The approach to Cindercrest was a revelation, tasting of ash and envy.

  For the last century, the demons of the Ashen Court had told themselves that the humans were struggling as much as they were. They knew the Infernal Wastes were a brutal land that punished anyone who tried to tame its wilds.

  They were wrong.

  Two streaks of high-velocity grit tore through the gray cloud layer of the Scorched Valley. They were sentient storms of abrasive sand and pressurized air cutting through the smog.

  From this height, the truth of the human kingdom sprawled out beneath them.

  Cindercrest was a fortress of industry, a massive, tiered metropolis built directly into the concave face of the Ironspine Mountains. It was a marvel of engineering, making the demons' structures look primitive.

  A colossal outer wall, fifty feet of reinforced stone, stretched from one edge of the mountain range to the other. The rear of the city needed no wall; the mountains themselves were insurmountable, forming a natural shield that scraped the sky.

  Inside the slipstream, Ragith-Kar's voice vibrated against Xylora's consciousness, a dry rasp carried by the wind.

  Look at it. They have not been idle.

  Xylora focused her senses downward. The city was a grid of organized chaos. Thousands of chimneys belched smoke into the air, fueling the forges that armed this empire. She saw the defensive line, massive ballistae mounted on the ramparts. Behind the walls, huge catapults were constructed on swiveling platforms, their throwing arms resting like sleeping giants.

  But it was the verticality that stung the most.

  Rising from the rear of the city, isolated in its own quarter, was an obsidian spire that pierced the smog, a black needle commanding the skyline. And above that, nestled into the highest shelf of the mountain, sat the Solarium Assembly. It was a district of white stone and glass that caught the only sunlight piercing the gloom, looking down on the industrial sprawl like a crown.

  We have spent our existence fighting for scraps in the dark, Xylora projected back, her thought bitter. And they have built a mountain of iron and stone.

  It is impressive, Ragith-Kar admitted, the sand of his form swirling. For cattle.

  Cattle don't build siege engines that can hit the clouds, Ragith. We have underestimated them. Our stagnation, it is embarrassing compared to this.

  Her gaze shifted beyond the city entrance to the main gate.

  Put us down there, she commanded. And make it loud. If we are to walk into their house, we will not do it quietly.

  The two streams of grit banked hard, diving like meteors. The wind screamed past them, startling the guards on the walls and snapping the banners.

  At the last possible second, they slammed into the earth.

  The impact was explosive. A shockwave of dust blasted outward, knocking the nearest sentries on the wall flat against the battlements. The stone beneath them cracked under the force before clouds of dust swirled and coalesced rapidly. Grains of silica and ash snapped together, weaving into fabric and flesh.

  Ragith-Kar materialized first, stumbling as the momentum left him, shaking the remaining sand from his tattered, wind-worn garments. He straightened, his skin the texture of rough sandstone, his curved horns gleaming with their golden chains.

  Beside him, Xylora formed from the grit with lethal grace. She was armored in the midnight-blue chitin of the High Sandsworn, her face hidden behind the sleek black glass of her helm.

  Silence reigned for a heartbeat. Then, the alarm bells began to ring.

  Shouts erupted from the battlements. Heavy crossbows were leveled. The grinding sound of gears echoed from behind the walls as the catapults began to rotate.

  Xylora didn't flinch. She just stood there, arms crossed, waiting.

  "Subtle," Ragith-Kar noted, his voice scraping the air.

  "We are not here to sneak, we are here to parley," Xylora said calmly, her voice filtered through her helm. "Fear is a better opener than politeness."

  They waited. It took several tense minutes for the confusion on the walls to organize itself into a response.

  "Look at them scramble," Ragith-Kar huffed, his pale eyes tracking a squad of archers tripping over themselves. "They are soft, Xylora. They have grown comfortable."

  "Comfort breeds resources," Xylora countered, nodding toward the massive aqueducts feeding water into the city from the mountain. "Look at the infrastructure, Ragith. While we squabbled, they solved the problems of water, steel, and agriculture. We have nothing to show for the last century but a pile of old grudges. They have a kingdom."

  Ragith-Kar growled low in his throat, clearly hating that she was right. "Stone walls do not make a warrior. We shall see if their blood has thinned with all this civilization."

  The grinding of heavy chains interrupted them.

  The massive portcullis of Cindercrest began to rise as its heavy doors groaned open. The portcullis wasn't drawn all the way, just enough for a column of soldiers.

  Out marched the city elite. They wore armor of polished black plate, trimmed with gold, and carried halberds that crackled with heat-enchantments.

  Interspersed among the steel were the Spire Mages. Dressed in heavy, fire-resistant grey-and-crimson robes, they held iron-shod staves that pulsed with an orange light. The air around them shimmered in a haze, their hands already weaving complex sigils of ignition, ready to turn the demons to ash at a moment's notice.

