Julian Gerrets, High Steward of the House of Nyamar, and keeper of Boslic’s Verdart, trembled in anticipation.

  “Sir,” Butler Cornelius croaked as he offered the black apron. The old domestic had lived long beyond natural years, watching more high stewards come and go than anyone else within the House.

  Julian, almost in his forties, had every right to outlive him, but these days he wasn’t so confident about that outcome.

  It’s going to be okay, she said directly into his mind, voice maternal. He felt her presence. Boslic, his world. He wore her Verdart, her heart, becoming one with her and thereby wearing the mantle of her steward.

  You’ve done this before, right? he asked, not in words, but as a thought, directed at her.

  Yes, many times, with your father, she assured him. And many generations before that. Don’t worry, I’m with you.

  He exhaled, some of the tension draining from his tight muscles.

  Her Verdart flashed into being, snaking around his arm, Aklo runes pulsing with green rays on the Athanium ring. Usually, he fused with her, and she’d vanish, manifesting as his eyes, which now glittered green as emeralds under a lamp.

  He preferred being fused; he could conceal to some degree the sacred treasure he oversaw, but he had to adhere to protocol for a high quorum.

  Julian took a breath, stilling himself. He stood in the breach chamber in the mobile tent estate set up just inside Fort Zero’s gates. Grey curtains surrounded the Athanium artifacts, and six valets stood guard, facing away from him in a circle, their hands clasped before them and their heads bowed.

  Twelve gas lamps with green glass lenses plunged the tent chamber into emerald, ethereal light.

  “Thank you,” Julian accepted the garment from Cornelius and tied it around his waist. He was an inversion of his brothers, while butlers wore white aprons and gloves over a dark suit, the high steward wore a black apron and gloves over white trousers.

  He cinched the knot tight. He had gotten out of the habit of wearing his uniform. Some of the others saw him as complacent and dismissive of tradition. They weren’t wrong. But this—he had to follow protocol.

  He slipped his black gloves on before holding his hand out. “Druk.”

  Butler Cornelis handed him the newest athanium treasure, a featureless, smooth dagger: not programmed with Aklo runes, the script of light, but with court glyphs. As far as they knew, it was the only weapon that could kill a court—or, more accurately, torment a court into killing themself.

  This would be Julian’s first high quorum; he wasn’t taking any chances on a court ambush.

  “I’m ready,” he whispered.

  Butler Cornelis bowed his head and retreated to an athanium gong on a table beside the breach jig. He plucked a hammer and rang it four times. “Hear all, a high quorum has been called.”

  “A high quorum has been called,” the six valets echoed in unison, taking a single synchronous step and widening the circle.

  Julian’s heart pulsed in quick, heavy beats. He tucked the Druk into a pocket, hidden within his suit.

  Cornelis rang the gong four more times, a low resonant sound that pierced the air like a tuning fork. “The high stewards converge.”

  “The high stewards converge.” The echo came, and the valets took another step away from the breach jig.

  Julian forced his chest forward and raised his head. He could feel her anxiety as well. Yes, she’d done this before, but things were different now—with the courts.

  Booooong, booooong, booooond booooong…

  “Boslic, Din, and Chur take council.”

  “A high quorum has been called!” the Valets said, taking a final step away.

  Sweat prickled Julian’s temple as the final note rang long and true.

  Cornelis set the hammer down and took a clear glass wand from a velvet cushion. He stepped up to the breach jig and motioned for Julian to follow.

  Julian stepped forward, hands sweaty in their gloves.

  “Are you ready?”

  Julian nodded.

  Cornelis turned to the breach jig, a wooden frame in the shape of a mandorla—an almond with peaked ends. Thinner than a conventional door, the jig wasn’t linked to a counterpart, but was a safety measure to prevent someone from brushing the edge of the breachport. When reality tore, the breach rim was so sharp it made razor blades look like a granite slab.

  Cornelis plunged the glass wand into the opening, the sliver of athanium at its core gleaming. The air rippled, and the old Butler sliced, like he was dividing a curtain. The air split at the edges, widening until it was hidden within the protective frame.

  Julian peered into the opening, noting the floor tilted down at an unnatural angle.

  Courage.

  He glanced down at the Velrdart, at her heart, and she pulsed in gentle encouragement.

  He strode through the gap, needing to shuffle sideways to fit through the breach.

  He stumbled as gravity tilted forward several degrees before his body reoriented itself, leaving his mind reeling from vertigo. As soon as he crossed over, he felt her influence fade, his connection weakened by distance.

