The conference was scheduled to begin at nine that morning. Pillard had intended to be present at seven, but his wife would not let him leave so early. She buttoned up his coat and lifted his wrists one after the other to fix his cuffs.

  “Today is the day,” he said.

  “Don’t be excited about ruining people’s lives,” Haiana replied.

  “Let’s not be dramatic about it.”

  She brushed his suit with the back of her hand, snorting at her own remark. Bait. She wanted to rile him up, to drag him into another pointless debate and delay him further.

  Yuna, Sexton, Henrikia, Solvaria, and Arden—Powers of the Living World. Representatives from these five countries formed the International Court, and would gather at the Sencera on a matter of great importance. That matter being judgment over the continued existence of the Sorels.

  Pillard could hardly contain his eagerness. His stride down the stairs had not been this quick in years. He slowed to observe the preparations underway in the main hall. You see, today was special for another reason: his son, Pariston, was coming home from the university as a degree-holder.

  All the servants were busy that morning. They set out silverware and chalices around the tables. Out in the back garden, more of them arranged grills, while others carried out sacks of coal. Pillard had asked his neighbour to lend out his brewery a month prior to the event. No one would be served a glass half empty tonight.

  “This needs to be bigger.” The banner hanging from the upper floor did not match the scale of the décor. “Make it bigger.”

  “This is not a representation of your joy,” Haiana said wryly.

  “It’s not enough, that’s all,” Pillard replied. “None of this is enough for Pariston.”

  “Pariston would hardly notice the difference if we had one slice of cake and a half-glass of water. We all know what this is really about.”

  Haiana was partially right. Pariston was bringing home his fiancée for the first time—a girl he had been secretive about for some time, one he had courted during his final year. The celebration was, in part, for the lucky girl as well.

  Turning to leave, he said to Haiana, “I will be bringing some friends from the Sencera with me. Prepare a high table for them. We also need a place to celebrate our victory at the court today.”

  He tipped his head and was heading out when Haiana called after him, sucking in her teeth apologetically.

  “What is it?” Pillard asked, frowning.

  “Could you hold on for just a moment longer?” she said. “You can’t leave yet.”

  Pillard checked his watch. “What is it?”

  “I asked Marcel to go with you. He overslept but is almost ready.”

  He waved her off, heading for the door. “This is not an excursion. If the boy has nothing to do, he can welcome his brother home at the station.”

  “You’re the one who complains he does nothing worthwhile. I consider a trip to the Sencera as valuable life experience.”

  “Haiana, I did not plan for this.”

  “He won’t get in the way. Who knows, he may make some friends of his own once you get there.”

  “I am giving him a minute and a half,” Pillard said, glaring at the second hand ticking past.

  “I’m here.” Marcel stood in a brown jacket, his hair slicked back. His appearance stopped Pillard short for a moment—it suited him.

  “You should wear that more often,” said Pillard, turning toward the door. “Come along.”

  Out on the sidewalk, a convoy waited for Pillard: eight SUVs, each handmade in Yuna and imported by ship. He had sixteen bodyguards, all dressed in black suits with golden cufflinks. On sight, they got into the vehicles, revving their engines.

  In no time, they were on their way.

  “Why do you keep so many bodyguards?” Marcel asked, his face turned toward the window. “It’s not as if someone can actually hurt you.”

  It was a question framed more as an accusation than one born of curiosity.

  Pillard replied, “These men, these cars, are not meant for me. It was not my money that bought them. The people paid for them, so that I can be a fitting High Commander. It matters much more how I am perceived than who I really am to the commoners.”

  “‘If you can’t charm them with love, keep them in line with fear,’” Marcel quoted him.

  “Your brother never struggles to win people over. You can tell he was born to be High Commander, can’t you?”

  Marcel didn’t answer. He fixed his gaze on the window. When the morning sunlight hit the glass, it bounced off his ear piercings. The boy had far too many gold studs climbing up his ear. It had been Pillard’s idea, back when he thought constant exposure to gold might awaken the crafter in the boy.

  Pillard pressed a button beside his seat, and a compartment slid open. He picked up a glass and dropped in two small cubes of astaphite from the tray. Next to the tray sat a bottle of Ordinaire. Pillard poured it halfway and downed it in one gulp, the liquor burning all the way down. He poured again, the golden liquid clinking against the cubes.

