Lucian’s original objective had been survival. He’d been distracted by obtaining the Formless Essence, revealing things to Rowan, and heading with them to rediscover the last eight dragons. Here in Arshade, though… he received quite the reminder.

  Standing beside Aurelia and Theobald, Lucian gazed upon an effigy of what was almost definitely himself burning in the middle of a town square. The people were quite joyously celebrating, dancing with their arms linked. He didn’t need to wonder what they’d do if they found out he was here personally.

  “Just like you claimed,” Aurelia commented, watching the fire. “A very nice city. Friendly. Welcoming.”

  Lucian looked at her, and she laughed in amusement. He was decidedly less amused.

  “We’ll keep you safe,” Isran promised on horseback. “But… best not linger.”

  “Truly? Perhaps we’d like to join the festivities,” Theobald said sarcastically.

  Isran turned his horse forward and led them toward the Palace of the Princes. It wasn’t so grand a building that anyone could see it from anyplace, unlike the palace in Golvenne.

  “Do they hold these burnings often?” Lucian asked as they approached the bronze gates to the palace. “Didn’t realize I had such share of mind here.”

  Isran glanced at Lucian. “Whenever the Martial Prince is visiting, they burn a puppet that looks like you. It’s… don’t worry about it,” he said dismissively. “It’s an old tradition you’ve been placed atop. You’re today’s villain, but there have been others in the past. You fell out of style a few months ago, but now you’re back in style.”

  Lucian felt his heart flutter with unease. The Martial Prince kept an itinerant court, travelling all over the Confederation with his entire army and settling disputes. All cities hosted them—it was an honor and a tradition. Without a doubt, the Martial Prince’s army was the single strongest military force on the continent.

  It was important that Lucian meet the Martial Prince now that he’d learned the draconic skills. Only… he hadn’t seen the army just yet. Lucian didn’t like that part.

  When they neared the palace, the bronze gates opened for their passage. Isran dismounted, handing his horse to an attendant, and then they proceeded into the building. It was more a ceremonial location than a genuine residence, with wide and spacious halls adorned with trophies, banners, and other markers of significance. The Veenish people didn’t favor grandiose displays of architecture. They preferred more tangible displays of power. This mentality was why they could claim to be a great power despite their fragmentary governance style—they were a very capitalist, shrewd people.

  Eventually, Lucian was led to the back of the palace where yet another set of bronze gates awaited them. They parted, and Lucian entered to find two figures waiting. One of them he’d already met: Turke Dumane, Isran’s father. The other was Harika Hamin, sister to Aisha Hamin, the Sacral Princess. She was among the prettiest people that he’d seen, with straight black hair, no makeup, and no adornments whatsoever. She looked cold, stern, and austere, which made her rather the opposite of her sister Aisha.

  Good. Just who I expected, Lucian thought. I can deal with these two. But…

  “Where’s the Martial Prince?” Isran asked, voicing Lucian’s thoughts. “He was here not minutes ago.”

  Harika crossed her arms. “Brutus left not long after you did.” She shook her head in dismay, then looked at Lucian. “Is this him?”

  “It is,” Turke confirmed, staring at him from afar. “Lucian, this is Harika Hamin… the sister of the woman you’re accusing.”

  The word sister was probably meant to intimidate him, but Lucian knew too much about Harika’s character. She didn’t have much love for her sister. The relationship had been strained for a long time now. That said, he couldn’t exactly badmouth Aisha as he pleased. He nodded politely in her direction.

  “How much has Isran told you?” Lucian asked, walking closer.

  “Everything of import. For our purposes, we merely need you to swear to what you say beside this pool,” Harika said calmly. “You’ll agree to submit yourself to us, and our judgment. Do that, a—”

  “Wait, wait,” Theobald interrupted. “Judgment?”

  Harika eyed Theobald. “Yes. Judgment. If we can prove definitively that he lied, there will be consequences.”

  “What consequences, specifically?” Theobald pressed.

  “Flogging,” Turke answered. “Nothing more than that.”

  “How many?”

  “No more than twenty,” Harika answered.

  He grabbed Theobald’s arm. “You’re making me look concerned. I’m not,” Lucian said confidently.

  “Hey. I’m just looking out for you,” Theobald said. “But… it seems fine.”

