Hot water trickled down his body, caressing the skin like the touch of a lover’s slender fingers. The fragrance of flowers in the bath lingered like rare oils brushed lightly on a wrist. He could have fallen asleep, sinking into such bliss—but seventeen was an ominous number.

  In the past days, the general had brooded much over the strange offer of the man with the bronze face. It was impossible to reach Sardas in three days, even riding day and night, driving the best horses to exhaustion. Then it must involve strong magic—and the adviser’s silence suddenly seemed menacing.

  Anxiety crept beneath his skin and gnawed at his bones, forcing him to replay the conversation again and again. His head ached from the obsessive thoughts, and even the warm bath did not ease the pain. He would learn everything soon enough, when on the seventeenth the full moon rose, and see with his own eyes what his enemy had prepared.

  The water gave a soft sob as the general stepped from the pool, his bare feet pressing on mosaic floor set with tiny pebbles and tiles. Coolness crept up from his soles. The walls and floors here were thick; in ancient days Hazei Palace had served as a fortress, though those functions had faded once the city had grown to surround it on every side.

  The sun rolled across the sky like a blazing wheel and sank into the distant oceanic gleam—barely visible from the window. The last breath of day faded into the air.

  His garments lay close by. His old ones had been ruined in the recent turmoil, and new attire had been brought—though no one had taken his measurements. Perhaps they were trusting to luck. Mikena dressed with deliberate slowness, as if it might change something. The serving girls always tried to assist, but he drove them away each time, preferring to tend to himself.

  Black silks, cut in Eridian fashion, fell smoothly on his shoulders. Dark robes were embroidered with silver threads, as though spun from moonlight. The pleasant, airy fabric suited the climate; here it was warm even in the season of the lesser sun. The Three Heavenly Houses of the Flows had granted their people fertile lands, which Sihem did not possess despite its vast territory. Erida had received everything, and Sihem nothing. The climate here was gentle year-round, while in the far north of the Sihemic Empire the sun either forgot to set, lingering in the sky for half a year, or vanished, absent just as long.

  An accursed, barren land, full of hardship, injustice, and strife—home to three different peoples: the Sikki, foundation of the state; the Niti; and the Savvati. Only in recent centuries had imperial rule grown strong enough to bind the scattered princedoms, and once the realm had been united, it was clear the three had nothing to offer each other. None of them truly lived—they survived, each in want. Sikki lands bore poor grain, Niti forests scarce game, and the Savvati seas meager fish. Their only recourse in union was to close together, like fingers curling into a fist, and strike at their neighbors to seize some wealth for themselves.

  Under the weight of their armies fell several free cities and minor principalities. Then the highlanders dwelling along the great mountain range joined willingly, and at last the borders of Sihem and Erida touched. That unseen line became a barrier between two estranged brothers: one whom the parents loved, giving him anything he desired, and the other whom they drove away, denying him even the barest.

  Or perhaps it was only because the Sikki did not revere cats.

  The general settled onto the divan; on the table nearby stood a jug of water and a plate of sinfully sweet grapes. He allowed himself to relax, to forget his fears and doubts for a moment—but the rare pleasure was cut short by a visitor.

  There he was—his adversary, with a statue’s impassive face and eyes sharp as an arrowhead.

  Mádyè had come earlier than promised, perhaps in case there was argument to be had. But Mikena knew he had no choice and would not waste strength in vain.

  “How do your days pass, General?”

  How should the days of a prisoner pass?

  Mikena let his gaze drift lazily over the adviser’s figure, replying with deliberate ease:

  “As usual. Nothing unexpected.”

  Surprisingly, Mádyè wore no armor. Mikena could not help asking:

  “You would depart like this? Do you not fear a stray arrow?”

  “Why should I fear it, when you will be at my side?” His voice carried amusement.

  “It was you, adviser, who promised to guard me—not I, you,” sighed the general. Did bearing a deity’s name make him think himself immortal?

  Mádyè chuckled quietly and laid a hand on the general’s shoulder.

  “Come, we are bound for an unforgettable venture. The sun nears its setting, man his death, the empire its fall. The end is inevitable, and today we shall see it.”

