Deen Daniels raced chaos in a dead heat. Buildings ablaze lined the path to the Council Building as if they were ceremonial torches, leading him toward the conference and the confrontation that awaited.

  He ran now. He hadn’t always been running. But he was almost out of time. The last man he’d asked told him there was only half an hour left until the meeting was supposed to start.

  To his right a building exploded, shaking everything. Windows shattered outward, spraying shards of glass and hurtling chunks of stone and bits of furniture down on the sidewalk. People and horses scattered in fear and terror like a disturbed line of ants. The newly-made hole on the second floor belched smoke.

  It was getting worse. So much worse. This all started about an hour or so prior, when he first parted ways with that bandaged magician.

  “You really can’t just fly us there?” Deen had asked.

  “I’m afraid not, Captain Daniels,” Argent said in that strange wind-modulated voice. The magician’s dark green cloak billowed behind him as they walked through a shadowed, cramped alley connected to the main thoroughfare. “There is another like me in this city. I cannot give her the advantage of my location.”

  “Didn’t you do that when you saved us?”

  “Perhaps, but I doubt it. Weaving wind looks rather natural. To ‘fly’ as you say— well, to perform great leaps, really— requires the weaving of a combination of colors in very particular patterns. Very obvious.”

  “Uh huh,” he said dully. Like he was supposed to know what was obvious and what wasn’t about manipulating arcane threads. “And this lady. You’re sure she’s not in contact with Cade?”

  “She’s not interested in Ulciscor. She doesn’t care about the affairs of Terra Daeva or Mirastelle. Only me.”

  “Lucky you.”

  They reached the end of the alley and crouched against a wall. Argent poked his head out. He looked back and shook his head.

  “Them again?” Deen clicked his tongue. Flocks, Cade’s forces were a persistent bunch. They knew Deen was coming, so they knew exactly where to look. “Is she still with them?”

  “Cade?” He peeked out again. “Yes, I see her. Lucky you.”

  He sighed. He deserved that one.

  It’s only natural. I declared war on her boss. Me and my big mouth.

  “Let’s head back, Argent. I’ll find us another way.”

  “No,” Argent said, rising. “I will end this game of hawk and mouse. Go. I will lure them away from the Council Building.”

  “Well, if you’re offering…”

  “Not at all worried for your new friend?”

  “Something tells me you’ll be fine.”

  Argent laughed and stepped into the light of the street lanterns. Deen could hear multiple shouts of alarm at once.

  “It’s in your hands, Captain Daniels,” he said quietly. The wind picked up around him. It was roaring by the time Deen turned and bolted down the alley, searching for another route.

  He relaxed his pace once he was certain there were no soldiers in pursuit. The streets were abuzz with civilians. Word had spread that tomorrow morning the Daevans would invade. These were a hardy lot, ready to dig their heels in. Didn’t matter if you were part of the cavalry or a simple washwoman. Ulciscor’s people were ready to fight.

  It was about ten minutes later that he first noticed. A distant deep bang. Thunder, he thought. Maybe five minutes after that, the thunder came again. Far and to the left, but distinctly closer. Something nagged at him, then. Where was the lightning? Only when he stopped to look, really look, could he make out the soft glow of fire.

  Each explosion hastened his pace. Something terrible was happening. Assassinations, he thought. Most of the places going up in flames looked residential. He couldn’t be sure, and he didn’t have time to check.

  Once, not too long ago, he’d have found an idea like that insane. This was a coordinated attack on the city, and Rigel was the perpetrator. Even the order of the explosions felt purposeful, each one closer to the Council Building than the last. Did that mean the UCB would be the final target?

  All the more reason to get there as soon as possible.

  But…

  His boots stopped short of crunching fallen glass and debris.

  “You there!” he called. “Sergeant!”

  An uncertain man in uniform— Interior, First Regiment, by his markings— was backing away from the building, mumbling something. Deen could tell when a man was overwhelmed, and this was textbook.

  “Sergeant!”

  Deen thought the man looked familiar, but he couldn’t place where he’d seen him before. A similar thought seemed to cross the other man’s mind, as well. He saluted.

