Five days after the imperial ambassador’s murder.

As’al’Zahn, capital of the Kingdom of Ascion, 3423 AA.

A black tablet crashed against the edge of a wall. The screen burst apart with a shrill crack, its fragments raining across the floor. The image winked out as power faded from the device.

Seyleen sat down on a chair, her breathing ragged, the blood pounding in her head dulling her mind. Her anger had soared, and for a moment she had let it take her; a rage uncontrolled demanding release.

This was the fifth time – The fifth time! – an article popped up about the succession rights of businesses her father had been managing, the many shares he had held. None of this would have happened if she had only been there; if she, as the sole heir, had not pursued her own path away from the Empire, away from Radaar… away from the highborn.

Her tightly clenched fist pressed harder against the leather armrest of her chair. The inheritance was irrelevant, but she couldn’t forgive the way those highborn had jumped the moment her father had died – had been murdered – looking to snatch a portion for themselves. Hyenas, all of them!

If it hadn’t been for the incident on her ninth birthday, they wouldn’t have done this. They wouldn’t have been her father’s enemies to begin with. But it did happen, and they saw her as prey for it. The girl who ran away. The girl who they could stomp on.

She wouldn’t allow it much longer. They thought they could chew her up and spit her out? She’d break all their teeth. First came her father’s murderer, then it was their turn.

Her eyes drifted to her apartment’s door. “Where is he?” she muttered.

She stood up and began pacing, gave up, then headed to the terrace. She threw the doors open, the handles slamming against the walls and bouncing off. Approaching the stone railing, she slapped her hands atop it.

The view of the sprawling city spread out before her. Ancient, stone arches and white-domed rooftops rose above the rest in muted gleam, bathed in the warmth of the midday sun. Crowns of trees were interspersed among blocks of buildings, their foliage a vibrant green that dotted the landscape. It was a city of culture and progress, of wide avenues and small parks that enthralled visitors with their cosy embrace, a seamless blend of old and modern.

When she looked down, she saw a great many boats wreathed in white, red, yellow, and violet flowers, sailing on the glistening waters of the river Maelenar. The ever-present, gentle breeze brushed against her skin, bringing with it the fresh scent of Spring.

Her chest tightened. Staring at the sight before her, the feelings she had repressed – the fear of failing to avenge her father, the anger at her father’s killer, and the grief at her loss – gushed out and roiled in a chaotic mess. Juxtaposed with the calming view, her fury was an affliction to the beauty of the White City. Even this place that accepted all now rejected her.

Thoughts of her father came again: the gentle smile he wore, the warmth of his hand, the comfort of his and her mother’s embrace… She slammed her fists against the marble railing. Her head drooped, tears welling in her eyes. “Where is he?”

Nothing should have happened, right? She dared not say the words out loud.

The sound of the lock being undone had her spinning to face the door, blinking to disperse the tears.

Standing there was Wicker, freckled face marred with a new set of cuts and bruises, hands busy dusting his light-brown coat. “Apologies for the tardiness, ma’am,” he said, running his hand through his tousled brown hair. “It was purely my oversight that caused the delay.”

So, nothing happened after all. Relief washed over her. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

The cuts bothered her, but asking about them would mean she didn’t trust him to do the job right. He might also not want to speak of his accidents and mistakes. He had his pride just as much as she. There were boundaries better left uncrossed. He’d always done everything she’d asked perfectly. That was enough.

Still… She glanced at the palm of his left hand. A pyramidal, black stone lay embedded in the skin – the mark of an adept, a user of the Gift – framed by a set of golden lines that ran upwards to the wrist. The blasted thing was functioning properly, wasn’t it? Her eyes moved back to the injuries on Wicker’s face.

His skills in close combat and wielding a pistol were nothing to scoff at, far from it. He dealt with any trouble that came their way with fists and fury or a well-aimed shot to the head, whichever fit the situation best. It had happened so often that whenever it came again, Seyleen would immediately move a safe distance away so he could batter them unimpeded. She’d also toss him a pack of tissues at the end to wipe his bloodied hands.