  Lucian walked to the edge of the pool and peered within. At the bottom of it rested a blessing of the gods. As much as Lucian enjoyed committing crimes to get them, to try and steal that one would be suicide. The people of the Confederation looked upon that blessing as some sort of shrine. False vows made before it were supposedly punished. Many weddings and important state ceremonies were held here.

  Lucian looked back to the two of them. “Alright. What do you need me to say?”

  “Kneel down and place your hand inside the water,” Harika directed.

  Lucian did so. The water felt pleasantly cold, even soothing.

  “Now… what next you swear, you put forth as words subject to our judgment,” Turke said. “We will pursue what you say, but if it is a falsehood… you shall be judged by the Veenish people alone. What do you swear to be true?”

  “I swear to you that I had nothing to do with the murder of Sancar Alkoyen,” Lucian said. “And to the best of my knowledge, the only one who could’ve possibly murdered him was Aisha Hamin.”

  Harika and Turke looked between each other. She was the first to speak, saying, “Very well. That’s sufficient for custom.”

  “Just that?” Lucian rose, shaking the water off his hand. “I thought I’d be interrogated.”

  “Aisha’s sudden disappearance was highly disruptive,” Turke said. He brought his hands up and rubbed them uneasily. “People saw her flight. A caravan on her route… it was annihilated, utterly. Poison was used in the attack. Before we even consider something like prosecuting you, it’s imperative that we sort out our own house. Your timing in offering this was fortunate, nothing more. If Aisha was connected to demons in any way, we cannot in good conscience continue with the belief she was uninvolved in Sancar’s death.”

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “The vow was a formality more than anything,” Harika said. “By law, to search a Sacral Princess’ properties, there must be an accusation of sufficient merit. And even once the accusation is made…”

  “We need the approval of the Martial Prince,” Turke said with a sigh.

  “Brutus Alkoyen,” Lucian said. “And you said he left?”

  Turke nodded. “He’s returned to his army.”

  “Do you think he’ll come back in the morning?” Lucian asked, looking at the reaction. “…guessing not, by those faces.”

  “Brutus is very… traditional,” Turke said. “You two must’ve met at some point.”

  “By traditional, my father means ‘savage,’ ‘primitive.’ Some of his soldiers call him Brutish. Bit of a joke,” Isran said with a slight grin.

  Lucian rubbed his chin. “Believe me, I know…”

  And I’m counting on it.

  “I can talk to him,” Theobald suggested. “I know my way around a sentence. I can persuade him to come talk.”

  “Do you know your way around a spear?” Harika asked. “That’s what Brutus likes to talk with.”

  “I should go,” Lucian said before Theobald could respond. The man looked at him in surprise. “I know Brutus decently well.”

  Harika looked at him with a flat expression. “Are you sure about that? To say the least of it, he didn’t have a kind word to say about you.”

  “I’m sure,” Lucian said certainly.

  Brutus was the most important figure in the Confederation to him. Lucian couldn’t miss this opportunity.

  ***

  Lucian felt a familiar anxiety as he looked on the utterly gigantic army camp that had been set up a few miles away from Arshade. How many soldiers were in that army? How many officers, generals? It was basically the closest thing to a standing army the four great powers had, but it was closer to a nomadic army.

  “You sure you don’t want me to go in on your behalf?” Theobald asked.

  Brutus hated cowards. Lucian needed to go personally if he was going to get what he wanted. He wanted quite a bit, in fact, so it was doubly important. And besides… he had a plan.

  “I am. I’m so sure, in fact, that I’d prefer if you waited back here,” Lucian said.

  Aurelia smiled. “Happily.”

  “No, not you,” Lucian said, eyeing the distant camp nervously. “I need you. In fact, if I say, ‘stupid dog,’ transform, would you? Probably won’t happen, but… just in case.” He offered his hand.

  “You tend to say that a lot,” Aurelia noted dryly, touching his hand long enough for him to release the Mentor’s Seal. “Might be a bad key phrase. Why not ‘smart dog?’”

  “True. I’d never say that under ordinary circumstances,” Lucian agreed, and she scoffed.

  He eyed the army camp. The soldiers aside, the officers of that army were largely graduates of the Collegium. Most served under the Martial Prince after graduating. All that to say… it was quite dangerous. That said, he wouldn’t have come here at all without confidence.