  “Captain, sir, I… That’s Lieutenant Raul’s apartment, sir. He was off-duty until this evening. I was supposed to… Another minute, and I’d…”

  Deen grabbed him by the shoulders.

  “Focus, sergeant. Sergeant what?”

  “Curtis, sir.”

  “Sergeant Curtis. Now’s the time to step up, man. Understand? You know where the city keeps the fire hose rolls?”

  “Just under the manholes, captain.”

  “Good.” Deen glanced around and spotted a pair of patrols. He waved them over. He turned the sergeant around and pointed. “There. Get that open. The hydrant’s down this way. There. See?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Flocks, what happened?” one of the patrols called.

  “You two, assist Sergeant Curtis here.” He clapped Curtis on the shoulder. “I’m placing you in his charge until the fire’s out. You, get that hydrant open. You, see if anybody needs help. Take volunteers.”

  “Shouldn’t we send for the fire department?” the other patrol asked.

  “There are fires all over,” Deen said. “They’re going to be busy. These people need help.” He met Curtis’s eyes and squeezed him on the shoulder. “They need your help.”

  The sergeant nodded.

  “Good man.”

  Deen saluted and rounded the debris, helping an elderly man to his feet who’d gotten knocked over by a panicking horse.

  “Who even was that?” the first patrol asked. “Wasn’t that captain from the South Wall? Do they even have that kind of authority?”

  “You heard the man!” Curtis barked in a proper sergeant’s voice that made Deen smile. “Get that hydrant open!”

  “Y-Yes, sir!”

  Not long now. He took off running, faster than before.

  ———

  Cyrus looked up from the address written on Velox’s note to another address, painted on a sign affixed to the wall. They matched.

  He glanced at Lyla Daniels and nodded. She wouldn’t let him leave the Barnas residence alone. Mr. and Mrs. Barnas were having a pleasant chat with Rolan and Elinor while a certain half-dead guardsman snoozed on their living room sofa. He wondered if the family dog was still at it, remembering the sight of her when they’d first arrived. Large and fluffy, playfully licking Velox’s fingers.

  Their destination turned out to be a garage. There were two entrances: a wide one that could be pulled upward from a notch at the bottom, meant for housing things like carriages and automobiles— locked, Lyla found— and a normal-sized door off to the side. It was a thick door of some kind of metal. The kind that would mangle your foot if you tried to kick it in.

  He rapped on it with his knuckles.

  A heavyset woman dressed in a thick wool coat answered not long after, opening the door. It creaked open, hinges in dire need of a good greasing. She looked him up and down, then did the same to Lyla. She said nothing, just gave them a questioning eyebrow.

  “We’re here on behalf of Captain Velox,” Cyrus said.

  “And you are?”

  “Cyrus Alder,” he said and bowed his head. “Son of Orcus Alder, mayor of Castitas.”

  “How old are you, exactly?” the woman asked, squinting at him.

  “Sixteen. May we come in?”

  “Aren’t you well-behaved,” she muttered. The woman’s eyes flicked to Lyla. “What about you?”

  “Lyla Daniels. My husband is…”

  “Yeah, we know him.” She trudged inside, leaving the door hanging open. “Well, come on, then.”

  They glanced at each other again, then went inside.

  There were about twenty people or so in all. Some were standing at a soldier’s parade rest, others lazily leaning against the wall or sitting atop sturdy-looking crates.

  “Cyrus Alder here says Quinn couldn’t make it,” the woman said, gesturing to him.

  “He doesn’t even bother to show up for his own favor?” a man asked, sounding annoyed. He was one of the wall-leaners, arms folded in relaxation. “If this is supposed to be some kind of prank…”

  “Quinn wouldn’t do that,” another said, a crate-sitter with her head in her hands. She sounded bored. “He knows where the line is.”

  “That guy couldn’t find his way to a line for the bathroom,” the heavyset woman said. Several laughed at that. Others started to chat amongst themselves.