  “Here.”

  “It’s not going to work,” said Marcel.

  “Drink.”

  Marcel sighed, pinching his nose. He reached for the glass. After a tentative first sip, he downed the rest, wincing as he did.

  “Well?” said Pillard.

  “I told you.”

  “With that attitude, how would it work?” asked Pillard. “Your brother woke up at four every morning to do a hundred push-ups with his old man. I never asked him, but he did it anyway. I remember watching him punch through steel bars with his bare knuckles until he could snap them in half.”

  “Don’t care,” said Marcel, shrugging again.

  Haiana came to mind at that moment—a natural reflex whenever Pillard wanted to strike the boys. He restrained himself and let out a long sigh.

  “It’s fine if you don’t want to become a Gaverian,” said Pillard. “But what are your plans for the future? You have no ambition. Look at Pariston. He finished Mas Lanas and still went on to earn a degree at the university—all to become High Commander one day.”

  “Stop doing that, please,” said Marcel. “I don’t like it when you compare us.”

  “I’m only doing it to make you better.”

  “I’m fine the way I am.”

  “Don’t deceive yourself.”

  “I didn’t want to come,” said Marcel, looking out the window. “I’d rather be anywhere than with you.”

  “I don’t want you here either.”

  The Elder Hall stood atop an elevation surrounded by Rings. There was no risk to security, as these Rings were active for occasions such as this. Members of the court from around the world moved in droves toward the entrance.

  Pillard climbed the stairs alongside his son. Upon reaching the summit, they came across Pillard’s subordinates—Calimer, his Firstman, and the new graduates from Mas Lanas. They saluted, tipping their heads in acknowledgment to Marcel as well.

  “Take him with you to the audience chamber,” requested Pillard, giving Marcel a firm pat on the back. “Don’t cause him too much trouble.”

  They saluted again and walked off with Marcel in their middle.

  Had Pariston not been the perfect son, perhaps Marcel would not have turned out the way he had. Even in the way the men walked, it was clear Marcel was the least confident among them.

  “These bones shall never rot, will they?”

  That voice. Pillard turned, already laughing. He embraced his old compatriot, and they patted each other on the back.

  Demettle had lost a great deal of weight. His hair had always been white, so no one could tell when he had officially grown old. For now, his spirit seemed revived; his energy was still present.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Pillard said, still clasping Demettle’s arm. “I didn’t expect you to be the one representing Henrikia.”

  “Who isn’t eager to discuss the Living World’s most infamous family?”

  The Elder Hall had several compartments. On the base floor, a large auditorium hosted all minor representatives of the invited nations. The empty seats were hard to ignore—a majority of councilmen from Henrikia were absent. It still took some getting used to that earthmen would no longer represent Henrikian society. The Blood Storm’s mark stretched wide indeed.

  That did not matter today.

  Behind the auditorium was the audience chamber, where commoners and all uninvited individuals could sit and listen to the proceedings of the conference. This was where Pillard’s son and the Gaverians would be seated.

  Above the auditorium was a second floor, manned by guards and military personnel from the invited nations. The speaker and judge for each nation would sit in separate balconies. Five member nations formed the International Court.

  Seated on his throne, in the balcony directly opposite Pillard, was Felis Francene Xenerisis, the Emperor of Yuna. A young, lean boy with long eyelashes and faded green eyes—it was hard to take him seriously, especially with the two illumined arrows spinning around his head. He wore flowery robes adorned with astaphite-laced fabric. The flag draped over his balcony was green, bearing the golden emblem of a setting sun. If Pillard recalled correctly, this would be Felis’ first meeting.

  To Felis’ immediate left sat a ruler from the other side of the world—the Saint of Kil’Emis, a region of Solvaria. Their flag was red, marked with a golden emblem of the rising sun. Their representative, Jann Carlin, wore a long red coat and gripped a golden staff in his left hand, his strong hand resting on a pistol. Unlike Felis, this one resembled what a man should look like. He sat with his back straight and his face still, immune to distraction.

  Opposite Carlin sat the swayer from New Arden, Floren. She wore a violet gown to match the violet flag behind her, emblazoned with the red and blue emblem of a Saprigus. The final member present, aside from Pillard himself, was Demettle of Henrikia. The two of them were the oldest members of the court—and the only ones who truly had a reason to be there.

