son. Gone is tired, confused, hesitant young Obelan. In his face now there is only that same hard determination, that same angry defiance. Outrage in his eyes. Just as Ralan always knew there would be.

  A warrior.

  Obelan speaks not a word, to those black-masked agents of Taro Zhon. Nor does he speak to his father. He just claps his tattooed hands together—and as his right eye bursts into scathing orange flame, there comes to Ralan's ears a small and high-pitched sort of whine. A bladed, razor-sharp tone that grows louder, and louder, and louder by the second. Louder until it is deafening; the pressure building further, all pulses quickening, the air itself charging with violent potential energy.

  Obelan takes one step forward, and all present take one step back.

  Obelan chants: "Three bursts, half-second intervals, three seconds. Cover your ears, dad."

  And then he drops low to a sprinter's crouch, puts all ten fingertips to the floor, and closes one eye.

  "Release."

  The first thing Uskimi hears is the explosion—followed, not long after, by a trio of low-register thumps and then one singular bassy throb that seems to shake the foundation of the Ziggurat itself. Dust comes raining down from above; the Prime Sorcerer coughs, waves away at this sudden and invisible irritant. "I suppose that moron Obelan has returned home," she remarks, to the guard hovering omnipresent at all times behind her. But even as she speaks, the spear-tip pressing in on the back of her neck vanishes without a trace—and is echoed at once by a shocked gasp, a wet gurgle, two stumbling steps backward and then, finally, the unmistakable thud of corpse making convent with floor.

  Where once there was silence, now there comes a whole hushed chorus of footsteps—padded shoes, no doubt, a conflagration of men and women moving with swift and deadly intent. Assassins. Uskimi doesn't say a word; she just puts her hands up in surrender and takes one step back. Then another. And another. And then, as those foreign footfalls draw nearer, her heel knocks hard against a wall—and suddenly she is trapped, ensnared, enclosed there like some hapless prey.

  And so Uskimi begins to laugh.

  The sound is coarse and dry, like the crumpling of old parchment. "Well," she chuckles, hands still upraised, "I suppose my life is in serious danger then, isn't it? My guard is dead and no-one is coming to save me. And I suppose that means I would be more than justified..." the Prime Sorcerer reaches up, hooks one thumb underneath her blindfold, "...in saving myself."

  The footsteps do not quicken; there is no greater haste, no urgency. These men are fools who know not what they have come to slay. So Uskimi just keeps on chuckling, and begins tugging that blindfold right on up, and there comes to her eyes the tiniest sliver of light—a whole minuscule explosion of hue and texture and pure unfettered Aia. It is the first daylight she has known in many months.

  For just a moment, Uskimi sees it all.

  And then there passes, right by her side, a cold little gust of wind. Footsteps so quiet, so quick, so outright phantasmal they could only belong to—

  "Don't even think about it," snaps Prime Militant Elket Qelas, as she darts past, and so Uskimi just pulls her blindfold back down with a disappointed sigh as her world—now, once more, a world of featureless black—erupts into a cacophony of screams, of gushing fluid, of desperate gasps and chokes and the shrill cries of steel against steel. And so Uskimi just stands there, tapping her foot in impatient rhythm, as Elket slaughters four men singlehandedly.

  Roughly a minute passes; finally, all sounds cease save for that of one woman's steady breathing. Those ghostly footfalls draw near once more; Uskimi wrinkles her nose at the rising stench of gore, and does not stop tapping her foot. And then, suddenly, there is a very cold and very sharp piece of metal pressing in against her throat.

  "You know the rules," Elket growls. "You take off that blindfold, you die. I'll hunt you down like a dog."

  Uskimi is pleased. This, at least, could make for some semblance of a consolation prize. "Oh Elket," she sighs, smiling sweetly and exposing a whole menagerie of yellow-stained teeth. "Please be serious. If this blindfold comes off, there will be absolutely nothing that you or anyone else can do about it."

