Several days of unbearable heat had gone by, but now clouds were creeping in from the west, promising foul weather. Mikena turned to watch them swell, spreading across the entire horizon. They carried the ocean’s strength within them, flickering with distant light, though no thunder had yet sounded.

  He wished they would reach shelter soon. He had encountered coastal cyclones more than once—their force, like the very breath of nature, was astonishing.

  At sunset Hatra gleamed with the gold of sandstone, like a jewel lost in the green of the valley. Split in two by a rushing river, born somewhere in the mountains, the city shimmered in the last light.

  While from the west the deepening majesty of the storm pressed toward them, in the east, behind the faint glow of the city walls, a dark ridge rose. The mountains loomed like a harsh, immovable wall, and their snowy peaks dissolved into the sky.

  The general breathed in the cool air, feeling the fatigue of the long road settle into his lower back. The horses snorted; their hooves rang sharply on the paved road. Kewarna quickened her pace, though for the last few hours she had behaved like a sulky child. Animals sensed rest approaching—or perhaps the terrible storm preparing to swallow them behind an impenetrable veil.

  Hatra grew rapidly as they neared. The first outlines of houses became clear, then the domes of temples and state buildings—yet above all of them rose a single tower, white as ivory, like an enormous spear shot into the sky. Snow-pale, like the fang of some ancient beast, it pierced the clouds. The city’s only magical tower—perhaps the only one in all these lands—kept its watchful silence.

  The storm’s flicker, mirrored in the platinum rooftops, trailed them like a silent hunter. Darkness thickened with every minute. And just as they passed under the gates, the city shook with thunder. The wind rose, howled, whistled—and then the downpour crashed.

  Racing over a stone bridge, they crossed the river. In a few heartbeats Mikena was soaked through; he cast only a brief glance at the torrent bursting from its stone channel, foaming and raging, surging against the embankments.

  They pushed deeper into the city: narrow streets climbed upward, dipped downward, following the land’s uneven rise. Square houses pressed close together; shutters, doors, and hanging wooden balconies were all shut tight. Nothing could be seen inside—but surely life continued behind those walls in its own way.

  They turned beneath an arch, into a passage that widened a moment later: the houses stepped aside to reveal a small square, where a fountain spilled beyond the edges of its basin.

  It looked like an inn—but nothing suggested as much: no sign, no carving.

  Someone waited for them on the threshold.

  There was no time to wonder what kind of place this was. They were all thoroughly soaked, and after handing off their horses to the young people who came out to greet them, they hurried inside.

  Rain hammered on the roofs and roared through the gutters as it spilled into the river. It was so loud Mikena could barely hear his own thoughts—but as soon as the door closed, silence fell.

  The general shivered; gooseflesh raced across his arms.

  The inn opened into a spacious, warm sitting room. A laid table filled the air with the scent of roasted spiced lamb and good southern wine. The fireplace crackled softly.

  Comfort struck him like a blow—alongside a prickle of unease.

  His gaze drifted toward Mádyè—but the advisor was calm, almost as if he were waiting—for permission?

  And then an elderly woman stepped out of the kitchen.

  Her wrinkled face was smiling, filled with the warmth of early spring—but the sharp light in her dark eyes brimmed with energy.

  “Well now—our dear guests!”

  So they had been expected. Surely Mádyè had arranged everything in advance; it would have been strange if he hadn’t. He stepped forward first and bowed low.

  That courtesy of his—free of mockery—looked almost startling.

  “A pleasure to greet you, Lady Moremei.”

  A flash lit the window; a heartbeat later thunder shook the house.

  Something burned in the left side of Mikena’s chest, and he nearly reached for the inner pocket where Niobe’s letter lay.

  So—this was the intended recipient. The owner of the inn—Moremei.

  Was she truly the owner? Was this even an inn?

  “It’s been a long time,” she said softly to Mádyè, but her gaze went straight to Mikena—who still stood awkwardly on the threshold, water dripping off him onto the floor.

  The house wrapped him in warmth; the smell of food teased the hungry; outside the storm raged—but here all was peaceful and safe.

  It looked more like someone’s estate than a guest house, the general thought. Too clean, too well kept. No other guests. Only the mistress, the servants—and… cats.

  Of course. What else.