  He gasped, spinning in the metal cavern. Ancient consoles and terminals lay in dust, abandoned for centuries. The ceiling stretched high, titanium alloy buttresses sprouting from the floor to the walls.

  Behind him, the breach exposed the estate-tent interior before it snapped shut.

  Julian turned at the sound of murmuring voices; his hand drifted to the druk, but he didn’t draw it. He took a deep breath, feeling for the surfing waves that carried forewarning of hostile intentions. He sensed a general pressure, omnidirectional. It might have been malaise that suffused the ruin, or it might have simply been the unfamiliar environment.

  He strode forward.

  His cavern opened into an even larger one, one wall composed entirely of glass, and his breath caught.

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  Three globes dominated the space outside, the Atmostorm raging between them. He stared down at his world in awestruck wonder. This vessel, this Ataggin ship he stood in, drifted in low orbit but not alone.

  Thousands of other ships floated in the vacuum, torn to pieces, a graveyard for an ancient cosmic war.

  He blinked as the voices cut off, only now noticing the two men who stood at the observation deck viewport. They watched him expectantly. He cleared his throat and strode forward.

  The other two high stewards wore uniforms that matched his, though with styles that differed greatly.

  The first high steward stood tall, with mahogany dark skin. His suit fit him, sewn with machine precision. The seams on his black apron ended in sharp folds, far too precise to have been done by hand. A pistol sat in a holster on his belt, not a blocky gas weapon, but something with a long, thin barrel and a broomstick handle.

  The second stood much shorter, his clothing baggy, and, surprisingly, wore a vest with an orange-and-black tie-dye pattern that broke the black-and-white dress code back on Boslic.

  Both wore Verldarts.

  “We were expecting High Steward Bram,” the dark man, Chur’s steward, said.

  “Forgive the surprise,” Julian said, marveling at his counterparts, the mere fact that they existed, and now he stood in their presence. “My father was killed by a Court called Rahashel. I’m Julian Gerrets.”

  The Churite made a fist and held it to his heart in some alien sign of respect. “Your father was a great man. I’m High Steward Tamba Bangura.”

  The Dinnian, a man with olive tan skin that bordered on green, stepped forward. Two tufts of hair jutted off his jaw, but the rest of his face was clean-shaven. “I’m Batu Chuluunyn.” His accent came out thick but confident.

  Tamba nodded to the Verdalt on Julian’s arm. “I see your father had the foresight to hand off his stewardship before treating with traitors.”

  “Yes,” Julian said, noting matching armbands on the other two. “He was too trusting.”

  The three men stood in momentary silence.

  “What’s—happening on your worlds?” Julian asked, the question coming out surprisingly childish. “The courts?”

  The other stewards exchanged a glance. “We’re not usually supposed to share too many details about our planets with each other. Nyamar prefers for us to develop independently of each other.”

  “Our planets are infested with alien death gods,” Julian said pointedly. “Surely things are different.”

  Batu nodded, considering. “Usually, Nyamar sends a messenger, a S’raphon. We’re hoping for guidance on what to do.”

  “Yet …” Tamba said. “I suppose there wouldn’t be any harm in you knowing we’ve documented sixteen courts on Chur. It’s been bloody; we’ve lost millions. Dozens more courts could be hiding in the chaos.”

  “Millions dead?” Batu echoed, despair crawling through the words. “On Dinn, we’ve named fifteen courts. We’ve been devastated by the deaths of hundreds of thousands, but millions?” he shook his head.

  Julian fidgeted uncomfortably. Aside from Rahashel, Peter, and Libshee, he knew very little about the Court's presence on Boslic. How were these others so well connected on their planets?

  “I believe there are seventy-three Courts across all three worlds,” he said. The others turned to him in surprise.

  “How do you know this?” Tamba asked.

  “Because we have a court. He’s a footman. He has a book written in their scripts. Deciphering it has been challenging, but it gives seventy-three names.”

  “You allowed one of the abominations to join your House?” Batu asked pointedly.

  “He was one of ours first, a local. He’s a good kid. The only thing that makes them Courts is the Bedorvens, which appear to be some form of corrupted Verdalt.

  Armbands that bestowed immortality or stewardship; the parallels between the House and the courts were uncanny.

  “It’s hard to tell how many people have died on Boslic. The House isn’t well-loved back home; our footprint is small.”

  “Really?” Batu asked in surprise. “Nearly every government on Dinn obliquely defers to the House. It’s the reason we’ve been able to coordinate strong defences.”

  “That surprises me,” Tamba said. “We watch your worlds through powerful telescopes. I can say with confidence that Dinn is the least technologically advanced.”