  Mikena pressed his lips together in tension. The adviser had spoken those words with purpose. The general cast a glance over his shoulder at the last crimson rays retreating before the oncoming dark.

  No—Sihem would not be so easily defeated. He would not believe this arrogant proudling.

  No one else accompanied them. Two guards remained at the door to the chamber, while Mádyè led him calmly through splendid galleries and corridors. Such confidence was staggering.

  “You do not fear that I might strike you down with my bare hands?”

  The adviser was shorter, slighter. Surely he had hidden strength, magic too—but could he stand against a trained warrior’s body? One precise blow and his life would end.

  “If you truly could, you would already have tried,” Mádyè answered evenly, and Mikena only snorted.

  For all his arrogance, the bronze-faced man was frighteningly perceptive.

  They descended unhurriedly along a staircase of white stone and came into a wondrous garden filled with freshness and the first cool of night. Fireflies flared here and there, as if humming a lazy lullaby, like tiny stars.

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  Crossing the courtyard, they reached what seemed the entrance to the palace catacombs. What secret did Hazei Hill guard? What magic awaited within? Unease, like the clammy damp of darkness, swallowed Mikena.

  The dim glow of a magical orb could not reach far, only outlining the steep stair and walls overgrown with moss. They were descending into the very halls of darkness.

  Then, with the force of a gust of wind, a surge of magic struck his chest. Even the general—who had never thought himself sensitive—felt the pressure. The orb brightened in answer.

  Two men in Eridian armor stood watch before vast iron doors. The wrought patterns seemed to stir; snakes twined with flowers hissed as if in greeting. His throat went dry.

  “Are you ready to witness a miracle?”

  No, not at all, he wanted to answer, but could not.

  “Open,” Mádyè commanded. The serpents slithered into grass, slid outward, and vanished into the grooves. The doors shuddered, clanged, and slowly swung wide.

  The weight of magic grew stronger.

  Beyond was not a chamber but a vast stone gallery, its floor trodden earth. A path sloped gently down. In the gloom a ribbon of water glimmered faintly.

  “This cannot be,” Mikena breathed in wonder. The doors boomed shut behind them, but even that did not draw his eyes away. “The Rivers of Blue Agave, the veins that carry the magic of the Ethereal Sea. I cannot believe it. All this time Mutaaresh held an entrance to the Rivers?”

  His green eyes squinted with a smile, catching the light.

  “No. We managed to open it.”

  Mikena stared at the azure waters. His heart thudded almost painfully in his chest. This changed everything. Mádyè’s arrogance, his near-defiance, became suddenly clear. He could afford it—for now Erida possessed something greater than the strongest, swiftest spells of passage: the Rivers of Blue Agave, flowing from the Ethereal Sea itself, the source of all magic. They ran not merely under the earth but through other time and space; to enter them was to step into the domain of the Flows.

  Beneath the tranquil waters he glimpsed a riverbed wholly overgrown with blue agave. Woe to any who fell there. Thick, sharp leaves jutted on all sides like spears, heightening the uncanny air.

  “In Mutaaresh there are only four magic towers—where did you find enough mighty sorcerers to open the gate?”

  “It took effort,” Mádyè answered curtly.

  Of course. Surely it was a military secret. Such things were not told even to allies, much less to enemies.

  The thought chilled Mikena. Wait—why had he been granted the honor of beholding the currents of magic?

  Mádyè was untying a boat from the pier, and when all was ready, he extended a hand.

  “Please, General. Take your seat. It is time we set out.”

  “And what of the blood sacrifice?”

  It was the inescapable rite for any who wished to travel the Rivers. One drop of blood—tiny, but irrevocable, a portion the body could never reclaim. Dissolved in the mystical waters, it carried away a fragment of life.

  “Do not worry. I prepared our offering beforehand.”

  When Mikena was seated in the boat, Mádyè stepped in as well. Pushing off from the pier, he drew a small vial from his pocket, unstoppered it, and spilled its contents. The water drank the crimson drops.

  The river’s current caught them and bore them away from Mutaaresh. A journey of weeks would take only a few hours.