  Lyla put a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder and gave him a quick nod of encouragement. Somehow, he’d expected her to take over, but no. This was his idea. His job. Right, then.

  “Captain Velox,” Cyrus said, loud and clear, “was hurt.”

  The room quieted.

  “He sustained a serious injury protecting me. Us.”

  Some of those faces perked up in surprise.

  “You’re all from the South Wall,” Cyrus asked. “Aren’t you?”

  “Not anymore,” the lazy-leaner said. “They divided us all up. Put most of us in the reserves. Only reason we’re here. The Daevans march to war tomorrow and the brass tells us to relax at home.”

  “Because of Captain Daniels. This unspeakable crime they accuse him of. I’ve met the man. Come to know him quite well, these last few days. I owe him my life. He is innocent.”

  “My husband is not capable of evil,” Lyla added quietly.

  “Captain Daniels is alive?” the lazy-leaner asked, incredulous.

  Cyrus nodded.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “So it’s Major Vasran after all,” the thick-coated woman said sadly, head bowed. “We knew it, deep down. They’ve bought him, somehow.”

  “We all came here because we knew Quinn was making a move,” the crate-sitter said. No one contradicted her words. A few nodded. “Seras’s imprisonment isn’t right. They have no proof. They’re just using her to get to Deen.”

  “I’m sorry,” someone said. It was a bald man who’d been standing silently at parade rest. “But I can see where this is going. You expect me to help break the lieutenant out of prison? I won’t be part of it. I… I’m sorry. I have a family. I can’t risk them like this. I won’t speak of you all.”

  The woman on the crate rose as he passed her and caught his arm.

  “What if it were them?”

  “Excuse me?” the man asked. He didn’t try to shake her off.

  “If it were your family, Tadil. Wouldn’t you do everything you could to save them? Look her in the eye before you go.” She nodded toward Lyla. “It’s all the same to the rest of us. We can make our choices, but this was no choice of hers. She didn’t ask for this.”

  Lyla stood quietly, watching him.

  He opened his mouth, then shut it, hesitant.

  “Please,” Lyla said. “Let him go. I wouldn’t force this choice on anyone. You are all comrades of my husband and Captain Velox. You proved that by coming here.”

  “No,” the man— Tadil— said. “No, she’s right. My family, they’d say the same thing. Flocks, they’d be mighty embarrassed of me right now. I apologize, Mrs. Daniels.”

  She bowed low in respect. The man and the woman who’d taken his arm sat down on adjacent crates, expectant. So Cyrus continued.

  “We believe Mammon Rigel is in control of some powerful people in the military. Vasran, you say. Our experiences tell us Cade is also among their group.” More than one face paled at that idea. “We’re not sure who to trust. I think that’s why Captain Velox called you all here. He trusts you. When we found them, Captain Daniels’s family were tied to chairs and guarded by Rigel’s soldiers. They identify each other by the Tapera Flock. On earrings and bracelets, for instance.” He raised his arm to show off his bracelet. “They were going to be used as bargaining chips to control him. Seras is in the same situation. They’ll try and use her against him. We think Rigel is going to interfere with this evening’s conference. Daniels is on his way there, right now, to try and prevent the worst. We have to make sure he can do what needs to be done, without his friends and family being weaponized against him.”

  Chatter broke out, and Cyrus let them talk it out.

  “What do you think?” he asked Lyla.

  “Not too bad, young man. You have a fine head on your shoulders.”

  Cyrus held up a hand to quiet them.

  “I am… what I am. I’m a farmer-in-training. I wanted to be a chef. I’m from a little village that the Daevans stepped on on their way to Ulciscor. I can’t fight, I don’t know how. I can’t lead you all. But someone has to.” He met the eyes of that woman in the coat. “Will you?”

  “Me?” she laughed. “Yeah, if you want us all to charge in there and have the bars slammed behind us like in a cartoon.” She looked at Tadil. “Sticking with us, lieutenant? You’re the only one ranked that high in the room.”

  Tadil rubbed the back of his head, embarrassed. He checked a pocket watch, then took a deep breath and stood.

