“The Elevated, as they came to be known, commanded the devotion of thousands, yet what became apparent to even casual observers was that the trappings of near-absolute power kindled no divine spark in them. Indeed, many scholars now suspect that this was a crucial selection criterion for the Tetrarchy. It is, after all, curious that accounts of the Elevated reveal little beyond the common frailties of human nature: pride, spite, and petty grudges, merely amplified by immense power. To quote Avila, ‘Who, after all, would be fool enough to elevate their own executioner?’”
– Orhan Malenk, On Faith and Power, Year 311 of the Age of the Tetrarchy
Year 307 of the Age of the Tetrarchy
Irthal Kedan longed for the sea—that undulating dance of the waves, the infinite horizon promising both danger and discovery. But, more than anything, he yearned for adventure.
From his makeshift perch atop a weathered beam in Olban Harbor, Irthal’s eyes drank in the sprawling blue canvas before him. Every ripple in the water seemed to whisper to him. Soon. He released a longing sigh as he finished his modest meal. Lunch break was over. Back to the warehouse. He briefly touched his pendant to his lips, cool stone meeting soft skin. One last wistful look at the ocean, and Irthal jumped down, making his way toward the warehouse district.
Yet a part of him, deep inside, would always remain back on that wooden beam, forever staring out at the cobalt promise. Whatever happened.
Navigating creaky, salt-marred planks, Irthal passed forests of masts gently swaying on the water. His eyes firmly on the seemingly infinite line of trade ships, a sudden impact almost sent him down to the rough timber. A swirl of black scales momentarily obscured his vision as a cloak whirled around. Irthal raised his hands in apology, eyes still disoriented. The figure hesitated a moment before turning, continuing to walk down the docks. Should really pay more attention, he thought, if I want to survive until we set sail.
Flocks of birds circled high above as he set out again. Irthal noticed a group of angry-sounding seagulls, fighting over food scraps a few paces in front of him. Smiling wryly, he rubbed his shoulder, the stranger already forgotten. The scene reminded him of a time, not so long ago, before the Concordate, when the Trifelt was still embroiled in piracy. When fear and hunger had ruled these streets. This very harbor. When the people here had not been very different from these scavenging birds. Not very different at all.
Irthal could still feel the rough texture of the fishing rod in his hands, hear the alarmed whisper of his father— “Pirate ships, off starboard!”—and the distant flutter of black sails flying the colors of the duchess of Taris. Sky blue, olive green—separated by a river of silver. It would always haunt his dreams. The sheer size and number of ships had been awe-inspiring, even from afar. Yet his father had not been afraid, not really. Above their little boat fluttered the black anchor and silver swords of Olban, the most formidable pirate faction in the whole Trifelt.
“See the predator,” his father had said when Irthal started to cry, “hunting for easier prey.” Though they were poor, they at least were safe from pirates—other pirates, that was.
The former duke of Olban, Embrez, saw his people as nothing more than yet another treasure to plunder. To ravage. Irthal’s gaze darkened as he passed by the spot where his mother’s store once stood, now nothing but a boarded-up husk. The black sears on its walls were like an old scar, faded but still aching. His father had never recovered, not really, finding refuge in drink instead.
But now, with the Concordate, piracy was a thing of the past, and so were pirates. Or so it seemed. As if a fresh coat of paint could restore a rotten wall.
After passing the fifth stall selling cooked crab and roasted lizard along the waterfront, Irthal finally reached Bal’s warehouse. Stacks of familiar crates towered overhead, obscuring his view from the yard. But the sound of Bal’s voice, berating poor Merryn, was unmistakable. “You think I pay you to ogle crates?” Bal’s voice thundered through the air, filling the cavernous space. “Maybe you’d like to see one from the inside—sealed shut! We’ve got a mountain of cinnamon that’s just sailed in from beyond the Belt, and it’s not going to unload itself, fool!”
Irthal had never cared for Bal’s abrasive manners, though he had gotten used to it over the years. And when shipments went missing or thugs threatened the docks, it was Bal who restored order. Respect was hard to deny, on those occasions. On some days, Irthal even downright feared the man. Today was not such a day. Today was the last day he would ever have to work for Bal. Heaving crates from here to there, from there to here. Cinnamon, silk, brass, mahogany furniture, grain. For nine long years, he had worked at Bal’s warehouse—as specified in his contract. All with one purpose: getting off the Trifelt. Leaving everything behind. Fulfilling the dreams of his mother. The one thing he could still do for her.