  They moved with discipline, fanning out to form a combined wall of steel and sorcery ten paces from the two demons.

  A captain stepped forward from the ranks. He removed his helmet, revealing a face scarred by steam, his eyes hard and unafraid.

  "State your business, demons," the captain barked, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "Before the wall artillery turns you into a pile of slop."

  "With pleasure," Xylora said, drawing out the last syllables.

  She reached up, her movements exaggeratedly slow, and removed her black helm, revealing golden eyes that locked onto the captain's stare.

  She set the helm on the cracked ground. Then, she unbuckled her twin swords, the scabbards clattering as she dropped them next to the helmet.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Ragith-kar was next, standing rigid with fists clenched. She nudged him hard in the ribs with her elbow.

  "Drop them, Ragith," she commanded.

  The Sandsworn looked up at her, his expression twisting in confusion and insult. "You cannot be serious. To disarm before cattle?"

  Xylora shot daggers at him with her eyes. "Do you want to talk to the emperor, or do you prefer death? Drop. The. Swords."

  Ragith-Kar let out a growl. Reluctantly, his hands went to his hips. He unclipped the twin blades of crystallized glass he carried, weapons that hummed with a faint, high-pitch resonance of trapped wind.

  He let them fall. The crystal weapons hit the ground, shimmering in the smoggy light.

  "Back," Xylora commanded.

  They took three deliberate steps backward, leaving the pile of weapons between them and the shield wall. Xylora raised her empty hands, palms open.

  "I am here to meet with the Emperor," she said, her voice slow and projecting clearly over the wind. "I come on direct orders from the Sovereign of the Sands, Dagrimor. We carry intelligence vital to the survival of this city."

  The captain stared at them for a beat. Then, he threw his head back and barked a harsh laugh. He looked around at his gathered soldiers, shaking his head.

  "Did you hear that?" the captain shouted to his men. "The savage wants an audience!"

  He turned back to Xylora, his smile vanishing. He raised his hand high in the air.

  On the walls above, the ballistae's tension cables groaned as the operators pulled the levers back to their maximum draw. The Spire Mages in the front line raised their staves, the glow of their fire spells brightening to a blinding white.

  "Choose your next words carefully, demon," the captain said, his voice dropping. "Because they will be your last. Emperor Ignatius does not meet with such foul creatures of the Wastes. Give me one reason why I should let you live."

  Xylora sighed. It was a long, heavy exhale that slumped her shoulders. She uncrossed her arms only to roll her eyes toward the sky.

  "So dramatic," she muttered.

  She looked back at the captain, her expression bored.

  "A pair of liches has returned to the Infernal Wastes," she stated. "They were buried in Nethervale. They carry an infection that turns the living into their puppets. It is spreading through the wilds as we speak."

  She took a small step forward, ignoring the flinch of the guards.

  "They will strike Shatterdeep first. And once they have broken our backs and added our kin to their ranks, they will come for Cindercrest. You will be alone, facing the unholy might of their full power."

  Silence followed, save for the wind whistling through the standoff.

  Mockery evaporated from the Captain's face. His jaw went slack, replaced by a flicker of genuine fear. He stared at her, searching for the lie, but Xylora's bored expression didn't waver.

  The captain turned toward the wall and gave a sharp, jerky nod to the ballistae crews. Tension cables slacked with a groan. Mages lowered their staves a fraction of an inch.

  When the Captain looked back at Xylora, his grip on his sword was tight.

  "Liches haven't been seen in a century," he said, his voice tight. "Why should I believe you?"

  Xylora offered a curt, razor-thin smile.

  "Do you really think I'd be here, wasting my time speaking with you filth," she asked, her voice dripping with disdain, "if I was lying?"

  The captain made a decision and relayed his orders to the young lieutenant who stood beside him.

  "Run," the captain insisted, his voice low. "Go directly to the Solarium. Bypass the steward. Tell the Emperor we have a Code Black at the main gate."

  The lieutenant's eyes widened. "Code Black, sir? That's for-"

  "Go!" the Captain roared.

  The lieutenant scrambled back through the ranks, his boots hammering the pavement as he sprinted toward the inner city.

  The captain turned back to the demons, his face a mask of grim professional tension. "You will wait. If you so much as sneeze, the order stands to fire."

  Xylora offered a lazy shrug. "I can wait. The liches, however, are less patient."

  - - -

  Thirty minutes had passed by.

  The wind picked up, swirling the ash across the gathered figures, but neither Xylora nor Ragith-Kar moved. They stood like statues, ignoring the trembling arms of the crossbowmen on the walls who had been holding their aim for half an hour.

  Then, the heavy chains of the main gate groaned again. This time, the portcullis was raised, and the heavy doors swung wide open.

  The sound of disciplined footsteps echoed from the tunnel. A new force marched out, moving with a grace that made the city elite look like brawlers.

  There were only five of them, but their presence swallowed the gathering.

