The Drowsy Coast stretched along the sun-warmed ocean waters. Mutaaresh was its brightest, but not its only coastal jewel: across the languid bay stood the Vafian city of Iriminak. Farther south, Niyayesh and Mirza lay hidden among cypress groves and vineyards; beyond them the empire’s borders met the Kingdom of Navara, and Pernakia, drowning in a sea of sands. Erida had lost much land in the southeast: Sihem had driven the Eridians from the shores of the Pink Sea, taking Hafur. In the east, the losses had been smaller: on the road to the Great Mountains lay Hatra, which his army had never reached. It was there they were headed now, having departed immediately after the emperor’s ashes were laid to rest.

  The city’s noise fell away the moment they passed through the eastern gates. Beyond the walls there were other sights and sounds: the roar of wind rushing in from the ocean, the surf, the cries of gulls. Occasional carriage wheels rattled, and the laden donkeys let out weary, plaintive brays, echoing the tired sighs of people with white bands tied around their sleeves.

  Refugees.

  Sometimes whole caravans of them stretched along the road; sometimes only stragglers—worn-out old men, broken families, women with children. Emaciated, driven by hardship and war, they walked toward Mutaaresh in hope of a new life. Those who wore white ribbons were surely Sikki from Sardas and the foothills, who had nothing left in this world. Clinging to their last hope, they pulled out scraps of cloth—as the Eridians demanded, a sign of peace and being unarmed—and went into the land of the enemy.

  They had no valor left, no self-respect, no strength—but who was Mikena to judge them? He could only follow their downcast, hollow faces with his eyes. Some of them would manage to build new lives, teach their children the Eridian tongue, earn a living. Others would never cope with whatever the foreign capital had in store for them.

  Leaving was frightening and hard—Mikena knew that. He had left his homeland before, but those had been planned departures, not forced flights. How much harder to go suddenly, leaving an entire life behind? War did not only crush cities—it shattered fates, families, lineages, bonds, leaving not even hope.

  The journey ahead would not be easy: windswept foothills on the way to Hatra, mountain paths, steep switchbacks. They would have to climb so high they almost touched the sky. The views in the Great Mountains took one’s breath away—and could perhaps drive one slightly mad—showing how insignificant a person was compared to the Primordial Ethereal Sea that had shaped this world.

  Their little party counted only ten. Two men drove small wagons with the necessary supplies—but among them, for some reason, there was also a cage with a yellow canary. No banners, no insignia. Mádyè apparently preferred not to draw attention, though he kept his mask on. He had only stopped tying his hair up high, and now a loose braid hung down his back like a snake.

  Mikena nudged his mare, Kewarna—her name meant Cat. The people of Mutaaresh loved them that much. He urged her forward and caught up to the bronze-headed figure at the front of the column. Not that he especially wished to talk—but he would have to, if they were to survive the difficult road.

  “Hey, Advisor, why do we need to stop in Hatra?”

  It would make their route a little easier, but frankly, it would be better to ride straight through and not waste time.

  “I have important business there,” Mádyè replied. He was smiling behind the mask again; it was unclear why he even wore it if he showed so many emotions. “And so do you, General.”

  For a second, Mikena faltered, but the guess came quickly.

  So—he knows about the agreement with the empress.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. He was tired of yielding ground at every turn; the general considered himself quite capable of playing with words.

  Mádyè gave a quiet, amused snort and turned away, eyes fixed ahead. His Samuyi—Blueberry—paced steady and unhurried. The stallion was so black that his coat gleamed with a bluish sheen; that was likely how he’d earned his name.

  “Why did you decide to bring me with you?” Mikena asked. He more or less knew the answer, but hearing it from another mouth might cast a new light on things.

  “Because I like you very much,” the advisor said at last, mocking after a brief pause. “I simply cannot do without you.”

  Mikena nearly rolled his eyes. And why had he even ridden up to start this conversation? They could have traveled in silence and not bothered each other. He did not think they would ever truly understand—or reconcile—after everything, after Sardas had been annihilated by the bronze serpent. Yet they were forced now to coexist.

  “You don’t like your position?” Mádyè spoke again. “What would you prefer?”

  “Me?” The laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “I’d prefer things had turned out differently. But only the Flows decide where they run.”

  What could he do, a captured general? And now—who knew—perhaps not even a general anymore, but a traitor to his land.

  “I suppose I would as well.”

  He would, too.

  How hypocritical, to say such a thing—this man who had destroyed an entire city and condemned thousands upon thousands to death and to a wretched, pointless existence.

  Mikena sighed and shut his eyes for a moment. The wind creaked in the branches; hooves rang sharply on the stone road. Somewhere he fancied he caught the scent of tea-tree—faint, barely there—but how could it be here? As soon as he returned to the present, the smell was gone, as if it had never been.

  With every hour it grew colder. Mádyè’s already quiet soldiers fell entirely silent. Mikena glanced over his shoulder; the column had stretched thin. The horses were growing stubborn, tired.

  “I think we should stop and make camp,” Mikena suggested. The advisor turned back to look at the men as well.