It had all begun with Sam Dulaz, his childhood friend, so very long ago. On a late-summer afternoon, as the first leaves began to surrender their greens to shades of gold, a boy and a girl had dreamt of adventure. But dreams are ephemeral and goals are not. So they had toiled, day in and day out, to make that shared dream a reality. They had calculated (and recalculated) how much gold they would need to buy a ship and hire a crew. Maybe even engage a lesser Elevated to ward off storms or pirates. Okay, Irthal conceded, that last part was probably more of a fantasy. As if the governor would ever let them borrow one of his creatures.
Finally, they had enough. Unbidden images of clinking sacks of coins hidden under a floorboard flashed through Irthal’s mind. They were ready. He wondered whether it would feel strange to actually sail off into the unknown, after talking about it for so long with Sam.
“Irthal, you slack-jawed laggard!” Bal’s voice erupted, pulling him back to reality. “Do you call that ‘work,’ standing there gaping like a fool? Get over here before I have a fit with Merryn!” Casting a sympathetic glance toward Merryn—who looked like she would rather be anywhere else right now—Irthal sauntered over to Bal.
“Problems, Bal?” Irthal quipped, a smirk playing on his lips. “Are we making too much money again?”
Bal let out a guttural growl, clearly unamused. “I swear by all the seas, if you don’t lose that humor of yours, you won’t last a day outside of this warehouse. In my time, you’d get thrown overboard for less!” He paused, eyes closed, appearing to shudder at a memory before regaining composure. “Besides, you should be thankful that we get so many shipments from the south. Otherwise, I couldn’t afford to pay incompetent laborers like yourself.”
“Bless the Tetrarchy,” Irthal responded, bowing mockingly.
Bal shook his head with an exasperated sigh. “Hopeless, just hopeless,” he murmured, more to himself than to Irthal.
“Speaking of the Tetrarchy,” Irthal eyed a crate stamped with a vaguely familiar emblem, “those wouldn’t happen to be Kelian bananas, would they? I thought the Tetrarchy cities hardly export goods themselves.”
Bal looked at the shipment, brows furrowed at the radiant sun of the city-state of Kel. “Courtesy of the Kelian Agricultural Society, or so I’ve heard,” he said. “It’s a new breed and they want people to develop a taste for it.” His gaze abruptly shifted back to Irthal, eyes narrowing. “Oh no, you’ve got that adventure look again.” Sighing loudly, Bal turned back toward the depths of the warehouse. “Remember,” he shouted over his shoulder, “I’m still paying you till the end of the day!”
“Never would forget!” Irthal called after him, whistling a cheerful tune as he approached a crate.
As Irthal’s hands navigated all too familiar tasks, his thoughts drifted to faraway lands. To the tales he had absorbed like a sponge over the years. The Principality of Demis, enormous forges smoldering day and night, billowing out towering stacks of smoke. Ustil, seat of the Grand Admiral and the Concordate navy, where hundreds of masts formed a forest across the ocean. Maybe even distant Maht, that most remote of the Gordean tetrarchs, amongst exotic jungles and mysterious ruins.
But in the labyrinth of his imagination, one name beckoned like a siren—Sevastha.
A place best uttered in hushed voices, if at all, its mere name compelling furtive glances. A myth more than an actual location, the Alabaster City was rumored to lie beyond the impassable Tailfin Mountains, on the northern shores of Lycar. Hard to reach and no legends of treasures. Not the best place to talk people into seeking it out. He managed to convince Sam, in the end, that he had overheard some sailors talking about the Glimmering Shores being near Sevastha. Sparkling with gemstones instead of sand. Said to be the remains of a shattered star that fell from the heavens. That seemed to have done the trick. The glitter in Sam’s eyes rivaled that of the purported sapphires and emeralds, scattered where waves met the shore. He smiled. He felt sorry (a little bit) but, thinking back to his mother, Irthal had his own reasons to seek out Sevastha.
Alongside Sam, this childish fantasy—sailing off to a mythical city, surrounded by priceless gems—had quickly evolved into a solid plan. It was not even too outlandish. Many of Olban’s youth set out for adventure across the seas—you could call it a rite of passage. Over the years, they had recruited most of their friends into their scheme. Or Irthal did, with Sam not exactly being the most outgoing. Every person was another person that could be trusted on their ship, after all. And, even more important, every person more meant more gold to fund their adventure. Sevastian, Lurgon, and Mythas. They all were drawn by the promise of adventure, of scoring their weight in gemstones. Together, they would write history. He was sure of it.