  They were the Royal Guard. Each one was unique, clad not in a uniform plate but in bespoke armor that told a story of specialized violence. One wore sleek, articulated silver that looked like a second skin; another was draped in heavy, rune-etched iron robes; a third carried dual tower shields.

  They didn't stop at the shield wall. They marched right through it, the regular soldiers parting frantically to let them pass.

  Behind them walked a man who did not need to shout to be heard.

  Emperor Ignatius stepped out of the shadow of the gate.

  As he emerged, the ballistae on the walls ratcheted back with a fresh, ominous creak. The tension in the air spiked so high that the spire mages' staves flared brighter in response.

  Ignatius stopped ten paces away. He held up a hand, and the five royal guards moved forward, surrounding the two demons in a tight, lethal circle.

  Ignatius didn't speak. He simply gave a sharp nod to the fifth member of the Royal Guard.

  The soldier stepped forward, his heavy boots crunching on the gravel. He was carrying a burden that made his shoulder plates grind with the strain, two pairs of massive, rusted restraints hanging from his grip.

  They were crude, rounded bulbs of solid cast iron, devoid of finger holes, articulation, or elegance. They looked like the severed fists of a golem.

  The guard stopped before the demons and let go.

  The iron hit the ground with an impact that vibrated through the soles of Xylora's feet.

  "Put them on," Ignatius ordered. His voice was calm.

  Xylora looked at the rounded iron shells, then at Ragith-Kar. The Sandsworn let out a low growl of protest.

  "Do it," Xylora murmured.

  She bent down, reaching for the metal. Her eyes widened. As she hefted the first iron bulb, her arm dipped unexpectedly. The density was shocking; it felt as if the metal had been folded over a hundred times. It was a struggle just to lift it to waist height.

  She slid her hand into the dark, hollow cavity of the sphere.

  A hidden mechanism triggered at the wrist, slamming two semi-circular iron bands shut.

  She staggered forward a step, her center of gravity completely thrown off. Her hands were gone, replaced by useless, crushing weights that dragged her shoulders down. She couldn't form a fist, let alone break her fall if she tripped.

  Beside her, Ragith-Kar grunted with effort as he locked himself into his own pair. Even with his Sandsworn strength, the massive iron bulbs pulled his arms straight down, forcing him into a slump.

  "Lead-iron alloy," the guard muttered, stepping back.

  Xylora looked up at Ignatius, her breath coming short from the exertion of simply standing. The humans had just turned her own body into a cage of gravity.

  The Royal Guards moved closer. Two flanked Xylora, their weapons drawn. Two flanked Ragith-Kar.

  The fifth guard, a hulking tower of a man encased in blackened plate armor that seemed too heavy for a human to wear, stepped directly in front of them. He loomed over Xylora.

  He didn't carry a sword or an axe. Instead, steam-hissing pistons were mounted along his forearms, ending in flat, spiked iron rams that extended past his knuckles. They were siege weapons shrunk down for a brawler, designed to punch through stone walls or pulverize a skull at point-blank range.

  "If you move a horn out of place," the giant rumbled, "you will be struck down before you take another breath."

  Xylora looked up at him. She didn't cower. She smiled, the expression slow. She ran her tongue over her lips, revealing the white points of her fangs.

  "Such stature, even for cattle," she purred.

  Beside her, Ragith-Kar rolled his eyes, letting out a sharp exhale of annoyance. "Must you?"

  The giant didn't bait. He stepped aside, clearing the line of sight to the man standing alone.

  "I present Emperor Ignatius of Cindercrest," the giant announced. "Radiance of the Ironspine, Keeper of the Flame."

  Ignatius stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He wasn't dressed in the flashy gold of his elite soldiers. He wore a tailored coat of high-grade wyvern leather, dyed a deep charcoal, over a functional, matte-steel breastplate. He looked less like a king and more like a tactician who had just stepped away from a map.

  But it was the crown that caught the light.

  It was a simple band of platinum, a diadem resting on his brow. Set in the center was a single gem. A Scorchruby, a gem formed only in the heart of a volcanic blast. It was a splinter of crystallized magma, protruding from the metal like a piece of crimson shrapnel. It pulsed with an inner, living fire that seemed to breathe, casting a volatile red glow across the Emperor's forehead.

  Xylora's eyebrows shot up. Even Ragith-Kar stiffened.

  "A Scorchruby," Xylora whispered, her tone shifting from mockery to genuine appraisal. "Those haven't been mined in three hundred years."

  "Impressive," Ragith-Kar grunted, his eyes fixed on the gem. "Perhaps the cattle have learned a few tricks after all."

  Ignatius didn't smile. He didn't even acknowledge the insult. He looked upon the Sandsworn, his gaze heavy with the weight of the intelligence he had just received.

  "You speak of liches returning to the Wastes," Ignatius said, his voice low and dangerous, matching the pulse of the gem on his brow. "That is no small matter."