  The house was full of cats. They were surprisingly well-behaved. Though the table was already set, two of them sat politely on the stairway, not even glancing at the juicy lamb, while another poked its head between the upper railings and stared directly at him.

  “General.” Mádyè’s voice snapped him back. His thoughts had drifted too far; he’d let his guard slip.

  “Yes, yes,” he muttered to himself and stepped forward.

  Who was this Moremei—this elderly woman in a modest dress—someone the empress herself would write to?

  “An honor to greet the mistress,” he said. He did not bow—only nodded—and that did not escape Mádyè’s sharp eyes.

  “Have you misplaced all sense of respect on the road, General?” the advisor asked, attempting either to scold or to snap at him.

  In truth, the seven-day journey had been fairly peaceful. He could almost tolerate the bronze-headed bastard—Mádyè had been silent most of the time, lost in thought. There hadn’t been many chances to exchange barbs.

  “So I’ve misplaced it, and you’ve picked it up,” Mikena shot back. “Look at you—bowing to an old lady.”

  He took real delight in seeing Mádyè momentarily stunned.

  That’s right.

  “Ho-ho-ho,” the old woman chuckled softly. Her face seemed to grow younger from sheer delight. “Oh, how lovely,” she murmured, shaking her head.

  Mádyè looked at her, then at Mikena, then back again, and snorted.

  “Ah, so that’s how it is. Not tired at all? Go on, go on—change out of your road clothes.”

  The clumsy attempt to shoo him away was so unlike the advisor that Mikena nearly laughed. Even this monster, who swallowed cities whole, had finally grown thin-skinned from exhaustion.

  Even the storm no longer seemed so frightening.

  After exchanging a few polite words with the hostess, Mikena decided not to rush things. Holding the letter securely, he headed for the room prepared for him, leaving Mádyè to whisper his secrets with Moremei—someone he would soon have to meet properly.

  Thankfully, the letter had not soaked through. Enchanted, perhaps? The paper remained just as thick, the ink untouched. He guarded the message carefully, along with the promise he had made to Niobe.

  He had resisted the whole journey, unwilling to pry into someone else’s secret—but now, having reached the intended recipient, his fingers tingled with impatience. Reading the letter had become a necessity.

  Niobe’s handwriting was truly regal.

  My dear Moremei,

  It is Niobe writing to you—once your young protégé, and now the ruling Princess of the Drowsy Lands, from the salted waves of the Pink Sea to the crimson branches of Sifia, from the Iriminak Gulf to the eternal peaks of the Great Mountains. Soon I shall be crowned, yet I will never forget you nor your virtue.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  I write to you in sorrow: my father, Emperor Ur, has left us. He departed quietly, in his sleep, as befits one who devoted his life to peace. I wished you to learn of this from me, and not from the wind or the whispers of the streets. I await your reply as I once awaited a mother’s word in childhood. Erida stands upon the threshold of change, and I need your wisdom now more than ever.

  It has been far too long since we last met. I miss your stories, and your cats—Cranberry, who used to brush against my legs; Sanjia, with her sly gaze; Dragon, who growled at shadows; and even Fool, who was forever tangling himself in his own paws. Do they remember me? I invite you to Mutaaresh, though I know you will refuse. Your heart belongs to Hatra, as mine belongs to these shores.

  There is another reason for this letter. Monin, my dog, has grown unruly. He chases the garden creatures and nearly drove the python I brought from the south—which I love dearly— into the pond. You are the mistress of all beings that walk, crawl, and fly. Come and look at him, I beg you.

  As a gift, I send you a canary—a marvelous, gentle little bird, all the more unexpected for having been raised in freedom. Watch over her, and do not let her come to harm. Incidentally, Monin nearly caught the bird as well! So do take care of her.

  With warmth and hope,

  Niobe

  So that was why they had brought the canary.

  Mikena folded the sheet, lost in thought.

  He had not expected to read Eridian correctly, nor to understand much—but it turned out he understood nothing at all. Was the empress truly writing about her animals? Who was this old woman, Moremei, at court? The keeper of the menagerie? And why should the princess concern herself personally with palace beasts, even if she loved them dearly? Stranger still—why not entrust such a letter to Mádyè? Surely some meaning lay hidden in those lines. The advisor would have seen it at once; Mikena would not.

  Monin, straining against his leash, a python brought from the south, a canary locked in a cage...