But first, they would have dinner. Stretching, Irthal watched the sun slowly dip into the horizon, painting the sky a fiery carmine. “Hey Bal,” Irthal shouted, “I’m off.”
“Good riddance to you then,” a snort echoed from behind a jumble of crates. “I doubt I’ll even notice that you’re gone. Maybe now I can find someone who can actually move cargo.” Bal emerged behind a tower of boxes taller than himself. “So, what’s your plan now? Join the navy? You’re too old, kid. And you’d need to pay for passage to Ustil first, if you’ve got any sense in you.”
Irthal shrugged. “I was thinking I’d try my hand at being a sailor.”
Stolen novel; please report.
Bal’s laughter echoed in the near-empty warehouse as he doubled over. “Crazy as usual. Let me guess. You’ve never set foot outside Olban,” he choked out between laughs.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Irthal conceded, holding Bal’s gaze, “but I think it’s worth the risk.” The older man’s eyes met his, a cocktail of grudging respect and lingering disbelief, as if he could not quite decide whether Irthal was brave or simply foolhardy. Eventually he shrugged, as if to mark that it wasn’t any of his business. With a healthy dash of shallow fondness, the two men clasped forearms and parted ways, never to see each other again.
As twilight draped the sky in deepening shades of purple, Irthal sat down with his friends. A hearty round of sighs and stretches followed, nobody wanting to be the first to break the silence with the first words of celebration. Soon their table was laden with sumptuous dishes—spiced dorado, succulent crabs, and fried plantains. And then they talked.
“Another round of ale, for good luck!” Lurgon bellowed, flagging down the tavern’s serving girl. The tankard he received looked laughably small in his hands.
Sevastian, following Lurgon’s example, raised his cup. “To new horizons and pockets full of coin!” The burly man drank, and then so did Sevastian.
“Here’s to hoping those horizons—and gems—are closer than they appear,” Mythas chimed in, eyes twinkling. “I could get used to this life. Doubt we’ll have food like this on the ship.”
The Anchor & Ale overlooked the wharf where their dreams of fortune awaited them. Over the years, they had an arrangement with the tavern owner—work on the fishing boats, get meals and a few coins in return. The night air filled with their joyous laughter, each burst of giggles and clinks of cups weaving dreams of life at sea—maybe not better, but certainly more meaningful than what they had here in Olban.
The food rapidly disappeared from their plates and was washed down with overflowing cups of ale and wine. Around them, the din of conversation steadily increased as the evening waxed. Talking of when Loratha and Demis’ fragile stand-off would finally erupt, of the price of steel in Sariz, of the drowning of the Elevated Meng a few days before.
Before long, the moon cast a silver sheen onto the rippling ocean. Their plates clean, cups still filled, a discussion about harbors erupted at the table when Irthal’s gaze strayed from his friends.
“Just look at that one, this cove near Taris—best anchorage in the north, hands down!” Sevastian was saying, stabbing a finger at an imaginary map on the table.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mythas threw her hands in the air. “Everyone knows Taris is full of crooks. Salden is where we should go, I once met a sailor from there. Honest fellow.”
Irthal’s eyes drifted to the harbor, over the ships, wandering far away in thoughts. Only half-listening to his friends. Instead, he noticed a group standing on one side of the docks, finishing up loading a vessel. So late in the night?
“Met a sailor, Mythas, really?” Lurgon drained his cup and slammed it on the table, a broad smile creasing his weathered face. “Irthal, you’re dreaming with your eyes open again.” Apparently, the big man had also spotted the group loading their cargo now. “Think they’re hiding treasure on that ship?”
Mythas shot a lethal glance in Lurgon’s direction and leaned back in her chair, dropping the topic as she swirled the last of her wine. “Knowing him, he probably thinks it’s a pirate ship, ready to whisk him away on some adventure.”
“Still, it’s a bit mysterious, isn’t it?” Sam took a moment from savoring her ale to glance toward the ship Irthal was eyeing. “Loading their cargo at night, I mean. Must be in a hurry. You think they’re up to no good?”
“No idea,” Irthal finally pulled his eyes away from the distant figures by the ship. “But I was just thinking, we can’t be the only ones dreaming of something more. What if there are people out there, right now, making our dreams happen?”
