Viktor stirred on the bed, though calling it a bed was perhaps a bit too generous. The thing was little more than a slab of stone, the chill of its hard surface pressing against his skin despite layers of clothes in the way.

  Still, he supposed it served its purpose.

  A proper bed for a human would not do much good here. The wooden frame would splinter the moment Sebekton shifted his bulk; there was no way it could survive a single night under the massive weight of the Crocodilian. Also, Sebekton probably didn’t find the stone unpleasant at all. In fact, it might even feel soft.

  As for Viktor himself, he had long since stopped caring. He had slept on hard beds, soft beds, and at times, no bed at all. Frozen ground, damp ship decks, even the back of something alive and moving. After a while, the distinctions blurred. And truth be told, what was the difference between them and the Emperor’s gilded bedchamber? Without Celestia beside him, they were cold all the same anyway.

  His eyes drifted over the Guardian’s abode. The last time he had been here, it had been empty and spacious. Now, there were books. A lot of them. Stacks of volumes in every corner, piled high and leaning low in a precarious manner, threatening to bury anyone foolish enough to breathe a little too hard.

  It was, of course, largely his own fault. He kept bringing Sebekton books, and he hadn’t realized how many he had delivered—until now. Apparently, the Crocodilian had been hoarding them like a greedy dragon, and the result looked like a library run by someone who thought shelving was a waste of perfectly good floor space.

  The big guy himself was sitting on a chair across the room, hunched over one of his latest acquisitions, great claws surprisingly delicate as he turned the pages, eyes devouring the text with the sort of intensity usually reserved for live prey. Even after all this time, Viktor still couldn’t quite get used to it, the image of such a ferocious, muscle-bound giant so utterly absorbed in a book, as solemn and reverent as a priest with sacred scripture.

  Viktor was going to meet with Orloth today, but the Acolyte of the Deep was still in the middle of his weekly meeting with a certain Lyndorian spy. No, former Lyndorian spy. She was his creature now, whether she liked it or not. Anyway, there was no point in interrupting them. So he was just waiting here, killing time in the Crocodilian’s den.

  He could, of course, send his vision over there and watch the meeting unfold in real time. But he wasn’t in the mood to play spymaster today. Whatever Yvonne had to say, Orloth would relay to him soon enough. He was their master, after all. His job was to give jobs to other people. There was no need to micromanage his minions too much.

  Still, sitting around doing nothing while being bored was not really a good idea, so he let his gaze wander to the nearest stack of books by the bed.

  Funny things, books.

  Once upon a time, when he had been just a boy, about Quinn’s age, he had also loved these things. Couldn’t get enough of them. He even had his own collection.

  Then one day, that collection was reduced to ash. Along with the house. Along with Leo.

  He had barely touched a book since.

  Viktor reached for the one on top of the pile. “The Great Chronicle: Five Centuries of Strife, Volume VII.” The first book he had ever brought to Sebekton, wasn’t it? Probably a different volume, though. Now all seven were here, but the Crocodilian didn’t seem to bother keeping them together. Or perhaps this was his idea of order. Either way, they were scattered around the room, buried under other books.

  “You’ve taken an interest in the history of the East, Master?” Sebekton asked, glancing up from his own reading.

  No, it just happens to be the one closest to my hand, Viktor thought. But he didn’t bother to clarify. “You remember everything? The content of every book?”

  “Not everything, of course,” Sebekton said with a shrug. “Only the gist of it. I can tell what the book is about just by looking at the cover.”

  Viktor chuckled. “You must’ve picked up some new tales, then. Next time we’ve got a storytelling session, you should be the one doing the talking.”

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  “Good idea, Master.” Sebekton’s laughter rumbled through the room. “I’ll impress the old priest for sure.”

  Calling Khenemhotep merely old was like calling the sea a little wet, Viktor thought, amused, looking down at the book in his hands again.

  Sure enough, it was indeed devoted to the East. Names flashed before his eyes as he flipped through the pages of the great tome. The Wind-Scoured Steppe. The Tempest Riders. The rise of the Khanate of Tzharan. The Ordo, the mobile palace of the Khagan.

  He had to admit that he was not very familiar with the East. And he was certainly not alone in that. There was a reason all this material had been shoved into the final volume, after the more “civilized” parts of the world had been thoroughly catalogued. The steppe was vast, yes, but barren, at least to the eyes of the settled folk. To most, it was a place to avoid, not to understand. A place people only thought about when its inhabitants came riding out with steel and horses.