  "If."

  "Yes, if. Glad you caught at least one word of that. Next time we'll work on full sentences!"

  The point digs in deeper; pain blossoms, and warm fluid runs freely down Uskimi's neck. Yet she continues, unabated: "The blindfold, the spear at the back of my neck—you know what they are, right? They're fiction. They're a fantasy. They're the very definition of going along to get along. Now, Elket, I don't mind going along. And I do kind of like getting along. But when you try and stretch that fantasy by doing something utterly ridiculous like threatening me..." Uskimi leans in; the blade digs deeper, but Uskimi pays it no mind. Her body is more resilient than most. "Well, then I can no longer suspend disbelief. The fantasy is shattered. And suddenly I'm wondering—hey, wait a minute, why don't I just take this stupid thing off?"

  "Yeah? And then you'd slaughter each and every one of us, right?"

  "Oh, I don't know what I'd feel like doing in that moment. I'd certainly be in no rush."

  "Of course, of course. That makes perfect sense. Because you're just so overwhelmingly strong, right? And that's why you're constantly boasting about your power, of course, because you have absolutely nothing whatsoever to compensate for. Because you're definitely just as dangerous as you're always telling us. Stars, Uskimi, you really are just so damn scary. I'm literally terrified of you right now. And I literally have no confidence at all that when my blade enters your windpipe—" the point draws even deeper, dangerously deep now, "—you will die right here on this dusty floor, drowning in your own blood, all because you couldn't stop running your dumb fucking mouth."

  Uskimi laughs out loud. "Elket, come on. I boast about my power because you never let me exercise my power. And honestly, you should be thanking the stars above every night and day that I haven't yet grown bored of bragging." And the smile fades, and she repeats—in a starkly different tone of voice—"Yet."

  A long silence follows. Blood runs in rivers. Uskimi just waits, spindly arms folded, saying nothing. A smug smile returning gradually to her face.

  Until, finally, Elket relents—retracting her weapon for genuine fear of exsanguinating the Prime Sorcerer. And no sooner has she done so then there comes a whole storm of bootsteps, the room flooding with what could only be a veritable army of soldiers and guards. Immediately Elket is barking orders; immediately Uskimi is surrounded by a pack of these unseen guardians, and a cloth is pressed up against her wound, and an armored hand closes tight around her elbow—but not too tight, the grip just barely straddling the line between protector and jailer.

  "Return the Fourth Pillar to her sanctum at once," Elket demands. "Get her a tar bath, a blood transfusion, all the usual. Double the usual precautions. And—stars damn it all, where the hell is Doras? I want him standing in front of me now, I want a whole stars-damned battalion sweeping the north wing for any more—"

  "This way, ma'am," comes a voice in Uskimi's ear. A man's voice, of course, and a boring man's voice to boot. Why were her caretakers always such boring middle-aged men? Alas, Uskimi just sighs, and allows the boring man to lead her away—though even then, even in the wake of such disappointment, still her malaise is only skin-deep and surface-level. Still Uskimi is confident that such feelings will come to pass.

  Because Uskimi is, fundamentally, an optimist. And an extraordinarily patient one at that.

  And, more importantly, she also knows that things will be getting very interesting very soon.

  So Uskimi doesn't mind the wait.

  The first thing Elket sees, when she steps into the conference room through that conspicuously gaping hole in the wall, is her younger brother absolutely covered in blood.

  Mind you, everything is covered in blood. The walls, the floor, the ceiling—the whole place is dripping with liquefied gore, studded with razor-sharp chunks of bone all dug into just about every available surface in sight. A whole granite slab of a table stands partly smashed in two; various shattered remains of furniture are scattered all about, alongside various scattered remains of what must surely have once been living human beings. Elket's eyes trace a path below: one, two, three inch-deep craters in the floor, followed by a fourth nearly ten times the size of the others. And then her eyes climb to the obvious culprits: a rather stoic and stern-faced Ralan, still trying to exude quiet dignity despite the tourniquet tied around his skull, and—more importantly, more bafflingly—a gore-drenched, half-naked, and thoroughly sheepish-looking Obelan.