“Dreams are for boys,” Lurgon chuckled, eyes twinkling, “action is for men.”
“I’d drink to that,” Sevastian said, lifting his empty cup for a refill. Mythas rolled her eyes at Lurgon, accompanied by a groan.
Irthal could not help it. His gaze was drawn back to the ship. A man’s eyes fleetingly met his before darting away again, like a startled cat. But the woman there. Her gaze latched onto his, electric, turning the back of his neck into a cobweb of prickling nerves.
Suddenly, his brain caught up on what his eyes had seen before and realization hit him. “Hey,” Irthal said, eyes still glued to the figures by the docks, “remember Sam’s uncle? Vann, right?”
Belatedly, he noticed that his companions all stared at him in amused and inebriated puzzlement. It took Irthal spreading his hands in impatience to break the spell. Sam frowned but nodded slowly. “What’s he been up to lately?” Irthal continued.
Sam paused, lips lingering on the rim of her cup. Setting it down, she finally broke the silence. “He’s been hiding. We haven’t heard from him in years. No idea where or why.”
Pointing toward the group, Irthal spoke, “Seems like he’s done hiding.”
The man—Vann—was lean. Silver hair, sun-burnt face, and strikingly blue eyes. The woman by his side—that one with the electrifying gaze—with her dark, wavy hair, seemed to be more at ease than Irthal thought possible. Leaning against the bumpy wood of a warehouse, she oversaw the fastening of the last crates. As Irthal looked on, Sam’s confusion deepened. “But who are these people with him?” she said finally.
And that was when all hell broke loose.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Irthal caught a sudden shift in the shadows. Across the square, four figures emerged. Identical scaly black cloaks—awfully familiar cloaks—masked their forms, their eyes gleaming from slits. No telling whether man or woman, especially in the concealing dark of the night. They moved fluidly, almost serpentine, as they glid over the cobblestones.
Without a word spoken throughout the harbor, they had encircled Vann and his companions, palms facing toward their targets. Symbols, like mirrored half-moons, burned bright on their hands. Mesmerized, Irthal watched the glow intensify until it seemed to distort the very air around the figures. An abrupt hush fell over the tavern as more people noticed, conversations dying down to a whisper. A static tension hung in the air, as if life itself had stuttered to a standstill.
Surprise flared in Vann’s eyes, but he did not back down. Instead, he squared up to the attackers and gestured with his own hands. As if in response, ship fittings, winches, hammers—all scattered around the dock—flew toward him, compressing and encircling him like a shield of steel. Vann’s carapace subtly reconfigured its shape to meld together, moving fluently and with a precision as if it were an extension of his arm.
Then, just as his metal barricade solidified, almost imperceptible flashes of actinic light erupted from the hooded figures. Vann’s shield screeched in protest as chunks of metal were violently ripped away, as if it were made from soft clay, leaving behind deep furrows. All around Vann, stray attacks and shrapnel shattered nearby crates, scattering papayas and brass jugs on the cobblestones. Irthal’s nostrils were assaulted by the acrid smell of ozone, so intense that it was almost a taste—a sharp, electric tang.
Vann’s eyes darted over the dockside detritus, locking onto shards of iron and twisted steel. With an almost palpable force of will, he knit the fragments back around him, forcing them into his shield. Yet he did not seem satisfied with defense. In the scarce breaths between onslaughts, he clenched his fists. Like responding to a magnetic push, a fishing net with metal weights, suddenly fused into serrated edges, soared like a cloud of arrows through the air toward his attackers.
With an almost annoyed wave, one of the figures dismissed them. The shards ricocheted in all directions—tearing the net—slicing through wood and flesh without pause. The air, so thick with unnatural stillness, suddenly shattered under the wails of agony, like the first crack of thunder cleaving a heavy sky.
Weathering renewed attacks, with metal slabs flying in all directions, Vann reached out to the scattered scraps behind his attackers, maneuvering them toward their backs. Irthal was holding his breath. This was good, it could really work. But before Vann could launch his assault, one of the strangers shifted slightly and, in one impossible moment, was next to Vann, vaporizing half his metal shield in an explosion of incandescent steam.