  Ahead, a small grove came into view, and from it white columns of smoke rose into the air.

  Mádyè called something out; two riders spurred forward, breaking from the column to enter the grove first.

  The soldiers found them a good spot by a stream, beside another camp. It was a convenient place to build a fire, and one could go farther off to wash. They tethered the horses and, each given his task, scattered to their work.

  The advisor tossed a tiny fish-bone into the kindling—and it flared alight.

  Magic could be sealed into almost any material: into stone, to make a glowing orb; into wood, to protect a house from fire; into metal, to craft an unusual weapon. But what if the magic needed to be released fully—and would destroy its vessel when awakened? For that, they used bones. Bones could be spared; and the smaller the piece holding the magic, the greater the wizard who had managed to place it there.

  Besides his invincible army of beetles, the advisor apparently crafted remarkable artifacts. An artifact was any object that held magic within it. And though bone was hard to call a true artifact, these still counted as artifacts.

  The general rubbed his aching feet. Six weeks of captivity had dried out his skill, softened the muscles that had once hummed with strength. At least he hadn’t put on weight under all the care lavished on him in the Hazei Palace.

  “Won’t you take off the mask, Advisor? I’ve seen your face already—and the soldiers, all the more.”

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  “I will not,” Mádyè cut off curtly. There was none of his usual mockery in his voice.

  Mikena frowned at the change in tone. The advisor’s eyes, usually glittering with mischief, had darkened, narrowed, and seemed choked with the embittered spirits of innocent victims, sliding again and again toward the second camp.

  There, among the trees, broad-shouldered men with weapons moved about. Chains rattled; the axles of prison wagons creaked. He hadn’t paid much attention to them before—no need, and no desire—simply assuming the wagons held criminals. But now, in the uncertain firelight, details emerged: the carts were packed with women and children, very small ones, huddling together in cramped cages, afraid even to breathe. Some had filthy white bands tied around their sleeves and waists.

  His heart clenched.

  Slaves.

  Erida’s law and faith forbade owning another human being.

  A surge of energy rose in his body, and by old habit Mikena reached for a sword—but found none. Heat struck his face. Anger mixed with the bitter taste of helplessness. He himself was a slave to circumstance.

  He looked again at Mádyè. The advisor’s gaze was like a bog—a dreadful northern marsh, the kind that did not exist in the south but spread wide in the north—choked with the embittered spirits of innocent victims. He said nothing, but something feral showed in his posture, in the tight set of his shoulders.

  Mikena did not know what the advisor would do. He knew only one thing: if the bronze beetles were loosed, they would surely find their prey. And he was not sure he would want to stop them.

  “My lord, we shouldn’t do this,” one of the soldiers said. Several pairs of eyes were turned on them; a few of the men had seen the slaves as well. “They’re weak people. They’ll die on the road anyway.”

  Mádyè’s eyes flashed with magic. For a heartbeat, it seemed he might kill his own man. The officer tensed, but held his gaze.

  “We cannot escort them. I think it will be better for them to remain in bondage. In the south, they’ll find a new home.”

  Despite Erida’s struggle against slavery, the country was crossed by countless roads running north to south, west to east. Dozens of ships, hundreds of wagons, thousands of people passed through Mutaaresh alone each day. Some caravans skirted the capital, heading straight for the southern border. There were more paths than could ever be watched. And even if a patrol did meet them, someone could be bribed—and terror-stricken slaves, fearing death or mutilation, would say they traveled of their own will.

  He remembered: fifteen years ago, the emperor had executed half the civic council of Negreya—a small town right on the Pernakian border—because its officials, for a price, had turned a blind eye to columns of wagons full of living cargo.

  “We shouldn’t interfere,” another soldier added.

  Mádyè rose. The air around him began to ring, and Mikena knew what that meant.

  “How dare you speak thus to Freedom?” The voice that rose from his chest was a rolling thunder. “Draw your swords! In Erida, slavers should meet only death!”

  Mikena felt himself moved by a force not his own. He meant to stand as well, but that terrible gaze turned on him.

  “Not you,” the advisor snapped. “Stay where you are.”

  Mikena ground his teeth. They had taken from him not only the right to choose but even the warrior’s honor—to defend the people.

  The black-armored men did not dare disobey. And though they had not exchanged so much as a sentence of planning, their coordination was uncanny. They moved quiet and graceful, like predators of the night.

  The general held his breath. In the shadows he counted only six; four more were surely patrolling, but nowhere in sight—why go so far? Their strategy was not obvious. It might even have looked foolish, were it not for their record: it was the Syratine Guard that had smashed his detachment and taken him captive. He had only recently learned their name—Special Guard of the Syratine Palace, the chief imperial residence of Erida. As an elite unit, they did not watch the Senatorial Palace; they handled other matters.

  His heart thundered feverishly; his right hand, craving a sword, grew slick with sweat. The Flow of Stardust granted freedom to everyone but himself—and Mikena was forced to watch as strangers came to the Sikki people’s rescue.

