Hammers echoed along the half-built wall, each strike followed by the dry shuffle from mummified ghouls. One paused mid-swing, its empty face turning towards the travelers with dark, empty eyes.

  Peter swallowed. Whose bodies had these been? Most weren’t large enough to be full-grown men; Rahashel must have reserved the larger cadavers as his sentinels.

  The wall stretched onwards, low for now, but lined with scaffolds reaching skyward like ribs picked clean.

  “If Rahashel has enough Tijd to fuel this,” Peter said, motioning to the construction as they passed under the gate’s shadow, “Surely he could power an army.”

  “Perhaps,” Nebetka agreed, his eyes sweeping the construction line. “But then he couldn’t afford the fortifications.”

  They passed through the wall, and a shadow swallowed Peter. He hopped to the side to avoid leeching three towering mummified ghouls, loping on massive arms like apes. They trudged to the wall, bearing platforms of cement on their backs.

  Then the city opened before him, and something cracked inside.

  Stalpia, his home, was unrecognizable. The twisted Nosmerian establishments had gone dark with neglect. Broken glass yawned in window frames, doors hung on twisted hinges, kicked free during the looting. Worst of all, no one moved on the streets. Even when Peter had been a crop, the other mind-blank citizens wandered the streets like cattle. It seemed even the youngest crops had expired, leaving only the raspy, dry limbs of the colony of worker ghouls moving —an artificial parody of life.

  Colonel Van Den Hoak spurred his horse forward, pulling astride Nebetka. “What’s the plan with these walls? Do you have cannons?”

  “Rahashel hoped you would provide your artillery, as it is your specialty. Our military doctrine would call for war hexes rather than siege machines.”

  Van Den Hoek glanced at the low track that cut down the center of the road, cocking his head at the undead laborers who were digging the channel.

  Following the colonel’s gaze, Nebetka cut in. “Rahashel has focused our contribution on siege wards. The largest walls in the system will do you little good if they melt under your feet in an instant.”

  “They can do that?” Van Den Hoek asked, glancing back at the walls, perplexed.

  “Not after we’ve lined them with osteoglass tracks programmed with protective wards.”

  Peter stared back at the wall momentarily before jogging ahead to catch up. They marched up the perpetual slope, and Peter noticed with grim satisfaction that very few human overseers patrolled the streets, and those who did bore the scars of age, probably leeched for their failure.

  “And here is a bunker,” Nebetka said as they passed a new construction site, which was currently little more than a pit lined with reinforced concrete. “When the war starts, your women and children will need shelters.”

  Peter frowned, peering into the dugout. What was Rahashel's angle? Why would he build bunkers for civilians if his endgame was treachery?

  “Van Seur, you look perplexed. Surely you didn’t expect Rahashel to make your non-combatants fight?” Nebetka’s smile was all satisfaction.

  “If that’s true,” Peter murmured, “that’s a much gentler expectation than the Lord Commandant has for the refugees.” He thought back to the mass conscription at camp, where the women and children were being drafted into support units.

  His eyes narrowed as he glanced past the Emissary.

  Nebetka shifted his mount to face the Obelisk in the distance. A black glass ball, burning with voor glyphs, seemed to balance on the tip.

  “Good eye, Van Seur. That’s a sync node. It projects a radius and siphons Tijd directly into Rahashel’s ghouls. It can also relay remote commands to any ghouls within range.”

  He shifted his focus to Colonel Van Den Hoek. “We’ll need to train your men to single out and destroy enemy sync nodes. They’re high-value tactical targets. When a node goes down, ghouls usually scatter, seeking a new node to sync with. That or they’ll execute their final orders until they power down or their directives expire.”

  “How come we’ve never seen them before?” Van Den Hoek asked. “We’ve fought ghouls before; these are new.”

  Nebtka considered his answer. “Liches can command squads of ghouls and fill them manually. You raided and executed surgical strikes; you’ve never seen court warfare. With a network of nodes, Rahashel could hypothetically control legions from his throneroom.”

  Nebetka glanced up at the roof of Rahashel’s palace, visible over several deserted townhouses. “Come, I’ll provide someone more qualified to answer these questions, Rahashel waits.”

  They pressed on, but Doctor Aarts spent an extra moment staring at the node before falling back in line.

  They approached the limestone-and-alabaster white palace, built where the old cabinet hall had stood. The once-cobblestone plaza had been reconstructed into a desert oasis.

  Sparkling blue pools of water and tile ran along sandy walkways and exotic flora. Four black glass obelisks with pulsing voor glyphs stood on each garden corner. Rays of sunlight penetrated the square unnaturally between the obsidian spires, as if the sun were directly above.