Vann seemed to be frozen in shock as Irthal noticed a hand darting through the evaporated metal and grabbing the man’s arm. He saw, almost felt, a sickening yank—Irthal knocked over his mug in his backward stumble at the sight—as one of Vann’s arms was ripped clean from its socket, hot blood spraying through the air and spreading across the ground in a grisly trail. It looked like a tableau from a horror story. Then, before Vann could do anything else—even before the mutilated man could cry out—time froze on the docks.
Just for a moment.
Then it picked back up again, yet now in slow motion. Each passing second stretching out into eternity.
Out of some deep instinct, Irthal’s attention swerved back to the woman—Vann’s companion—who now moved toward the entangled figures. She seemed to be the only one in the entire square who could move faster than a crawl. Curiously, time flowed normally for Irthal and his friends, as far as he could see. Only the area around the strangers was affected, turning their movements into slow, almost comedic caricatures. The black-clad attackers struggled to break free of the magical molasses but were too slow—they simply could not move fast enough while they were inside this bubble of slowed time.
The raven-haired woman, utterly unaffected herself, nonchalantly picked up a discarded wagon wheel and hurled it like a discus. No, that was not quite right. The object left her hand. Then it was simply gone. The next time Irthal saw the wagon wheel, it was impacting the three huddled assailants, hitting them dead-center and throwing them against the side of a warehouse.
The woman dashed to the remaining stranger and, the movement a mere blur, hit the man with her fist. The sound of shattering bones reverberated through the harbor, strangely distorted by the slowed time. The figure exploded backward, a gruesome arc of blood marking its passage until it finally hit the ground. With bated breath, Irthal waited for more. But the chaos seemed to have ceased, for the moment, leaving only wreckage in its wake.
The unnerving time distortion finally vanished too, leaving behind four toppled black mounds. Throughout the entire spectacle, Sam had stood frozen, the surreal sight of her uncle commanding metal, and a stranger manipulating time, just too much to take in. Now she ran. Cursing under his breath, Irthal followed as she rushed over to a pale-faced Vann, who had sunk to his knees, clutching his mutilated shoulder.
“This isn’t over yet,” Vann’s companion drawled, glancing toward Irthal and his friends. “Next time, don’t mess with a quad. Or at least do it properly.”
Vann managed a reply through clenched teeth, “Point taken, Lavelle.”
“Well, you remember the rule, don’t you?” Lavelle looked down at him with her cool green eyes, a silent current flowing between them. “Hit hard…”
“…and hit first,” Vann finished, a flicker of a grin crossing his bone-white face. A fleeting curve touched the corners of Lavelle’s lips—so brief one might question its existence.
Vann rose, with evident difficulty. Immediately, fragments of steel began to merge and mold—to flow—around the stump of Vann’s arm. Irthal could not believe what he was witnessing. Like liquid droplets, they coalesced into a mass, elongating and further intersecting into smaller masses where a hand was forming. In mere moments, Vann had completed his new arm, swirls of steel running up from fingertip to shoulder. As if struck by a thought, he turned, scanning his surroundings. From the sorry remains of a trade ship, a thin sheet of silver levitated over to them and quickly wrapped itself around his arm. “Well, this should work better than before,” he mused, rotating his arm and flexing his fingers experimentally.
“Show-off,” Lavelle muttered, “Well, at least it saves me the embarrassment of having to explain to Burn what happened to his newest toy.”
Suddenly, her focus shifted back to the other side of the square. Irthal followed her eyes. A rustle, a twitch—the fallen figures stirred, pulling their gaze like a hook through water. Irthal saw Lavelle tense and expected to see her charge into the next round of battle. Frantically, he looked for a place to hide. Yet, before anyone could react, the quad regrouped, briefly seeming to consider their foes. And then, as if swept away by an unseen gust, they simply dissolved into nothingness. Lavelle studied the ground where they had been just moments ago, a contemplative expression on her face.
“Sam?!” Suddenly, Vann’s face broke into a broad smile. “Girl, have you grown!” He rested his silvery hand on Sam’s shoulder. Instinctively shirking away, Sam’s face was a canvas of disbelief, her complexion a ghostly shade, as if she had peered through the veil of reality and found it wanting.
Irthal’s eyes darted from the gore-splattered ground to the still airborne fragments of metal, each moment stacking upon the last in this surreal tapestry of awe and horror. His mind, so occupied with cataloguing extreme violence, finally caught up to the situation. Irthal’s voice broke free, blurting out the first thing that came to his mind.
“You—you’re Elevated!”