  Elket starts forward at once; a few guards move to stop her, only to step back in sharp salute the very instant they see her face. Hail to the second pillar is intoned some dozen-or-so times as Elket crosses that broken room. "...probably just black powder explosives, I mean the Vokians were using that stuff a ton at the end of the war—" Obelan explains to his father and a pair of grim-faced Ternary Obelisks, just as Elket steps in and—with no warning at all—wraps her nephew in a bone-crushing hug.

  "Aunt Elket!" Obelan exclaims, delighted, as the Obelisks move briskly away and Ralan glances down at the floor. The firstborn, whose bones have in no way been crushed, returns the embrace much the way one might carefully handle a small bird, for his version of a bone-crushing hug would be a great deal more damaging than hers.

  "Obelan, you stars-damned giant oaf," Elket grins, standing on her toes so as to tousle his hair. "Look at this mess! First day back and you're already breaking shit."

  "Ah, I'm really sorry." Obelan rubs abashedly at the back of his neck, eyes flicking over to his father as he does so. "I may have overdone it just a little."

  "Nonsense," Ralan declares, rejoining the conversation with abrupt absence of tact. "Obelan saved my life. He has nothing to apologize for."

  "So hey, kid," Elket prompts, refusing to acknowledge her brother's presence in any way. "How've you been? First time away from the frontline in ages, that's got to be weird. How're you feeling?"

  There comes a long pause indeed, a pause so long that Elket herself is about to speak again when Obelan finally answers, "I feel alright, Aunt Elket."

  The Prime Militant cocks her head. "Alright?"

  "Yeah," Obelan nods, a little sadly. A little somberly. Stars, his face was so easy to read. "I'm alright."

  "The Kitai, I'm certain," Ralan interjects, mercifully cutting all that awkwardness short. He indicates the felled assassins with a cant of his chin. "Agents of the new Director, Cao Feng. Perhaps he means this as an introduction of sorts." Obelan just grimaces and nods again; Elket's eyes flick down to the cloth-tattered chunks of red meat strewn about, and for just a few moments she is consumed in a bout of silent appraisal.

  Then her eyes flick back up. "Caught a couple of them cornering Uskimi as well," she remarks. "Western wing, out in the seventh corridor. Lucky I showed up when I did—that damn witch was about to remove her blindfold."

  Obelan pales, at that. But Ralan just folds his arms and replies, "Uskimi has a right to defend herself. That was a core tenet of our agreement."

  "And we have a right to defend ourselves from her," Elket shoots back. "I'm not so naive as to think she has Shalashar's best interests in mind. Or anyone's best interests in mind, for that matter."

  "She cares for her home just as we do."

  "She cares for herself."

  "And, by extension—"

  "Uskimi..." Obelan mutters—and as both heads snap to regard him he flinches back, momentarily, before returning to his full height and continuing on, "All she really wants is to, uh, break stuff. In my personal experience. And I don't think she really cares...what, uh, what those things are."

  "See?" Elket presses, as Ralan shoots his son a pointed look. "Obelan knows the witch better than any of us. For fuck's sake, Ralan, we've got enough going on around as is! I don't need another crisis on my—" And then she stops very abruptly short. Her eyes go from Obelan to Ralan, and then back to Obelan once more. And then, in a voice several magnitudes more pleasant than before, she asks: "Obelan, would you mind if your father and I had a word in private? I'd just like to discuss—"

  "Say no more." Obelan's hands are already up; he's already stepping out the door, a good-humored smile still lingering halfway upon his face. "It was nice seeing you again, Aunt Elket."

