Lyla perched on a branch in the shadows of the forest, keeping watch on the camp from behind the cluster of large tents. With gritted teeth, she scratched at her hips through the itchy servant dress that she still wore.

  She’d be happy to be rid of it – the damn thing had itched since she’d taken it from the dead servant girl. She might’ve reconsidered her options had she known it would be so itchy, but there were few jobs better than a servant for intelligence gathering. Servants were like ants. Nobody really noticed their comings and goings, and tongues weren’t as guarded in their presence.

  But for all the intelligence she had already gathered, she’d never imagined a find like this.

  She focused on the blonde-haired man, standing with Ibonek and Thessa, overlooking the soldiers clearing their tents. He looked every bit the refugee with his tattered clothing and grimy face, though he wasn’t as skinny as the others.

  Sire, Ibonek had called him.

  Now, Lyla knew for a fact that the Royal Family were very much dead. The King; his two sons; their wives; their children. Every last one of them. They thought they had time to escape. They’d thought wrong.

  But there had been a third son, dead three years earlier. A hunting accident, apparently. And yet, Ibonek had called the blonde man sire after recognising his signet ring, and Lyla had seen the way Thessa had looked uncertain as she’d studied the man’s face.

  Lyla certainly needed to report it, as well as the taller man he had come with. She watched as that strange man with so many weapons stepped through the gateway. It closed behind him, a large sheet of light collapsing to a single point, before it winked away.

  She’d seen portals before of course, but most mages were only able to create them for one person – two at a stretch. Only the most powerful – Starforged, certainly – could stretch them beyond that, like the mages in the Shadow’s Alpha and Beta squads. Lyla wasn’t a mage herself, so she didn’t really know how strong one had to be to create a gateway of that size but she did know that the stranger was the only real threat in the camp.

  And he was gone now.

  There was no one here that could threaten her squad. The generals would be Adamantite most likely, and she expected there to be some Orichalcums sprinkled among the soldiers. The only mage they seemed to have was the young lady with her unblemished silk dress and her fancy staff, carrying a child’s doll in her hand. Lyla scoffed. What a ridiculous thing to bring! Besides, the mage couldn’t be very powerful, if she was still needing to use a staff as a Focus. A mithril, at best. Almost not worth the effort.

  She stood on the branch and ripped the linen dress from her body, letting it fall to the ground below. She was done with the itching – she couldn’t wait to get back into her leathers. She leapt from the branch, grabbing the next one and swung through the forest to where the rest of her team would be.

  The attack was meant to be in a couple of days, but even the best of plans needed adjusting if opportunities presented themselves. If the blondie was really the successor to the former king…well, with the only real threat missing, there was no better time to attack the camp than now. No need to allow the Rhianians a figurehead to rally around.

  She needed to let Talghar know.

  Radama Volardin patted the aftershave through his silver beard and took a final look in the mirror. He looked more than presentable for someone of Lord Micah’s station. It wasn’t every day that a high noble paid a visit to a lesser House, especially not in the middle of the night. His stomach tightened. When the Bizaynians had invaded the Kingdom, where other nobles saw hopelessness, Radama had sensed opportunity. A chance to carve a future for his House. Had his efforts finally come to fruition?

  With the old Houses destroyed, there was a chance to grab land, secure his finances and climb the social ladder. Of course, the Bizaynians had taken the bulk of it, but they would incorporate cooperative Rhianian nobility as long as they recognised Bizaynian legitimacy. For Radama, Rhianian King or Bizaynian Emperor didn’t matter. He had no interest in being martyred for that stupid notion of King and country. As far as he was concerned, King and country was whoever had the strength to control it and whoever would help him reach his ambitions.

  He adjusted the cuffs of his red silk shirt, ran a hand through his beard, adjusted the waist of his black pants before heading out of the dressing room. He descended the stairs in the dim light of oil lanterns mounted along the wall. The house was quiet – his wife asleep, the servants dismissed. He would serve Micah himself. Show the young lord his devotion to the cause. He stopped outside the double oak doors to the home’s living room, taking a deep breath before he pushed them open.

  The living room was bathed in warm light from the fireplace and lanterns hanging from the ceiling. He’d made sure the servants had made it comfortable before letting Lord Micah in. A thick rug covered the wooden floor, beneath a low table in front of the hearth. On either side of the table sat single cushioned chairs, and opposite the fireplace, a chaise lounge with a footstool before it. Beyond the chair to his right was the bar, where the servants had made sure to display the expensive vintages from the vineyards of Laveer. That’s what he’d offer Micah. He’d pour one of the watered down wines for himself.

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  Micah himself stood gazing at the painting above the fireplace mantle but turned when he heard the sound of the door opening. Clean-shaven with a strong jaw and those green eyes as shrewd as Radama’s. The man was still a year shy of thirty and sought after by many of the young ladies of the greater Houses, though he hadn’t committed to any of them yet. Micah readjusted the shoulders of his velvet cloak, the silver-threaded eagle of his House twinkling in the light.

  Radama closed the door behind him.

  “Lord Micah. You honour me with your presence.” Radama bowed deeply – as deeply as he would for royalty. Show the lord how much he respected him.

  “Come now, Radama. There’s no need for such formalities between friends,” Micah replied. His voice sounded a little deeper than Radama recalled. Perhaps he was coming down with something. But Micah had called him friend and that said a lot. Radama smiled.

  “To what do I owe the honour, my L…Micah?”