  Most of the time, those were just small-scale skirmishes. The raiders sacked a few border settlements, took what they could carry, torched the rest, then went home with their loot. But once every few centuries, a strong and ambitious leader would rise, unite the clans into something resembling an empire, and launch an invasion that was truly catastrophic. Fortunately for the so-called civilized folk, such unity tended to be short-lived. The moment that mighty leader died, his empire collapsed, with his children and generals fighting each other for dominance.

  None of that had happened during Viktor’s lifetime, though. When he wore the crown, the nomads didn’t fight him. They bowed to him and called him their Khagan, though the title was largely symbolic. They offered tribute, he sent back gifts, and that was the extent of it. As long as they stayed where they were, he would do the same. They managed themselves however they liked, he couldn’t care less.

  The funny thing was that, in the end, he died and his empire collapsed, just like every Khagan before him. Was that title cursed or something? Either way, the fact remained that he was killed by the Six Heroes, and one of them was a warrior from the East, whose name he hadn’t known at the time, but now he did.

  Tzhara.

  The man went home after the deed was done, carrying the power he had stolen from the corpse of an emperor. And with that newfound power, he bent the clans to his will, forged them into a single nation, and founded the Khanate of Tzharan. Named it after himself, of course. Unlike the short-lived Khanates of the past, however, this one actually endured. Three centuries had passed, but it still held together.

  Another odd thing was that Tzhara had held back his Tempest Riders. Very strange, indeed. For thousands of years, the people of the steppe had looked westward, toward the Central Plains, dreaming of conquest. Yet when the Plains finally lay abandoned, no one came to claim them. Then, over time, the land grew wild, swallowed by the forest. Now, the endless wood served as a natural barrier between the East and the rest of the world.

  “Come to think of it,” Sebekton said, “that warrior I fought on the second floor, he came from the East, right, Master?”

  “Yes,” Viktor replied with a nod. “And from what I saw, you were clearly having a good time.”

  The Crocodilian grinned, baring the line of teeth that could crush boulders. “Indeed. A shame the fight was interrupted before we could settle it properly.”

  Well, yes, the duel between Sebekton and Ba’atar had ended prematurely when Ekon unleashed his mysterious power. In a single instant, half the mortuary complex had been vaporized. Dust and smoke clouded the air as the survivors fled in the ensuing chaos.

  “If it had continued, you would’ve been the one standing at the end. As strong as he is, he’s only human. He could only keep pace with you thanks to the Druidess’s potion. Once that ran out, it would’ve been over for him.”

  “I see.” Sebekton nodded. “Still, it was the best fight I’ve had in a long while. Don’t know when I’ll find another one like it.”

  “Don’t worry. More and more adventurers are coming to Daelin with each passing day. You’ll never run out of worthy opponents.”

  The Crocodilian let out a booming laugh. “Excellent. I’m really looking forward to it.”

  At that moment—

  [Master, Orloth has concluded his meeting with Yvonne. She is leaving the dungeon. He is ready to see you now.]

  Finally. Viktor pushed himself up from the bed. “I have to go.”

  Sebekton inclined his head. “Of course, Master. Should I escort you?”

  “No need. Orloth is close by.”

  Viktor stepped out of the Crocodilian’s dwelling and into the open. He drew in a slow breath. The air was thick and heavy with moisture, but that was to be expected, given that the place was surrounded on all sides by an endless expanse of water.

  Two Cyclopes lounged nearby, each a mountain of meat and scars, their weapons, crude clubs the size of tree trunks, lying forgotten at their feet.

  They were engrossed in what passed for pastime among their kind: a game involving pebbles, a wooden bowl, and a great deal of guttural commentary. The rules, if such things existed, had been lost to reason. One would toss a pebble, the other would grunt, then both would roar in triumph or frustration, depending on where the stone landed. The ground around them was littered with the splintered remains of less fortunate bowls. This game really had a high mortality rate for its equipment.

  He should keep his distance, as these creatures’ aim left a lot to be desired. Every so often, a stone veered wildly and found its mark on someone’s head rather than the bowl, setting off a chorus of furious bellows that would have been almost comical if it weren’t happening too close for his comfort. He had the protection of his Supreme Thauma, of course, but it would be frankly embarrassing to waste it on a stray rock.

  So he skirted the pair with careful steps, then headed for the bridge. To the arena of sand he went. There, the Acolyte of the Deep was waiting.