  All of it was so uncanny, so dreamlike, like a vision woven by the Flow of Boundlessness — Inspiration—or perhaps by the Flow of Twilight Shadows — Finality.

  “You already know much about me,” Mádyè said at last, breaking the silence. His voice rang clear and unrestrained in the stone tunnel. “But I know nothing of you: to whom are you dedicated, what do you love, what family is yours?”

  Mikena stifled a sarcastic laugh.

  “Shall we trade leisurely confidences? Two men in a boat adrift on otherworldly waters? I cannot fathom why you are so calm, so careless.” His tone slipped despite himself; threat seeped through like poison. “I could simply push you overboard. The Blue Agave would do the rest.”

  “You have made that threat more than once, and yet you have not acted. Why do you hesitate?”

  Mikena clenched his fists.

  Infuriating man. Afraid of nothing at all.

  Worse still—the adviser was right. He could not deny it, and that made it bitterer. Was there a dagger hidden in that sleeve, a murderer’s face beneath the mask?

  “Traditionally every warrior is dedicated to the Flow of Sharp Stones—Trial,” he conceded at last. “But I cannot say I am religious.”

  The general had never prayed nor burned incense, convinced the gods had nothing to do with his victories. He fought and survived without reverence, offering his strength as tribute to Trial by deeds alone. The only thing in which divine aid might truly have helped was love. Three of his betrothed had died before becoming his wives, earning him the name Doomed Bridegroom. Lords ceased offering him their daughters, lest they too meet a premature end.

  “You do not believe in the power of the Flows?” There was surprise in Mádyè’s voice.

  “It is hard to say,” the general admitted. “The capital lies beneath the patronage of Prosperity. We built it temples, brought priests, and what then? Did we live richer, happier? No. Battles and valor brought fortune, not worship.”

  “If not one god, then another.”

  “Think what you will,” Mikena retorted, but added—without knowing why: “I do not deny the divine. But if I were to serve, it would not be the Heavenly Houses.”

  “You deem only the free Flows worthy of reverence?”

  “I deem nothing. Do I look like a man who ponders such subtleties?” He studied the adviser. “And you—do you revere Freedom so deeply? Why him?”

  “Because it is perhaps the only thing worth fighting for—Freedom.”

  He said it calmly, yet the words dripped with venom. Of course they were enemies and had exchanged many barbs already, but that simple phrase carried hatred and scorn.

  No need to row—the River bore them itself. Mádyè, seated at the stern, only guided the rudder, keeping the boat’s nose straight.

  Mikena stared into the clear waters, sinking into thought. Fortune favored the Eridians more than ever. Surely they already controlled the River’s shore near the mountains by Sardas; the adviser would never rely on chance in so grave a matter.

  He wished the River might sweep away his fears. Yet it did the opposite. The quiet waters lapping against the boat carried him toward an end. What had the adviser said? “We shall see today: the sun sinking to its setting, the empire to its ruin, and man to his death.” A prophecy? Or a threat?

  Despite the chance to behold the wonders of the Ethereal Sea, he would rather be home. His family estate lay north of the capital, a few days’ ride, in a place called the Wolf’s Maw. A poor land, bleak even, but still his own. There people were born and died. Yet now the great house stood empty. His parents were long gone, his elder brother killed at the war’s beginning without heir. Mikena himself had left early: first for the academy, then for the front. His uncle, an aging general of the southern armies, was soon to retire from campaign—but Mikena had been captured, and all ties were severed.

  Would their line end? Would the Wolf’s Maw sink deeper into desolation? Weeds would overgrow the fields. The apple orchards his mother had struggled to plant would wither. Landslides would smother the few fertile patches with rock and mud. Wolves would return, and nature would reclaim its dominion. Or perhaps the invaders’ armies would march there too. The Eridians would bring their gods to the melancholy north and reshape the land—but for themselves.

  Mikena had never thought of defeat. Despite Erida’s resilience, Sihem’s victory had seemed inevitable. But now, everything had changed. The general cast a cautious glance over his shoulder at the unfeeling mask.

  Can one man change everything?