  "Nice to see you too, kid," Elket smiles back, as the first prince draws away. She means it. "And, hey—wait, hey! Obelan! Put a shirt on for fuck's sake, you hear me? This is a palace, not a battlefield!"

  "But my tattoos—"

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know how they work! Just wear something sleeveless, dammit, you'll be fine with just your arms!"

  "Leave us," Ralan orders, then, with a sharp gesture to follow, and all guards and Ternary Obelisks disperse with not another word uttered between them. For a few moments longer, Elket keeps looking in the direction Obelan had vanished, her smile frozen in limbo. And then, finally, she turns to look her brother dead in the eye—and by time her eyes meet with his, her smile has vanished without a trace.

  "What—" Elket storms forward, "—the fuck—" her expression twists, "—is he—" her arm darts out, "—doing here?" And one blunt-nailed finger jabs right against her brother's chest, in final punctuation, like an arrow in search of the First Pillar's heart.

  Ralan doesn't even blink. "Who, Obelan?"

  "Yes, fucking Obelan. Answer the question!"

  "Elket, please. We discussed this matter already. We agreed that—"

  "No, we most certainly did not agree. The only thing we agreed upon was that we would continue that discussion at a later date!"

  "And so I decided to resolve that looming issue for the both of us."

  "And so you decided to hand me a brand new issue—by stealing one of my best Sorcerers right out from under my nose!"

  "Careful now. Obelan may be your soldier, Elket, but he is my son."

  "You know, this isn't even about the fact that you directly superseded my authority!" Elket snaps, throwing her hands up and pacing now with great rancor about the room. "What I truly take issue with here is the philosophy of pulling one of our strongest assets back to—dammit, Ralan, we talked about this! The war just started and it already feels like we're anticipating failure!"

  "Have you read your own reports? They paint a dire picture."

  "Don't you dare. I know exactly how bad things are," Elket hisses, whirling on her larger and younger brother—who just stands there, arms folded and face impassive, ruby eyes nevertheless alight with mounting irritation. "But stars above, Ralan. The fact that we aren't even remotely planning for any kind of victory condition—I can't help but question why we did this at all!"

  "And what is this, exactly?" Ralan growls back, his voice dropping precipitously low. "Go on, sister. Speak plainly."

  "What do you think?" Elket scoffs, her furious pacing once more resumed. "Look, I hate to say I told you so, but the fact of the matter is that at the time I strenuously objected to the killing of Ibis—"

  "And at the time I explained, in strenuous detail, all the reasons why it had to be done."

  "I found those reasons insufficient then, and even moreso now."

  "Of course, with the benefit of hindsight you—"

  "Don't speak to me of hindsight!" For the second time Elket whirls violently upon her brother, and this time his eyes go wide in response. His nostrils flare, a vein bulges in his neck. And now the First Pillar takes one portentous step forward with tight-leashed anger practically radiating from beneath his skin.

  "You've hinged out entire family upon this decision!" Elket snarls, just as unafraid of him now as she was when they were children. "Imagine it, Ralan! Our city razed to the ground, our people reduced to charred corpses side-by-side in mass graves! Imagine any one of your sons and daughters dead—or worse, their skin peeled inch by inch by some grinning Oculus ghoul, ten thousand leagues away from this place in a freezing cell where they will never, ever again see the light of day again!"

  "Don't you dare suggest such a thing. Don't even speak it."

  "I will! I will speak of such things! And you need to come to terms with the possibility of everything I just said, Ralan, because that is the path you have chosen! For all of us!"

  The tension snaps. "Rah!" Ralan barks, swatting his sister away with one burly arm. Quick as the wind, Elket ducks the blow and darts in close with fist cocked back and hand already on the hilt of her sword. And then, for a moment, the two siblings just stand there on the verge of the latest in a very long line of fights—sweat dripping, foreheads nearly touching, each more than ready to beat the other bloody. And then abruptly they part; Elket turns, and begins walking one way, and Ralan walks the other, and now the two of them are pacing the room in slow, opposite rhythm, circling one another like sharks.