  The meeting began with a hearing from Sexton’s barristers, who presented the case before the court over the atrocities committed by the Sorels. They called it the Sunset Act—a law to keep the Sorel family in check.

  “Ashel is no longer with us, neither is Thorel—hence the reason Sexton calls for this gathering. We have entered a new age where the Sorels no longer command the greatest armies in the world. Yuna, Solvaria, Henrikia—I know how much the Sorels mean to your respective nations, but I beseech you to set aside your biases and listen to what I must say in full.

  “Three million innocent lives have been taken over the last decade alone. From Varmel Sorel’s destruction of the Free Lands with his—”

  “The savages deserved what was coming to them,” Demettle interjected. “We gave the Norsadians a place to stay, but they kept attacking. What did you expect us to do?”

  “Allow me to finish,” said Pillard, not at all offended. “Thorel’s destruction of Arden came at a time when the Swayer’s March had long been defeated—when Arden had already surrendered.”

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  The young swayer Floren’s head lifted. She looked toward Pillard before quickly tilting her gaze downward again.

  “The Henrikians know it was unnecessary. They know Thorel used Sovisansel without provocation. All in all, it was an act of cruelty and malice, and even to this day, the people of New Arden still suffer the consequences.”

  “Thorel asked Arden to surrender,” said Jann. “Rather, the Ardenites hid members of the Swayer’s March among civilians. If you ask me, it was Arden who was in the wrong for placing their own people’s lives at risk. Thorel did what was necessary.”

  “You can’t justify the murder of a thousand innocents for a few swayers,” the woman said. Her accent was the thickest among the foreigners.

  “Do not speak of things you do not understand,” Jann fired back.

  She wanted to say more but knew better, reclining in her seat instead. Jann did not provoke her further.

  “Listen to yourselves, Chancellor of Henrikia,” said Pillard. “Look at how quickly you would defend the atrocious acts committed by men who share the same blood as we do. I cited those examples—out of many from history—to make this exact point.

  “What makes the Sorels powerful is not a single trait they have over the rest of us. Far more powerful ascenders have lived, capable of casting spells far greater than Sovisansel. Yet we revere the Sorels more than the others. Why? I can tell you the reason.

  “You continue to believe in their ties to godhood—that their connection to Rheina leaves them beyond accountability. That is what makes them powerful, and I, along with every Sexite, am sick of it.

  “We propose the Sunset Act at this point in history, when the Sorels are at their weakest. What we seek is to govern the reproduction of Sorels moving forward. If we can prevent the birth of new Sorels, we can live the next hundred years without the threat of Sovisansel.”

  The room fell silent.

  It was hard to tell whether he had won over anyone other than the swayer. All he needed was one person among the three Sorel-affiliated countries on the panel to be convinced.

  Felis lifted his wrist, then raised his full hand. “For one who has strong feelings about the continued bloodline of the Sorels, you do not mind your son courting one.” The words came out slowly, yet carried the weight of malice.

  Laughter brewed from below and spread until the delegates throughout the hall were caught up in it. The only ones who did not find it amusing was, of course, Pillard.

  “With all due respect, Your Grace, my son has nothing to do with a Sorel,” said Pillard. “I am well aware of that fact—and so is everyone involved with Sexton’s affairs. It is merely a rumour intended to ruin my reputation.”

  “I don’t trust men like you,” said the emperor. “You say one thing and parade as another.”

  The vote followed soon after. Sexton and Yuna voted in favour of the Sunset Act. Henrikia, New Arden, and Solvaria voted against it. That might not have mattered much, since their votes carried only thirty percent of the final verdict. The remaining seventy percent was decided by twenty-five appointed delegates from each member nation. The votes swung heavily against Pillard’s proposed Act.

  Nothing pained him more than realizing—after running the numbers mentally—that to have lost as badly as he did, some of Sexton’s own delegates must have voted against the Act.

  By sunset, the conference was over. Demettle and Pillard stood together at the entrance of the Elder Hall.

  “Your new position has turned you into a liar,” Pillard said, snorting.

  “I speak as the people,” Demettle returned, bowing slightly.