When he used the Gift instead, she was wont to look around to see if it was someone else doing it. Then she’d chastise herself for forgetting he, too, was an adept. The stubborn man would say if there was something wrong with his ability, right?

“The Tether Stone is working perfectly fine,” Wicker said offhandedly, hanging his coat on a hook in the hallway. How the man had even noticed her stare while distracted was beyond her.

“My father was the one who signed the contract. I never even laid eyes on the thing since he…”

“Sir Mannock’s legal team has already handled the transfer to you,” Wicker said, not allowing the pause to last. If sadness threatened to take over, he’d distract her in whatever way he could. It was uncanny how easily he read her, but how could she not be thankful to someone who tried so hard – cared so much?

He continued, “So long as the fees are met, the Centre doesn’t care about where the credits are coming from. They did call once though, before the transfer was complete, to remind us of the payment. A testy bunch.”

Seyleen scoffed. For the paltry sum they charged, the idea of treating a small delay on her part as anything but a mild annoyance was ludicrous. Were they afraid her funds had run out? She shook her head. There was no chance of her ever understanding them.

“What have you learned?” she asked.

Wicker hesitated before opening his mouth. “We have a shot at finding a ghostship to take us to the Empire, to Radaar even. It sets off from the mid-worlds, most often from Jagda. I couldn’t find out when. It could be in a few days, a few weeks, or even today.”

“Good work,” she said, turning away from the man. She had known him for twenty years. It was impossible to miss the subtle look of worry on his face. She risked a glance from the corner of her eye. He was still staring at her with the same look, waiting. He really did know her too well. “…Say it.”

“I… hope you reconsider returning to the Empire.”

She snapped her head towards him, sheer willpower stopping her from cutting him off right then.

“I promised your father I would protect you when he took me in. I promised him again when we left for the Kingdom nine years ago. And I promised him the third time two weeks ago when he came here.

“The ghostship alone is a danger,” he continued, “but going back to Radaar now is suicide. The other highborn will not let you be. If they find any trace of you, they’ll do everything in their power to eliminate you. I won’t be able to protect you from all of that.”

She would die within an hour if she was careless. One person couldn’t protect her, she was painfully aware of that, but there’d be no need for it if her friends helped. Could she still call them that?

Twenty years ago, they had greeted each other as friends did; nine years ago, they bade farewell as friends did; now, she’d have to clench her fists, steel her heart, and see if the friend part was only in her head. Too much time had passed for her to ask or assume anything of them. Even so, there were cards she could still play, but first, she had to deal with Wicker.

“Do you know what they wrote about him?” she asked, her voice a whisper. “Not even a week has passed and they’re already fighting to see who can grab the largest piece of meat.” Her mouth twisted in disgust. “They tarnish his name now when they dared not squeal in front of him while he was alive.”

Wicker said nothing. No doubt, he had spoken purely because his job required him to while making a mental checklist of the things he’d need to do before the trip. Despite that, there was too much anger inside her to stop now, too many unsaid words. There was no one else to share them with.

“I’ve grown tired of reading headlines of the many scandals they tried to link him to. Even the ones about his death, saying he went to the undersurface for a deal with a crime lord only to die at the hands of an augment sent from another one.” She scoffed. “Does that sound even marginally plausible to you?”

“The presence of an augment was confirmed, ma’am. That fact alone should warrant great concern.”

“Even if the Lady Hand did confirm some of it, too much of the story is missing from the official report.” She paused, considering her next words. “I don’t believe a crime organisation orchestrated this. A highborn? Much more likely.”

“There are safer ways than you going personally to confirm it. Send me. I will do the investigation. There is no need to expose yourself to danger.”

And send you to your death?

Without her there to hinder them, the other highborn might – no, they certainly would – target him. All because he was connected to her. How could she ever let one of her own die like that? Especially him.

“No, Wicker. Now that those highborn dared overstep their bounds, I have to be there. They want to get rid of me because they fear the influence I still hold. I cannot – I will not – stand on the side-lines.”

Wicker could only nod at her words. “Understood, ma’am.”

She had to get to Radaar first. Then she’d bring them all down. “Now,” she said, coming closer to him, “tell me everything about the ghostship.”