  The general frowned. A python? His gaze darted to the door—was Mádyè still downstairs, speaking with the hostess? The Bronze Serpent, sliding among the stones of a world he himself had destroyed.

  And the canary…

  He froze as a sharp pang struck his chest. Caught—yet free. Like himself: tangled in the snares of other people’s secrets.

  Had Niobe known he would read the letter? Or was all of this coincidence—a trick of a weary mind—and the princess simply fond of animals?

  A heavy head, an empty stomach, and cold feet did nothing to help him think. He would deliver the message, as promised, and perhaps that would mark the final line of his own story. Would there be anything beyond—another page? Would Niobe keep her word and care for his people?

  “How unbearable all of this is,” the general sighed.

  The questions hung above him like storm clouds over Hatra.

  For the moment, he set doubt aside and began to change. The belongings brought up from the wagons were damp too: the fine dyed linens and Eridian silks the servants had packed for him were soaked and creased. They would need attention—otherwise he would have nothing decent to wear come morning.

  Through the steady hiss of rain came a creak, then a dull thump. A white cat leapt in through the open window from the garden tree.

  The general did not startle—only glanced over his shoulder as he hung his clothes. Just like in Mutaaresh—they came when they pleased.

  The cat shook herself gracefully, splattering the floor and the house robe the servants had thoughtfully left for him. The mischief-maker was already preparing to climb onto the bed, ready to settle herself on the last dry garment and spring away again, when Mikena snatched up the inn’s bedding.

  “Hey, sister, how about you find another spot,” he said. “I’ve nothing else to wear. If you soak the last of it, I’ll have to go downstairs naked.”

  She did not answer—only stared at him with bright blue eyes, pupils slit vertically.

  “And what now? I leave, and you stay here causing trouble?” the general went on, tying his belt. The fabric was thick and heavy: a dark-blue cloak and matching trousers. “You’ll roll everywhere, and I’ll have to sleep in your fur,” he complained wearily. “Ah, fine—do as you like, you little menace.”

  He waved her off and hurried to supper, leaving the cat alone. Hunger had long since spread through his body, almost buckling his legs.

  Nearly all of Mádyè’s Syratine guards had gathered at the table—but the advisor himself was absent. Mikena had grown accustomed to the bronze-faced man’s oddities: he always kept apart, as though he had no need of simple weaknesses—food, sleep, rest. But the general knew that was untrue. He had seen his face once, when the mask was torn away in battle, and on the road he had noticed the details: how the advisor lagged behind to remove the mask and drink water; how he rubbed tired eyes and pale skin when he thought no one watched; how he nodded off for a moment in the shade during the white sun, when they stopped at midday.

  The guards now eating and laughing surely knew what their lord looked like—and yet he did not join them.

  What was the point of that cursed mask, if it only multiplied inconvenience? Mikena wondered. Why hide one’s face from those who had already seen it? This was no whim, no ancient habit. Mádyè seemed afraid to bare not just his features, but something deeper—some vulnerability he, sharp-tongued and arrogant, hid with care. Perhaps he had not avoided the table out of pride at all. Perhaps removing the mask before everyone meant revealing the cracks in his impenetrable image: fatigue, weakness, humanity—still alive somewhere deep within.

  The table sagged under the weight of food—mostly simple fare, but filling. The servants kept away, not entering the sitting room, only occasionally peeking out from the kitchen; the soldiers could pour their own wine.

  The cats kept their distance as well: one spotted on the windowsill, a calico by the hearth, a gray one on the stairs. Like guards keeping watch over order, they observed with an almost human seriousness.

  The rain did not let up.

  When the already long supper drew to a close, Mikena finally gathered himself and went to find Moremei, to fulfill his part of the agreement.

  He found the old woman in a covered gallery overlooking the inner courtyard, sipping a mint infusion whose light, fresh scent curled through the air.

  “Lady Moremei,” he called, approaching from behind, careful not to startle her—but she did not startle at all, nor even seem surprised, greeting him with a radiant smile.

  “General, come in, sit,” she said, indicating a second wicker chair beside her. “I’ll treat you to tea.”

  He accepted, though he was not yet sure how best to begin.

  Part of the small inner courtyard was taken up by a garden full of fruit trees. It must have been a pleasant place to rest in clear weather.

  Another tailed resident came scurrying across the courtyard, splashing through puddles, meowing loudly as he rushed to rub against the general’s legs.