  “There is nothing to do but concede the matter,” said Pillard. “All I wanted was to make this world a slightly better place.”

  “It already is, and will continue to be so,” said Demettle. “Ashel’s daughters are not interested in power. His eldest, Schemel, is still here in Sexton despite her father’s absence. If she had any intention of taking my position as chancellor, she would have done so already.”

  “I may be worried for nothing,” Pillard said, so softly he could barely hear himself.

  “You are, good friend. My vision for Henrikia is one where we leave behind our past as men of war and look toward a future of prosperity. The Sorels will not be here to ruin that for us this time.”

  For now, Pillard would focus on the better things in life. “Why don’t you stay the night at my estate? My son is returning home from university today. He’s a graduate.”

  “As intrigued as I am, I have to return to Henrikia tonight,” Demettle said. “Not many in the capital appreciate a Grem savage like myself representing Henrikia on the international stage. What would become of my reputation if I were seen eating and drinking with our rivals?”

  They both laughed—but Pillard wished it weren’t so.

  Haiana exceeded all expectations. The party had come alive. Prominent men and women from across the city were gathered in one place, chatting as they enjoyed the live band’s performance. No one seemed to have heard the news about the events at court—or perhaps no one cared as much as Pillard had thought.

  More people filled the courtyard, finding seats beside the grills to try the kebabs. His wife was leading a few elders around their home, showing off the sculptures and paintings in Pillard’s collection. Guests approached to congratulate him on his son’s engagement, but Pillard ignored most of them. He sat at the table facing the entrance, waiting for his son’s arrival.

  He didn’t have to wait long. A car pulled up on the sidewalk, followed by the sound of a hundred feet rushing toward the main door. There were screams that turned into cheers, and a delighted laugh that thanked everyone. Pillard couldn’t help but smile as he met Pariston in the hallway—head and shoulders above everyone else.

  The crowd parted, giving way for Pariston to meet his father. He looked just as he had the last time Pillard saw him, except now, he had a woman’s hands around his arm—a lean young woman who was not a Sorel.

  “Father, this is Ophelia,” Pariston said.

  “Ordinaire,” the girl added.

  Pillard took her pale hand, clasping it in his. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Lady Ordinaire.” When she smiled, it was infectious. Her wide eyes seemed almost to pop with joy as she was embraced.

  They sat alone at a table reserved for just the three of them. Despite their tired looks, Pillard encouraged them to talk at length about how they met and when they decided to marry. Pariston did most of the talking, occasionally pausing to accept a congratulatory remark from a guest. That was when Pillard realized something wasn’t right about the night.

  Pariston was never this reserved. He wasn’t one to sit for long behind a table to have a proper conversation. He would normally be out there, showing off his wife to anyone who would look. Acting on his suspicion, Pillard spent the next half hour studying his son’s eyes. For about a third of the time, they were fixed on the courtyard.

  Though they continued to talk, neither of them was paying much attention anymore. Pariston tried to throw Pillard off with the occasional joke, but it was already too late. The girl, Ophelia, seemed unaware of what was going on. She continued to smile and answer questions when asked.

  “If you would excuse me,” Pariston said, standing. Pillard’s finger stopped him from moving any further.

  “Sit,” Pillard said, rising and taking Pariston’s place. Fear: it was there, hidden behind the smug persona. As much as he tried, that gremlin of an emperor had wormed his way into Pillard’s head. He wasn’t the hypocrite everyone thought he was, was he? No — Pariston would never betray him.

  On his way through to the courtyard, a hand tapped him on the shoulder. Pillard ignored it, moving on until the hand persisted.

  “Excuse me, Rhen Llyod,” the voice attached to the hand said. It was a familiar accent; the swayer from Arden had a similar one.

  Once again, his deduction was right. The man before him was no man but a young boy about Marcel’s age. He was dressed in a cheap jacket, bright gems pierced through his ears. No doubt about it: his long black hair marked him as a foreigner.

  “You do not know me, sir, but I am a huge supporter,” he said. “Your son, Marcel, asked me to come to the party.”

  “You’re the friend he made at the conference.”

  The boy recounted what Pillard had said, nodding with delight. “I support your Act, sir. I also believe the Sorels should be gone. My family is from Arden. They tell me all the time how Thorel—”

  “I am quite busy, son. Can you treat yourself to something from the buffet?”