  “I don’t want to do this… I really don’t want to do this…” he muttered. He slapped his face a few times, catching odd glances from his companions. “Alright. Let’s go.”

  Aurelia followed, but said, “You’re making me nervous. Is this man really that bad?”

  “Brutus is… fine, but I’m walking into a camp full of people with diehard loyalty to the man,” Lucian said, coming near the outer perimeter of the camp. They didn’t make any effort to hide their approach. “Still, I have a plan in mind. Don’t transform unless I tell you to, please.”

  “What kind of plan?” Aurelia asked in concern, but Lucian didn’t answer.

  I know they’re disciplined, but Lucian was very good at making people lose their discipline, he reflected.

  As they approached the camp, Lucian began to hear the chatter of thousands of voices. People on horseback patrolled the perimeter, and one of them galloped up to Lucian and Aurelia when they came near.

  “State your name,” the man on horseback said. “And your purpose.”

  ‘State your name.’ That hated phrase the man said did little to calm Lucian. He answered straightforwardly, “Lucian Villamar, here to talk to Brutus Alkoyen.”

  “Hahaha,” the man laughed, then brought a magic lantern up to peer down at Lucian. “Heavens, look at that hair… just like my sisters. Never thought I’d see this day come. Shame I can’t drag you by it. And such a pretty lady… hmm.”

  The man reached down to a pack on his horse’s haunches, then produced a horn. He blew a short and peculiar tune, almost mocking, and then the entire camp went totally silent. Lucian’s heart almost popped out of its chest.

  “Come on… Lucian,” the rider said. “I’ll lead you to the man.”

  Lucian followed along after the rider. One by one, all of the fires and lights across the camp started to die out until it was only their escort that had a light. When they passed into the perimeter of the camp…

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Lucian felt the vibrations rise up his feet just as he heard it. It was like a big drum pounding upon the earth. Tens of thousands of feet, of spears, pounded the ground all at the same time. It rattled his teeth. It made the ground feel unsteady underneath his feet. He could feel it reverberating in his ribs. It inspired primal emotions.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Lucian saw them in the dark as they passed by—the grinning faces of malevolent soldiers. They raised their spears and slammed them down as one, so perfectly in sync they seemed like automatons. Those that didn’t have spears stomped. Some did both at once. It was like a great titan was drumming the earth from above. The pace was constant enough that Lucian couldn’t even feel his own heartbeat anymore. The discipline needed for such a display…

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  The rider put out his magic lamp with a laugh, and they were left blind. Aurelia grabbed his arm at that moment. Ordinarily he would’ve pushed her away, but he was feeling the need to clutch an arm himself. The great vibrations made his knees weak, his legs unsteady. The ground was firm, but felt like mud. It felt like it had to walk with a soul wound. With his free hand, Lucian conjured spell light to guide their path.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  As they neared the center of the camp, the pounding grew more intense. The officers stayed closest to their commander, and they shook the earth all the fiercer. All around, Lucian started to see sparks flying in the dark, like flint and steel was struck. They never appeared in the same place twice, so he saw flashes of twisted images in his peripheries. They entered into a wide-open area in the center of the camp. When he set foot into the center…

  Silence.

  Silence so deafening Lucian could feel how tense he was. His blood pounded in his skull, his muscles were taut, his breathing was heavier than it ought to be. But there in the darkness, he saw faintly glowing orange runes. They barely traced the outline of a spear. By the time he realized that, he felt the warm metal of Brutus’ spearhead at his neck.

  “Here comes the man that killed my brother,” Brutus said, his voice powerful and intimidating. “Or at best led him to death. Here he comes, all but alone. Bold.” He moved his spearhead with such grace it traced Lucian’s neck, leaving nary the slightest cut. “At least you’re no longer a coward.”

  Lucian held out his fire spell, barely illuminating Brutus Alkoyen, the greatest spearman in the world. And, if he played his cards right… the Charlton to his Miriam. He needed this man’s teachings. But as it stood, it was hard enough to keep his breathing steady, let alone play any cards.

  “You should’ve stayed a coward,” Brutus continued, then planted the spearhead right before his eye, close enough Lucian could see every fiery rune etched on its surface. The flames licked at his vision, and Lucian shied away. It followed with unsettling precision. “They live longer.”

  Lucian had a rather bold plan in mind, but this welcome… it made him doubt himself.