  “At attention!” the man snapped in a stern voice.

  Every person in the room bolted upright, eyes forward.

  “You heard what he said. Lieutenant Seras is being held at Central Prison. We’re busting in there, and we’re not leaving without her.”

  ———

  The street blocks surrounding the Council Building were in a state of total pandemonium when Deen arrived.

  At first, he’d thought Cade had gotten ahead of him somehow. But no. As he drew close, slowing to catch his breath, he noticed the markings of their uniforms. Interior and West. But there was something worse. Those haphazard clumps of Ulciscor Guard soldiers were fighting… fighting each other. He looked on with horror at his worst fears, realized.

  Had Linden betrayed them, as Cade had? Or was it the other way around? Were the First Regiment’s higher-ups compromised? Perhaps an even darker idea… what if neither side belonged to Rigel?

  He circled around to the front of the enormous building, staying out of sight. There was even fighting on the wide stone steps leading to the equally-sized entrance. At least, it was supposed to be equal. Apparently, someone had decided to make the entrance wider with battering rams.

  The important thing is to act like you belong, a voice echoed from the recent past. Ironic, that he’d use Cade’s own advice against her.

  So it was that he left his cover, crossed the street, and strode up the stairs, not paying any more than a passing glance to the chaos around him. He had somewhere to be.

  And not a single person attacked him.

  Halfway up the stairs, he caught sight of Zela Linden in her armor among a pocket of friends and foes and turned his head so she couldn’t make him out. Best not risk an encounter.

  Nearly there. His nerves started to get the better of him. He tried to keep the shaking of his hands under control until he was past the blown-down doors, where he promptly pressed his back against a thick pillar rising high inside the lobby. Bits of broken wall were scattered across the reflective marble tiles, marring their glossy beauty. No one was manning the reception desk, of course. Nobody was fighting in here, though he did hear the distinctive ringing of steel on steel down several of the hallways branching off from the high-ceilinged room.

  “Who are you?” someone suddenly asked. “Who let you pass?”

  He looked at the man. An Interior lieutenant. Bane Below.

  “I’m Captain Quinn Velox,” he said, thinking quickly. The man could plainly see from the uniform that Deen was a South Wall captain. But he couldn’t exactly say he was himself, not when he was wanted for the murder of seven soldiers. With luck, this lieutenant wouldn’t know Deen by his face. It’d be unfortunate for both of them. “I was asked to come here for the conference. What is happening out there?”

  “It’s Linden. She’s gone mad,” the man said. “Thinks Interior can’t be trusted. Some of ours thought the same, before we even came to blows.” He spat. “Too late now. It’s a mess, Captain Velox.”

  “I’ve got to get in there,” Deen said, taking a step.

  “Hold on,” the man said. He froze. “Weren’t you transferred? To Southwest? I could’ve sworn I saw your name on a sheet somewhere.”

  Deen swallowed, suddenly keenly aware of where his hand was positioned in relation to the haft of his strapped spear.

  “They haven’t given me my new uniform yet. Told me to keep wearing this one.”

  “Ah. Right.” The lieutenant blinked. “There were a lot of transfers these past two weeks. Makes sense. I’m sorry captain, but we can’t spare anyone to escort you. You’ll have to find your way. Good luck.”

  The man hurried off without waiting for a reply, out the lobby and into that chaos. Deen let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and picked a random hallway without any shouting coming out of it.

  He’d been here before, so it wasn’t quite a maze, but he still had trouble finding the path forward. Hallways led to more hallways led to… even more hallways. Flocks. There were a few ways up on the first floor, he thought. He did manage to stumble into one after a moment, a spiral staircase wrapped around a central marble pillar. He figured the conference would take place in Maro Ren’s office, on the top floor.

  He wanted to run again, but he held himself back. The scribes and bureaucrats he passed were already skittish, watching him go by with wary expressions.

  The UCB became more extravagant as he ascended. Golden trim lined walls decorated by beautiful paintings and darkwood shelves of ornate vases and trinkets. Such a waste of money and resources. How many people even came up here from day to day? So antithetical to the rest of the city. Then again, it was not Mirastelle’s government and Ulciscor’s workers that had built this place. It was a relic of days before the empire, when rampant noble corruption was evident everywhere.