  “No particular reason. I thought I’d pay you a visit and take care of…business,” Micah smiled, hands hidden behind his back.

  “Business?”

  “Oh, plenty of time for that later.”

  “I’m sorry, my L…Micah. Where are my manners? Would you like something to drink?” Radama asked as he walked towards the bar.

  “Not tonight. I have a lot to get through and I need my wits about me.”

  “Do you mind if I get myself one?”

  “Not at all. Not at all. Help yourself. You never know when it’s the last drink you’ll have!” Micah chortled.

  Radama laughed himself as he walked behind the bar. He glanced over his shoulder. Micah stood by the fireplace, hands behind his back, head turned toward the painting. It was an image of his grandfather receiving papers from the King, naming him Lord of Volardin, a small backwater estate, with little to mine and even less to farm. His family deserved more.

  “You’ve proven very useful to the Empire,” Micah said as Radama squatted down and grabbed one of the watered down wines. Laveerian wine was the most expensive in the land and he needed to keep as much as he could for all the noble visits he hoped would come.

  “I only live to serve,” Radama replied, popping the cork of the decanter. He stood up and grabbed a wine glass. “Did you find the foreigners?”

  He poured himself the wine and turned to Micah, still standing by the fireplace.

  “We did indeed. The situation was…taken care of,” Micah smiled. “But I do wonder what you wanted in return for your information?”

  Radama’s heart leapt and he struggled to contain his smile. Straight to the point. Play it cool. No need to get too excited. He took a sip of the wine, forcing it down his throat.

  “I wasn’t expecting anything, my Lord,” Radama said. Best to be formal here. Show the man the respect he deserves.

  “Come on Radama. Between friends. What is it you hoped to gain? Who knows? I might be able to put a word in for you with the Emperor.”

  The Emperor? He knew Micah was a high noble but he hadn’t known he had the ear of the Emperor himself.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Spit it out. If I can grant it to you, it will be yours.”

  This was it. What he had been building towards. This was the moment.

  “Well, my Lord. I was hoping to be given Tarnov and the surrounding lands.”

  “Tarnov?” Micah cocked his head. “And why is that?”

  “These are rich lands, my Lord. The forests, the mountains. Lots of mining potential. But it’s so far from the capital that I doubt the Great Houses would care to manage them. I had thought perhaps it would be suitable for someone like me, under the care of a Greater Lord. Like yourself, perhaps? Of course, after the resistance has been taken care of.”

  He forced down another sip of wine as Micah smiled at him.

  “You’d pay me taxes, of course?”

  “Of course, my Lord. Fifteen percent.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Radama blinked several times.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” Micah nodded, glancing at the painting again. “A dedicated man like yourself deserves to be rewarded. I imagine this will a fruitful partnership. One might say a…killer partnership even.”

  The corners of Radama’s mouth curled into a smile as he raised his eyes to the skies, his father coming to mind. He’d always been scared to want more. To try to get more. If only he were still alive to see what his son had achieved.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” Radama asked again, but Micah shook his head.

  “Grab yourself another one.”

  Radama didn’t need to be told twice. He turned around, instinctively grabbing the watered down wine, but his eyes darted to the Laveerian vintage. He smiled. He could afford to drink it now. He’d buy more. As much as he needed. He grabbed the decanter of Laveerian wine, popped off the cork and sniffed in the smell of sweet summer berries. He poured himself a glass and turned back, to find Micah a few feet away from him, a grin on his face, his right hand hidden behind his back.

  “What have you got there?” Radama asked.

  “This?” Micah said, pulling his hand out from behind his back. He was holding a small mallet with a smooth wooden handle about a foot long, and a squashed rectangular head. “It’s a mallet.”

  Radama frowned but smiled. “I can see that. Why do you have it?”

  “I’m going to beat you to death with it.”

  Radama chuckled. “What?”

  Thwack!

  Radama’s vision blurred. He blinked several times, not quite understanding what had just happened. His head throbbed just above his left ear. Instinctively, he touched the spot, his fingers coming away with some sort of gloopy liquid on them. He took a closer look, rubbing the gunge between his fingers. The substance was thick. Dark red.

  Blood.

  Radama blinked again, trying to focus on the man in front of him. The air shimmered around Micah, slowly revealing it wasn’t Micah at all. The illusion peeled back, layer by layer. Leather shoes became combat boots. The velvet cloak became a coat in a fashion he’d never seen. Then various orbs appeared around the man’s waist, weapons sticking out from his back. His face altered to a slim, narrow jaw. His green eyes became black, matching the ruffled hair that hung past his ears with a top knot. Then, a pentagram scar materialised on his forehead.

  This was the man Radama had informed on.

  The foreigner.

  Radama skirted around the bar, hands against the wall as he tried to back away towards the fireplace. The foreigner followed him in no particular hurry. His father had always said that ambition would be the death of him. That it was okay to make do with what one had, instead of pursuing what one did not. That hadn’t been good enough for Radama. He’d wanted more. Deserved more. Maybe he could plead to this man’s mercy. Show him how useful he could be.

  “Don’t kill me,” Radama said. “I can help you. With whatever you want. Whatever you need.”

  “Don’t kill you?” the foreigner said. “You were willing to sell my life. Now you want me to spare yours?”

  “Please. I was just trying to make a better life for my family. I’ll do anything you want,” Radama pleaded as he slowly shuffled along the wall, the foreigner marching towards him with a gentle smile.

  “I’m sure you would. But I’ve already brought out the mallet.

  “Now, be a good sport and stay still.”