  “Well now,” Moremei shook her head. “I told you quite clearly not to come.” Her voice was firm, as though she were scolding a negligent servant, not a small rogue.

  The cat seemed to understand—ears flattened, he backed away.

  “Go on back. You’ve no business here.”

  The animal let out a plaintive meow, cast the general a strangely knowing look, and ran off.

  “You have so many cats…”

  “This is the Cat’s House,” she said. “The House of El Keitus, that is.”

  Mikena froze.

  The House of the Flow of Blooming? A temple?

  So the old woman was…

  She smiled, as if reading his thoughts, and looked at him with eyes dark and deep as wells. They hid great strength and an undying flame. Though her hair was gray, Mikena now noticed her southern features. In youth she must have been dark-skinned and dark-haired, holding her head high, stern as any southerner.

  Beside him, calmly sipping mint tea, sat, quite possibly, the High Priestess of the Awakening. No wonder Mádyè had bowed.

  And you, idiot, dared to be discourteous, flashed through his mind. His ears burned.

  “No need to worry so,” Moremei chuckled. “You’ve seen stranger wonders already—and stranger still await you.”

  That much was certain.

  The general steadied his racing heart. One did not meet priests every day. Some of them were said to live very long lives. Who knew how old Moremei was? Perhaps she had seen Hatra built.

  Mikena cleared his throat and finally spoke.

  “I hope Mádyè has delivered the canary. But that was not the only gift from Her Majesty.”

  He meant simply to hand over the letter, but his hand trembled and, of its own accord, placed the message upon the tea table. Unconsciously, he had followed southern custom: men and women did not pass objects directly from hand to hand; one must set them down to be taken.

  She unfolded the letter and skimmed the lines quickly. The steady hiss of rain and the tapping of a poorly enchanted glowing orb—unwilling to hang still beneath the gallery ceiling and repeatedly striking a column—filled the space.

  “So that is how it is,” the old woman sighed when she finished reading. “Ah—this is when a pipe of good tobacco would not go amiss.”

  “I wouldn’t refuse either,” the general smiled.

  “And what do you think of what’s written there?”

  “I didn’t read it,” Mikena lied—and felt his gaze slide away in cowardice.

  Moremei said nothing. Perhaps she believed him. Or perhaps she chose not to embarrass him. Could one truly deceive a priestess?

  “I only hope Her Majesty will keep her part of the bargain,” he added, unwilling to appear selfless—because he was not.

  “And what did the princess promise you?”

  They did not look at each other, but at the rain-soaked garden.

  “To take care of my people.”

  “Do not doubt it. Your people will be safe.”

  Mikena frowned. Why was she so certain?

  He had not expected everyone to survive. In truth, he had expected no one to survive: a brutal battle, then an ambush, then the guards’ attack. If the wounded received no care, they were likely long dead. And even those taken prisoner would hardly have surrendered—they would have been executed. Would the most loyal truly defect to the enemy? Unless… unless they had seen what Mikena had seen. The might of the beetle army. The fall of Sardas. Erida’s terrifying power could plant doubt in anyone.

  He had not thought of this—but Mádyè had said from the beginning that many had agreed without torture or threats, though surely after a demonstration of the advisor’s near-divine power.

  Could Mikena blame those who turned away from Kafar, from Sihem, from himself? Nine years of war, hunger, cold, and the absolute will of an emperor would exhaust even the strongest spirit.

  Before the beauty and prosperity of the Drowsy Coast, many questions arose: why had the gods deprived their own land? Perhaps by accepting the rule of the Heavenly Houses—El Keitus or any of the others—they might finally rise again and live.

  The young empress had promised to spare lives, and however much Mikena wished to scoff, to laugh it off as foolishness, he no longer could. Not after Sardas—and certainly not after delivering the letter to Moremei. He had ruined his life, placed his scant family line at risk, all for the hope that someone—anyone—might be spared.

  He leaned back in the chair and looked into the darkness of the night garden. The rain seemed to be easing. A pleasant coolness crept over his body.

  After a long, comfortable silence, Mikena finally asked,

  “Who are you?”

  Moremei smiled again, gently—but in that smile there was unexpected weariness, even sorrow.

  “Just an old woman who loves cats.”

  Yes. Of course. An old woman who loved cats.