Eric had kept his silence as Moran led him from the obstacle course, through the Military District, and up Queen’s Road, but as Moran led him straight for the Royal District, an area of town he’d never visited, the questions began to crowd into his head, threatening to spill out. He held his tongue for the moment, concerned by the Sergeant’s unusually grim mood. Moran wasn’t a talkative fellow by any means, but even this far surpassed his normally stoic demeanor.

The red-jacketed soldiers who guarded the entrances to this district were a different breed. Eric could read the firm confidence, deadly skill, and wealth of experience on them with just a glance. Despite there being an actual division of Tyrman’s armed forces devoted to carrying out the will of the Queen, the men stationed around the Palace were Maravino, the elite special force that consisted entirely of direct descendants of Bora Bora.

The Maravino surveyed Eric and Moran with half-curious glances but made no attempt to prevent their access as they walked under the high, ornate arched gate that separated the Royal District from the rest of Milagre. Red jackets were visible everywhere Eric looked, which surprised him. Sure, the safety of the District and those who lived there was their top priority, but did they really need this many to do the job properly? Something didn’t sit right with him.

“What is this job you need my help with?” Eric asked, slightly breathless as he had to jog to keep up with Moran’s longer, hurried stride. “Is our new client a noble?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Moran said tersely. “Don’t ask anything else, please. You’ll learn in due time if they like you.”

Those last few words troubled Eric even further, but he closed his mouth firmly and obeyed. Partly because he still saw Moran as his superior officer, and partly because he was so nervous. They continued on along a much more ornate version of the Queen’s Road which, he knew, began at the palace gate and ended at the border of the Dagorra Forest. To add to Eric’s concern, he could now see that they were heading, not for a side path to one of the many noble houses, but directly for the castle itself.

Again, the Maravino, more than seemed practical, showed no sign of surprise at Moran’s approach. They peeled to the side smoothly, all staring sternly at Eric, clearly wondering to themselves who the outsider was, and what his purpose in this affair was. Eric offered them a cordial but silent nod, his thoughts chugging along similar lines. He felt quite extraordinarily out of place among the stuffy, stiff clothing of those around him, with his day-old dark blue shirt and dirty leather jerkin. His armor was scratched and dusty, and his boots were extremely shabby in appearance.

Their progress was finally halted as they crossed into the castle close and began to approach the central keep. A massive structure of dark stone, it spanned some fifty feet across and over a hundred tall. It dominated the skyline even from the gate of Milagre, but up close, it loomed overhead, its imposing size a clear warning. The family who held this tower was not to be trifled with. Even more stern were the figures guarding its entrance. Nearly two dozen men in red jackets, this time with silver trim, leveled their weapons as the two strangers came close.

“Sergeant Moran!” A deep, commanding voice rang out. “What is the meaning of this? Why have you brought a stranger here?”

Moran dropped to his knees instantly, flashing Eric a silent warning to do the same. “My apologies for the surprise, Lord Atlas. I deemed it necessary. I know Eric’s skill first-hand, and he is one of the few I trust to accompany me on the mission you have set me.”

“Do not attempt to soothe me with soft words!” The figure barked. The men in front parted slightly to let him through, and Eric caught his breath at the man’s appearance, dropping to his knees as well. “Your orders were clear. Nobody is to know of this, without my approval!”

“I beg your pardon, Lord Atlas,” Moran said loudly, bowing his head. “But I can assure you, I have told him nothing thus far. He only knows that I wish for his assistance on this job, nothing more.”

Eric’s mind reeled. Atlas? Atlas Ciayol? The previous King of Tyrman, and now God of Beggars, Thieves, and the Common Folk? The man regarded as the outright strongest warrior in the realm’s history, beaten only by his father, the God of Death? Surely not, his panicked mind said. Such an important figure wouldn’t come down to deal with mortal trifles. And he certainly wouldn’t hire Moran to do something he deemed important and secret. This couldn’t get any worse.

And, in the usual form, the universe rushed to prove him wrong again. For, as the thought formed in his mind, the massive double doors leading into the keep were shoved open with awesome strength, and the men hurriedly stepped aside again. In the gap they made, there stood an immensely tall figure in long, tattered black robes, holding a massive scythe negligently in his right hand. The metal of the blade shone even in the fading evening light, strengthening the aura of power and death around him, making it more palpable than it had been in the dream.

“Father,” Atlas said, sounding shocked. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be with Elena?”

Bora Bora ignored his son’s question, his attention focused solely on Eric. The pressure of the god’s gaze sent a thrill of mortal fear through him, giving him the overwhelming urge to flee from this apex predator. But at the same time, he was unwilling to move, frozen before those crimson eyes, like a bird paralyzed by a snake right before it strikes. He took in a shuddering lungful of air, realizing that, in his fear, he’d forgotten to breathe.

“You,” Bora Bora said in a mutter that carried to everyone’s ears, the snake-like sibilance like the slither of blade on leather, setting the hairs on their neck to stiff attention. “You seem to be popping up everywhere, like a roach.”

“You know this mortal, Father?” Atlas said, clearly unsettled by the reaction to Eric’s appearance. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, clearly considering ending this confusion just now. Bora Bora noticed the movement.