  He reached the most dramatic shift in the building’s layout, when the rigid square floor plan gave way to a much narrower rectangular shape, changing between the fifth and six floor. Only two regular staircases on the east and west led upward. When he’d been here before, Wolf told him the eastern wing was reserved for government officials. He figured that meant it would have some stricter form of security, so he chose west.

  That way was no good. A cluster of six armored guards had set themselves up shoulder to shoulder, blocking access to the staircase. He had a feeling it wasn’t such a bright idea to approach them, so he doubled back and tried the east wing.

  As he crossed to the other side of the fifth floor, he began to feel a strange sense of foreboding. Was it the way the scribes had seemed to all vanish? He’d stopped running into them a while ago. Was it the clock he’d seen on a wall, telling him the conference was minutes away from starting? Or was it merely intuition? He wasn’t sure what it was. He just felt like something was waiting for him.

  So he wasn’t all that surprised when he reached the eastern staircase and found it unguarded. Nor when he climbed it and found South Wall Major Jorgen Vasran in silvery armor standing at the end of the gaudy hallway, gauntlets resting on the pommel of an enormous war hammer.

  ———

  Alexis Cade felt like a blood vessel in her head was about to burst. An entire company of the Second Regiment at her disposal, harried by one featherless person bearing the Individual’s Kingdom. Small wonder His Majesty was so obsessed with the thing.

  A runner had just brought her the most dreadful report. Nili and Gamos had left their posts on the word of someone who had apparently figured out how the Brood identified each other. That meant only Drenn was guarding the Daniels family. Which meant he was almost certainly dead, the family freed. Tapera!

  Her captains stood alongside her, listening. They were all huddled together, sheltered from the cyclones behind a corner building. Another batch of her finest soldiers tumbled on by in a tunnel of wind as she dismissed the runner. It took considerable effort to stop herself from groaning aloud.

  When is that witch going to do something about this human turbine? We grovel and beg, and still she sits on her ass!

  Enough of this farce.

  “We make for Central Prison,” she commanded, projecting as much ice-cold frost as she could into her voice to mask her displeasure. “I’ll not have this galed fool chasing us into the conference, and we need another pawn to bend Daniels. Break him, if we must. He is the ringleader. Crack him and we crack them all.”

  They nodded and began issuing orders to lieutenants. Good. At least some people around here could follow simple instructions.

  ———

  Jorgen Vasran.

  You’ve got to be joking.

  The major stood at the end of the gaudy hallway. There was only one way through, an entryway behind him with no door or frame that lead to another sort of lobby. It was wide and high-ceilinged for a hallway, just enough for two men to spread their arms out beside each other.

  Deen stepped back. Could he retreat? Not likely. The hulking part-Pruinan man did not have the height of a full-blooded Pruinan, but he certainly had the physique. Built like a fortress and well-trained to make the most of it. Regarded as one of the most athletic men in all the Guard.

  Vasran did not wear any sort of helm. His blond hair and beard were close-cut, jaw square and set, predatory eyes fixed on Deen the way a lion might watch a mouse.

  “Salutations, Daniels.” Vasran lifted a gauntlet and gave a small wave. The major did not offer a smile, and no emotion entered his voice as he spoke. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up.”

  “Why, Vasran?” It was painful, confronting the man like this. He’d served under Vasran for almost a decade. More than a mere boss, he was a mentor, a role model. Deen gritted his teeth. “What did Terra Daeva offer you? How much is the price on your heart?”

  He expected the major to attack him right then and there. He laid a hand on the haft of the spear at his back, every muscle tense. Instead, that behemoth of a man countered the accusation with a question.

  “Can you imagine it, Daniels? Serving the Daevans, working directly against Mirastelle with every fiber of your being year after year?”

  He recoiled at the idea, horrified. Serve the empire? Never.

  But then… then the real meaning of those words struck.