  In the night’s darkness, the beetles’ bronze shells flared like sparks. Their buzzing ripped the silence apart, as if it could ignite the very air. Then came the crash of pierced armor and the terrible screams of slaughter.

  The next moment, the soldiers charged—plunging the camp into chaos in an instant. No one called out to parley, no one begged, no one tried to bargain. Always acting as he pleased, Mádyè simply hurled himself into battle, killing without a pause.

  And though, right now, the general felt no pity and no remorse—only watched the scene unfold—the advisor’s power and ruthlessness still left a foul taste on his tongue.

  Mádyè’s men fought with the same cold detachment. Not a hint of resistance or displeasure. Once he had given an order, they obeyed without a word, moving methodically, as if there had never been any disagreement. They did not merely follow their commander—it seemed they revered Mádyè as mortals revered the Flows themselves.

  The grove shook with shrieks and groans, but soon the noise faded. The ground washed itself in blood, and only the slaves cried in terror… until even that fell silent.

  Unable to sit still, Mikena rose and walked toward the wagons, stepping over red rivulets and fallen bodies. On the ground lay small bone tiles carved with a mountain of skulls—apparently the slavers’ insignia. Mikena picked one up and snapped it in half—his own small contribution to the cause.

  “It’s over,” he said in Sihemic. Unlike Mádyè’s men, he didn’t swallow his sounds; his speech was clear, without any accent. “You’re free now.”

  The girl he addressed, her fine Niti features drawn tight, stared at him with wide blue eyes and said nothing. Her pale lips trembled.

  The general hesitated. After all that had happened, it would be easy enough to forget even one’s native tongue. But others, hearing him, understood quickly and began to come back to themselves.

  The captives rejoiced, and now it was joy that shook the grove.

  Though he hadn’t taken part in the fight, he felt some satisfaction all the same. Smiling to himself, he left the people to the care of the guards and went to the advisor, who had settled in the grass a little apart.

  The bronze beetles, legs clattering busily, were hurrying back to their master. What a strange sight. So, after the attack on Sardas, had Mádyè gathered them just like this? How many had there been—ten thousand? Hundreds of thousands? Millions?

  “Where do they… hide?” Mikena asked the first thing that came to mind, not knowing why he even wanted to start a conversation. “Do the beetles live inside you? Or are you made of them yourself?”

  Eyes gleamed in the mask’s slits—the same as always, bold and mocking.

  “Is it proper to ask such questions? We’ve only just begun to know each other.”

  Mikena waved him off, annoyed. He had dared to worry about him. He had allowed the smallest thought that Mádyè—this damned bastard—might feel emptiness or regret, sadness after the fight. To the priests with him.

  “You need to talk to the slaves, now that you’ve freed them,” Mikena said, arms crossed, in no mood to play games.

  “I’ll finish and go. Free them all.”

  Nearly forty people were unchained. Mostly women and children—the most sought-after commodity.

  The thought alone made him shudder. However dangerous the road ahead, they belonged now only to themselves and to their gods; and though it was little, to die in chains was a far worse fate.

  Most were Sihemic Sikki and Eridians, but in the jumble of voices Mikena heard a couple of people speaking the dialect of the Misty Isles. They must have been in Sardas when the city fell. The general glanced again at Mádyè, who had destroyed them—and now saved them. A strange feeling turned over in his chest.

  The advisor soon approached and looked over the gathered crowd.

  He spoke in Sihemic:

  “We have returned to you the gift of freedom, as the Flow of Stardust desires. Now you must protect it yourselves.”

  He picked up a bloody sword from beside one of the slavers and placed it into the hands of the girl in front. Her face—stern to begin with—turned to stone. She took the blade, and everything in her stance said she would never yield her freedom again. She would sooner die fighting.

  “Take from those who enslaved you whatever you can. Take their strength and make it the tool of your freedom. If you leave the grove and follow the stone road west, you’ll come to great Mutaaresh. Beyond it, across the strait, lies free Vafia. In the west, they do not keep slaves. But if bondage is dearer to you, you may go south—to Navara and Pernakia. To be free is to choose. Go, and find your path.”

  Some wept, some embraced, some stood frozen in thought, some—paralyzed with fear.

  Mikena too was struck by the advisor’s words—yet he was right. How could one forbid a free person to be a slave?

  Those words raised no echo. They sank instead into the blood-slick earth and the quiet murmur of the stream. The yellow canary hopped anxiously in its cage. Freedom had been given to the people—but not to it.

  The girl with the sword stepped forward, apparently ready to set out at once. But not all resembled her. The children, too tired to cry, only sighed heavily and pressed against their equally terrified mothers.

  There was nothing more they could do for them.

  No one slept that night.

  Everyone needed time to recover. Some huddled around the slavers’ fire; others searched the dead.

  One of Mádyè’s men—the very one who had first argued against intervening—helped divide the slavers’ supplies among everyone and dig a pit for the bodies.

  Long, broken shadows quivered in the uneven light of the fire. The road to Hatra lay ahead—but the memories, like the shadows of this night, would follow close behind.