  “No, sorry, I will not take much of your time. I wanted you to take this.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a flyer. A hand-drawn flyer. Pillard scrutinized the paper, trying to make out the drawing.

  “What is this?”

  “It is a… Gykaro. A wheel within a wheel,” the boy said with a shy laugh. “But they are all broken. It’s the movement I began back at home. It would mean a lot if you became a patron, sir. We do not know when we would get an opportunity as good as this again.”

  Pillard pressed the sheet to the boy’s chest and held it firm. “I could have men drag you out of here for organised terrorism,” Pillard snarled into his ear. “Stay out of trouble.”

  “I know where the Sorel girl is,” the boy said. “She is with Marcel, under the trees.”

  That was the end of that. Pillard’s temper was near the boiling point. He pushed through the grill smoke, kicking away a few chairs in the grass. He did not know exactly where he was headed. He would follow his anger.

  The foreigner was right. Marcel was here, seated with a glass, talking quietly to the girl in the chair next to him. They were alone and unobserved. Pillard’s shadow fell over the two of them, ending their laughter.

  “Father,” Marcel said, standing. “I didn’t know you were looking for me.” He fumbled a bit, making eye contact with the girl. “This is Schemel. My friend.”

  The girl lifted a hand to greet him. She was in a white dress, with her handbag pressed to her lap. She slouched, hiding her eyes—as if he didn’t already know they were as green as the devil’s. She had done something to her hair, but it didn’t matter much. He wasn’t born yesterday to be deceived by Ashel’s daughter.

  “I know who she is,” said Pillard. “I do not understand why you would invite her here, Marcel.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Marcel snapped.

  “I came on my own,” the girl said quickly. “He saw me sitting here and kept me company, that’s all. He doesn’t know who I am.”

  Marcel’s fervour faltered, afraid he may have overstepped somewhere.

  “Get inside,” Pillard said to his son.

  “No. You can’t tell me what to do.” Marcel backed away, stepping closer to the girl. He took her by the hand, pulling her to her feet. “If you’re going to kick her out over some stupid grudge, then you can see me out as well.”

  “Please, let go of me,” the girl said, freeing her wrist from Marcel’s grip. “I didn’t come here because of you.”

  “Don’t be afraid of him,” said Marcel, trying to comfort her. “He’s all bark and no bite, I swear.”

  “Let go.”

  “Trust me.”

  A swing struck Marcel clean on the jaw, sending him crashing to the ground. His glass toppled from the chair, shattering in the grass. Those nearby rushed toward the scene where Pariston brawled on the floor with his younger brother.

  “Don’t you dare touch her!” Pariston barked, striking Marcel again and again. The girl wanted to break them apart at first, but one look at Pillard’s stone-cold face changed her mind.

  “Come with me,” Pillard said to her. He turned and walked. She followed.

  “Please, Sir, I did not mean any harm, but could you let me speak to Pariston before I leave?” she pleaded.

  “Embarrass me any further and this night won’t end well for you,” Pillard said through clenched teeth. She bowed her head and hurried on, handbag pressed against her belly.

  Haiana moved among the guests waiting inside the hall, curious to know what had happened outside. From a single glance she could tell he was more than unhappy; she set about getting everyone as far away from Pillard as possible.

  He reached the exit and the girl stopped following him. “I want to talk to Pariston,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. Pillard’s hand gripped her arm. It took the might of mountains to keep him from snapping it in half. She was afraid, yet she shared something in common with him. He won’t say what.

  “Mention a word about your pregnancy and I will slit your throat before you know it,” he said without moving his lips. She heard every word.

  The doors to one of his cars opened. She crawled in, and he followed. Without a word, the driver set off, taking Pillard and Schemel as far away from the estate as they could. She sat with her fingers digging deep into the seat.

  “Do you understand why you need to get rid of the child?” he asked.

  “Respectfully, Rhen Llyod, it is not your business,” she said. “Pariston deserves to know what has happened.”

  “Would you like to keep it?”

  The driver made a turn down a narrow street. To Pillard’s far right was the Ossen Sea, its waves hitting the stony shore. Streetlights flashed past the car, cutting the interior in bands of light and shadow.