  Julian considered these men with curious wonder. Different worlds, different cultures, yet so close.

  Tamba continued. “One court in particular has caused the most damage in my world. They call him Archon.”

  “His title is Judge of Kings,” Julian said, nodding. “Archon’s name is at the top of the list—”

  Green light flashed from the sealing as a figure in radiance dropped abruptly.

  All three stewards spun in an instant, Julian drawing his druk, and Tomba training his sleek pistol on the figure as it slammed into the ground.

  The man groaned before rising. His black hair swept back wild and thick, the patchy beginnings of a beard sprouted from his sun-bronzed skin, and—

  Julian cocked his head.

  The man was semi-translucent, armor and all, everything except the athanium crown that clung to his brow and curled around his ears, gleaming as solid as Julian’s druk.

  Tamba lowered his pistol. “Messenger, what happened?”

  The man stood to his full height, translucent blood dribbling from his lips, then they rose.

  Twin appendages swept back from his shoulders, ghostly arches formed from ethereal blades interlocked like scales. Black ichor and red blood dripped from them, some of it physically dripping onto the floor, while other droplets fizzled from reality before they could make contact.

  “Hark, Stewards,” he rasped, grunting before wrenching his shoulder back into its socket. “These seas are infested with phantoms. I had to carve my way through scores of powerful apparitions. I apologize for my tardiness.”

  Julian's mouth went dry as he fell back a step. A real-life S’raphon.

  “I have little time; therefore, give heed to my words. My presence draws the enemy’s gaze and the shadow of their wrath upon all those who dwell here.”

  Julian, with the others, stared dumbly.

  “My name is Vhraqiel, messenger for Nyamar. I am not of flesh and bone, yet I walk parallel to thee upon the other side of reality. Nyamar wills that thou shalt know thy enemy. These courts have come to wage a war of succession and have chosen thy spheres for their battleground. They all serve a being called Bezsmert, an ancient friend of Nyamar.

  Bezsmert and Nyamar came from the same sphere of existence when they were mortal. Bezsmert is lost to madness and seeks death, desiring only a successor. For this reason, the courts have come, vying for a chance at his throne.”

  He shifted, the scale blade arches from his back, leaving a trailing afterglow.

  “The King of Courts and Nyamar are friends?” Julian asked, panic climbing. Could they fight their master’s friend?

  Vhraqiel turned burning green eyes on Julian.

  “Fear not, son of Bram. Nyamar won’t forsake those entrusted to thy care. He sends new commands. Build an academy, swell thy ranks, open the boons to his children. Thy system is precious to him, and this trespass won't go unpunished. Go, work together, coordinate; ye are his hands. Act.”

  The stewards glanced at each other, Julian’s adrenaline raging at the announcement. No more uncertainty. Only action.

  Batu stepped forward. “Messenger, the courts bring a new script of power, alien to us. It’s not Alko, but some script of death that somehow mirrors us. What can you reveal to us about it?”

  Vhraqiel shook his head. “It is not the script of death, but the language of time. Voor is its name. Bezsmert is not its master; Nyamar is. He wields light in his right hand and time in his left.”

  “If Voor belongs to Nyamar, then perhaps he can grant us its boons,” Tamba said. “If it be his will.”

  “Nay, servant. Thy stewardship is over Alko only; light is its arm. Yet Nyamar readies a high steward of Voor. Already I have marked their anima sequence. They dwell on one of thy worlds, but Nyamar bids me not to reveal their identity. Let not the courts succeed Bezsmert, but prepare the way for his Voor lord.”

  The space station rumbled, and Vhraqiel scowled at shapes darting past the viewing window. “I place thee in danger, and I must go hunt. Yet hear this final warning. Courts are powerful, but none are so perilous as the Panderrant—the Wanderers Between.

  Seven Pandarrants walk your worlds, serving a single court. Which court, I know not. The peoples of thy worlds name these panderrents ‘wraiths,’ and they have been ripped from banishment to serve an unknown purpose.”

  Wraiths? Julian's eyes widened. He had read reports on the assassin known as the Blood Wraith. Was that one of these panderrents, or was that just a random frightful name attached to another unknown?

  The station rocked again.

  Vhraqiel’s crown melted, liquid metal swarming down his arm and reforming as a short sword in his hand. “I depart. Farewell, friends.”

  Before Julian could answer or ask further questions, the S’raphon launched himself into the air, passing through the roof. Twin tracks of light burned in the air where the Aether arcs passed, before slowly fading.

  Julian turned to the other steward, mind racing. “So. Looks like we can work together now. Tell me everything.”