  “They never bought you,” Deen said, understanding. An even worse truth. “You’ve been on their side right from the start. Flocks. Are you him, then? Are you Mammon Rigel?”

  “No. My Elite is attending the conference. He is not to be disturbed under any circumstance.” He exhaled. “Daniels, it is a faint hope, but perhaps you can be reasoned with. Do these extravagant hallways not shame us?” He gestured all around, then balled one hand into a fist. “Is Munitio’s path of unity not the way forward for all of us? One people. One nation. One Asundria.”

  “That path was paved by the blood of innocents,” Deen said and leveled his spear, white-knuckled. He growled, a primal sound. “My father fought for Dalezen Altair. Don’t talk to me about unity. You were one of Dalezen’s closest guards, weren’t you? Was that an act, too?”

  “We tried to reason with them first,” Vasran said. What was that? There was something in his voice. An emotion let slip. Guilt. The once-major tucked it away and continued. “Old Dalezen was stuck in his ways. He wouldn’t make peace. We had no choice.”

  Vasran must have seen the bubbling fury Deen felt, for he sighed and wrapped his gauntlets around that monstrous war hammer sitting before him. It was thicker and heavier than a traditional weapon, designed to be wielded by Pruinans.

  “I had hoped I wouldn’t have to kill you,” he said, raising that hammer high. “I am fond of you, if you can believe it. But I was fond of your father, too.”

  Vasran came charging, inhumanly quick.

  Deen matched him— charging, bellowing, blood boiling— then he dropped down, sliding past the half-Pruinan and racing into the lobby beyond the hallway. He could feel the force of that frightening hammer surging by, ripping through the space where he had been.

  He ran as fast he could, heedless of his lungs, his legs, of certain death in his shadow. Vasran would outpace him. That man would flatten him to a fine paste. Fight? Fight Jorgen Vasran? What a bad joke. Maybe from a pike block. Somehow he needed to lose him in here, needed to—

  A booted foot slammed him square in the back, and he tumbled forward into the sixth floor’s eastern lobby. Before Deen’s chin even hit the tiles, Vasran was in front of him.

  How?

  I saw the surprise on his face… He tasted blood. I fooled him…

  He hadn’t anticipated Deen’s plan. He couldn’t have.

  Then how?

  Vasran set the hammer down pommel-up with a heavy thud, right as Deen’s fumbled airborne spear clattered to the floor. The ex-major picked Deen up by the scruff of his uniform and backed him up against the wall. Then, fist like a brick, he punched Deen right in the gut.

  Any thoughts about the puzzling speed of his opponent rushed out of his head like warm air through a window on a cold night, replaced by pain. Blinding, overwhelming. He gasped involuntarily.

  When his knees gave out, Vasran laid a thick forearm across his shoulders and pinned him to the wall. His expression was thunderous, breath hot on Deen’s face as he spoke.

  “A fool I could forgive. A coward, Daniels?”

  “As if… anybody could beat you…”

  Cade. Maybe Cade.

  But she was a traitor, too, wasn’t she?

  You would have made an excellent spearfighter in Mammon’s Ulciscor. It is a shame.” Vasran shook his head, slugging Deen across the face. He raised his fist to strike again. “It is a shame, but I no longer regret it. I would not have a coward among our ranks.”

  He hoped Lyla would understand. He’d done his best.

  And then he heard the echo of footsteps. Vasran heard them as well, pausing, looking out toward the hallway. Coming closer.

  “I thought I told you people to leave this half to me,” Vasran called out. “Do you not understand how the chain of command works?”

  “I have trouble respecting authority,” a familiar voice said.

  In strode a grinning boy with messy black hair dressed in a dark green spiralsilk cloak. His unusual scarlet-red eyes flashed in the dim light of the lobby, as if aglow. He was accompanied by a woman in a shoulder-strapped shirt with an Ahraran marking under her left eye, two ornate knife sheaths hanging off the belt of her buckled trousers.

  Despite everything, Deen couldn’t hold back a broad smile.

  “That’s what my grandfather always tells me,” the little brat said.