“Keep your weapon sheathed, Atlas,” he said, his voice slightly louder. “Quite apart from how Shigeru would view you killing a mortal, this particular one is under Samuel’s protection. He may be weak and impudent, but I have a feeling he should be here.”

“A feeling?” Atlas muttered weakly, looking between his father, the almighty God of Dragons, and the comparatively feeble mortal that was the subject of their discussion. Then, seeming to make up his mind, he removed his hand from the weapon. “Right. Come in then, Moran, and bring your ally with you. We shall brief him.”

Too stunned by the rapid pace of events to speak, Eric stuck to Moran’s left side, his attention and awareness dominated by Bora Bora’s presence, who remained where he was, giving him a cold look as he walked past him. The God did not follow them inside, and as the double doors closed behind him, he caught a glimpse of massive black wings appearing from his back once again, then he took off into the air.

Eric was in no state to take in the opulent decorations that were placed throughout the entry hall of the central keep. It was small as far as most grand rooms were concerned, with only half a dozen soft benches placed for those seeking an audience with the Royal Family. They were led through yet another set of double doors by Atlas, into the throne room.

As out of his element as he was, Eric couldn’t help but be awed by the throne room they entered. Roughly the length and width of a football field, it was clearly too large for the building that housed it. The floor was polished black marble, reflecting the light of many torches. The walls were a pale tan stone, elegantly carved and reaching upwards for eighty feet, to finely carved glass arched roofs. The room could have hosted a thousand men and women, but there were only three inside.

He recognized Enri Ciayol and Samuel Bragg at once, both crouched over a large map that was spread across a massive wooden table, clearly a new addition. There were no armed men in here to keep watch, though both men spoke quite softly, their voices not reaching the new arrivals. They were both speaking deferentially to a woman, who stood between them, her face rigid and hands braced against the table.

The Queen of Tyrman looked surprisingly young, no more than a year or two past Eric himself. She had waist-length silver hair, exactly the same shade as Enri’s, and shining red eyes that were a marked resemblance to her divine ancestor. She wore long elaborate robes of black and red, with the intricate heraldry of Tyrman stitched in golden thread across her breast. She was exceptionally thin, even when compared to Samuel beside her, who was gangly, to put it mildly. Yet despite her frail frame, she radiated an aura of utter confidence, mingled with anger at something Eric did not yet know.

The Queen glanced up as Atlas led Moran and Eric into the room, her red eyes fixating on her cousin’s face, silver eyebrows raised in an unspoken question. Atlas wasted no time in giving an introduction.

“Cousin, Sergeant Moran has returned. Along with the other man he has recruited, this is Eric Breeden. Apparently, Father says he is to be included.”

This didn’t seem to faze the Queen, who waited patiently as Atlas turned to face Eric, his face set in stiff, formal lines. “Eric Breeden, this is Her Majesty Elena Ciayol, Sixth Monarch, Empress of the Storm, Queen of Tyrman.”

Eric dropped to his knees without being prompted this time, bowing until his head touched the cold marble floor. “It is my greatest honor to be in your presence, Your Majesty. I dearly hope that I can prove useful to you.”

She regarded him cooly for several seconds, then said in a soft, melodic voice, “Rise, Eric Breeden. May the Mother bless our meeting. Please, join us.”

The greeting had an eerily ritualistic feeling to it, but Eric ignored that as he rose to his feet once more, then approached the heavy wooden table, followed closely by Moran. Samuel flashed a casual grin at him, then redirected his attention, and that of the Queen, to the map they were studying.

“As I was saying Elena,” he said quietly. “From what my spells can tell me, whoever did this slaughtered the entirety of the garrison at the West Gate before fleeing. They moved too quickly for me to track them.”

“They were good enough to foil even your magic?” She asked, seemingly undisturbed by his extremely casual address of her. “That is concerning. Do you have any clues as to who may have done this?”

“None at all,” Samuel said with a sad shake of his head. “Witnesses of the event saw nothing of the perpetrator, but they did tell me that there was an adventuring party witness to the event. Whoever did this took them with him or her, presumably to keep their identity a secret.”

“Why didn’t they just kill the witnesses?” Enri asked firmly. His tone suggested that it wasn’t the first time the point had been raised. “It would have been easier. And after what they did, a few measly adventurers wouldn’t have posed much of a risk.”

“They say that two of the adventurers were bearing holy marks,” Samuel explained, clearly also not for the first time. “Lord Ciayol, and Grimr. Clearly highly ranked, and nobody would dare draw their ire.”

“But Hammerbrewer is dead,” Enri said insistently. “That would anger the god plenty. Why would he care to spare a few followers?”

“Let us start from the beginning,” The Queen interrupted them, gesturing gracefully at Eric. “Our newest recruit has no idea what we are facing.”

“Right,” Samuel said, giving a sheepish smile and turning to face Eric. “Let’s keep this simple. Don’t ask any pointless questions, Eric, as we need to get moving before the trail goes cold.”

“I understand,” Eric said quickly. “So what’s happened?”

“Someone broke into Milagre’s Divine District last night,” Samuel said tersely, his face entirely serious now. “They summoned Dovir Hammerbrewer, God of the Forge, and killed him.”