  “I want to,” she said. Wrong answer.

  “Are you aware of the damage your family has caused the Living World?”

  “You can’t put a number on my life.”

  “I can give you a number. Six point six million. That is how many people your grandfather killed.”

  “I am the last to learn Sovisansel,” she said. “But I promised myself never to teach anyone or to use it. That was my father’s vision for the future and I would not disappoint him.”

  “Wouldn’t giving birth to more Sorels be a contradiction to that promise? There is no guarantee you would not change your mind one day and teach him, or he could learn it on his own by mistake. Who knows, he might target Sexton just to kill the bastard of a grandfather his mother hates.”

  She had no answer.

  “Take us to the nearest clinic,” Pillard told the driver.

  Schemel shook her head. “You can’t force me,” she said, deluded into thinking she had any power over him. “You can’t do it.”

  She could keep rambling. It wouldn’t change anything. Pillard relaxed, shrugging. A mistake he shouldn’t have made.

  Before he could react, light peeled off the street lanterns, spearing through the windshield. The beams jabbed the driver through the chest, and the car spun out of control.

  Schemel kicked the door clean off its hinges. She leapt out with thunderous force. The vehicle crashed into the railing. Pillard cursed and bolted out after her.

  He caught her alone on a narrow street in a quiet neighbourhood — exhausted already, but still sprinting with her full might. She stopped when she saw him at the far end of the road and screamed.

  Doors slammed. Curtains shut. Lights blinked out one by one. Dogs barked madly behind fences, daring her to cross. No one would come.

  Still backing away, she drew the light from the lampposts. It coiled into spinning blades around her hands. Panting, she steadied herself and aimed them at him, lips tight. Pillard folded his arms, curious to see what she was capable of.

  The light daggers shot for his head. He didn’t move. The spell barely tingled.

  Realizing the difference in class, she turned again and ran. Pillard dashed forward, raised his elbow, and drove it toward her belly. She snapped her palms open to block, taking the full force.

  She crashed straight through a nearby fence, where two short, rabid dogs pounced. They tore at her from the front. She didn’t scream as he thought she would — she barked back, kicked, and drove her fist clean through the head of the first. The second clamped down on her ankle. She gritted her teeth, sprang up, smashed through a window, seized a shard, and drove it through the dog’s skull.

  Ashel’s firstborn was a proper soldier. Had she been anything other than a Sorel, would he have treated her so cruelly? She had come alone, uninvited, only to speak with Pariston. She had spoken the truth, and Pillard had hated her for it. Schemel would have been perfect for Pariston — but she was a Sorel.

  Now, wounded and bleeding, she dragged herself across the porch and pounded on the door.

  “He wants to kill me,” she whispered. “Please, help me!”

  “Call the authorities!” a voice from the house shouted. “Please, leave us alone.”

  She was too exhausted to run, so she insisted until Pillard dragged her away, far from the neighbourhood. He set her down on the floor of an alley. “You heal quickly,” he said, noticing her ankle had already mended. “That is remarkable. Even I don’t heal that fast.”

  Schemel conserved her strength, searching for sources of light to open an angle of attack. When a car drove past, she snatched a few rays from its headlights, shaped them into a dagger, and struck at Pillard’s belly. It did nothing, of course. He made his own blade—one of gold—and squatted in front of her.

  Her resolve, her fight, her resistance, shattered at once. “Please,” she whispered, the word torn from her as if it were the hardest thing she could do. “I promise—you won’t ever see me again.”

  “That’s hardly a promise. You will pray every night our paths never cross.”

  “Please, I promise. I will never teach—I will never teach anyone Sovisansel. Not my child, not anyone. Please don’t kill him.”

  He did not expect to see tears.

  “Please, don’t take him away.”

  “Our blood cannot mix, Sorel.” He patted her head. “What kind of man would I be if I did not stand by my principles?”

  “Have you never loved?” she asked.

  He struck her through the womb. The small life beating beside hers was still. She did not scream as he had expected. A proper disciple of Se Fina never would. There was no hatred in those green eyes of hers. There was nothing at all.

  Still squatting, he lifted her chin and patted her cheek. “Listen to me very carefully,” he said. “If you ever cast Sovisansel, I will not come for just you. Schemel, I will come for every Sorel. That is my promise.”