  "...well, Elket?" the Prime Celebrant eventually rumbles. "Do you still intend to fight?"

  "Of course I do," the Prime Militant snaps. "I'll fight like Ka-Koso reborn. I'll kill ten thousand Vokians with my bare fucking hands, do you hear me? I'll kill them with my nails, with my teeth. I'll use my own skull to batter a hundred of theirs in. And even when they finally manage to lop my head off, my corpse will keep killing Vokians until someone has the sense to burn the damn thing to cinders. These people have threatened my home, Ralan. My family. I will not abide this." Her head snaps up; her eyes, clear and raptorial, lock onto her brother's skull as she concludes: "Don't ever doubt my conviction when it comes to cleaning up your messes."

  To which Ralan, incensed, opens his mouth to reply—just as a sweat-drenched, panting guard storms into the room and immediately drops to a full bow. "H-Hail to the First and Second Pillars!"

  "We ordered this room cleared!" Elket barks, her anger channeled entirely upon the hapless guard as Ralan just closes his eyes and pinches his brow.

  "I—yes, I'm sorry ma'am—" the guard stutters. "It's just, I was sent—"

  "Spit it out, man!"

  "It's—it's the sublevel, there's been...well..."

  Ralan's eyes snap open. The siblings' head whirl around. Their eyes lock.

  Realization strikes.

  "The catacombs!"

  They take off running. The First and Second Pillars of the Shalasharan Star-Sanctioned Royal Government Apparatus sprint like students late for lecture, with Ralan barreling through commonfolk and nobility alike whilst Elket disperses every crowd with words barked out like furious claps of thunder. Down they go, down one staircase after another after another after another, until the outside world is no more and all now is torchlit and subterranean-damp, dripping, all smelling of dirt and mildew and antiseptic rot, and they follow pointed fingers and harried instructions past dozens upon dozens of soldiers and scientists until finally the two of them burst right through that open-swinging set of double-doors to find—

  It's funny, isn't it? How quickly things change. How easily the paradigm shifts. How ready the ground is, always, to shift beneath your feet.

  One bad decision. That's all it takes. One bad decision rippling out, on and on, farther than you ever thought possible. Not slowing, not stopping. Everything is touched. Everything is altered. The world tilts on a new axis.

  Unforseen consequences.

  The central laboratory is a scene of frozen bedlam, all that chaos stuck trapped right there like an insect in amber. Tables overturned, vials smashed, the floor littered with intermingling fluids and gleaming, razor-sharp little implements. A man lies off to one side, strapped down to a gurney, his skull cut open and the pinkish-grey surface of his brain on display for all to see. A dozen wire-thin needles protrude from his upper cerebrum; though his expression is one of pleasant calm, his eyes bulge impossibly wide, and as Ralan and Elket step deeper into the lab those same eyes are tracking slowly, right to left, perfectly following their every move.

  There is more to be seen. Black-clad corpses are scattered all about; two stitch-scarred Incipitors standing silently amidst it all, their hands folded and their bodies trembling just ever-so slightly. Their expressions are a whole jumbled amalgam of shock, terror, sorrow, anger, and above all else a profound confusion. A third Incipitor lies facedown in a puddle of her own blood, her gloved hand still clenched tight around a dead man's neck.

  And then, there, just beyond—

  There he is. Yauju Daret—the Third Pillar, the Prime Empiricist, the so-called father of all Incipitors—with arms splayed wide, and mouth hanging agape, and a dagger buried in his heart.

  End Credits Theme

  —this was neither fun nor productive, and I do not recommend it one bit. However! I would like to make clear that the next chapter is already written—and the rough draft is one of my favorites in quite a while, so I suspect that one will be published relatively soon!

  —Obelan is pronounced Oh-Bee-Lan

  —The name of the continent Zon has been retroactively changed to Xon

  —Thank you very much for reading!