  Peter searched the sky. The sun was already setting early, slipping behind Chur, rather than dipping behind the horizon. So how was it shining like a noon sun over the oasis? He hoped to answer these questions as he mastered Voor.

  Several sandstone thrones line the outer wall of the palace. One for each of Rahashel’s Elder liches—all currently empty. Most of their owners had been killed by Julian in the Battle of Julleck.

  Peter straightened as he noticed the two women standing before the wide double doors.

  The first one frowned, her sneer somehow stunning on her bronze skin; she wore a Rahashelian gold-and-white sheath dress, arms bare save for golden cuffs on her biceps and forearms. A white shawl draped from her shoulders, and a pouch like a small purse dangled from her hands.

  Peter’s eyes followed the gold sun suspended between ivory horns over her head. Not a part of her physiology like many of Rahashel’s wights, but an ornate crown.

  She strode forward, lip curling into a snarl. “Greetings, mortals and natives. I’m Isisina, Rahashel’s chief sorceress. I’ll escort you to his presence.”

  Heels clicked on the stone as the second woman strode forward.

  Nearly as tall as the top of Isisina’s crown, her pale skin seemed almost luminous. A narrow skirt practically bound her knees together, gold accents threaded her black jacket, and baggy shoulders swept upward like horns. Her black hair was pulled into a tight bun, and gold paint gleamed on her lips. A gilded chain wrapped around her waist, one end threading through her fingers to an hourglass the size of a loaf of bread.

  Peter stared at the timepiece, the sands glowed violet as it threaded up and down, snaking into a figure-eight through the narrow neck.

  “I’m Rokiela,” she said, smiling, sweaty in a way that didn’t match her fierce eyes. “I’ll be the bailiff and enforcer for this contract. I’m an independent third party from the Gilded Chain.” She leaned forward, looking down at them as if they were children. “This is my first time representing natives on this system. I’m most excited! Don’t hesitate to ask any questions.”

  “Sure,” Colonel Van Den Hoek said off the bat. “Say, Rahashel wants to cut our throats in the night. How do you stop him?”

  Isisina’s lip curled. “You insult his integrity?”

  Rokiela’s eyes glistened. “Aren’t natives so cute when they’re scared? It’s a fair question. Naturally, you want to know what you’re stepping into.”

  She shifted, her dangling hourglass swinging like a lantern. “Court Rahashel has put considerable earnest into this alliance, which the Chain holds in their vaults. Any minor breach of the contract, and that deposit would be fined and forwarded directly to you, Lord Commandant.”

  Peter blinked in confusion before remembering that Van Den Hoek was parading in Van Graif’s place.

  She shifted toward Julian. “And you, High Steward Gerrets. If he were to have you assassinated, the entirety of his earnest deposit would be delivered to your respective factions.”

  “How much?” Julian asked. “What’s his collateral?”

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  Rokiela’s gold lips twitched. “Five thousand years.”

  Peter’s eyes widened. Surely that was enough to keep an army running for quite a while. So why did Rahashel need them?

  “Additionally,” Rokiela continued, “he’ll be blacklisted from the Chain—ineligible for financing, and subjected to severe sanctions.”

  “And what if we were to breach the contract?” Julian asked as he slung Oordeels over his shoulder. “We’ve provided no collateral.”

  “If there are any violations from your side, we’ll return years to Rahashel, thus minimising his earnings. Moreover, any Tijd collected by Nine Finger or the House of Nyamar during your upcoming wars will be taxed until your collateral balances his.”

  “Shall we keep him waiting?” Isisina demanded.

  “I suppose you don’t have any more questions?” The Bailiff asked.

  Julian and Van Den Hoek exchanged glances, then shook their heads.

  “Lead the way.” Van Den Hoek motioned ahead with his hand.

  They entered the palace. Peter gawked at the impossibly high halls and corridors. Hieroglyphics mixed with Voorish sigils, sketched in paint rather than time, depicted Rahashel and his staff visiting worlds, conquering, and being driven away. Months of studying these wall records wouldn’t even begin to scratch the surface. Peter had to rip his gaze away from them as they continued on their path.

  They passed two obsidian statues of Thoth, the Elder Lich, stretched three stories high before an antechamber. Their arms crossed over their chests, holding massive metal short swords.

  They passed between them and into the next area, where another pair of colossal statues depicted a man with a jackal head, curved sickles gleaming in their hands, crossed over their chests.

  Peter froze. Anubis, his mortal enemy, now dead. Tobias had killed the lich with his bedorvan.

  Rokiela stopped at the door and turned. “I wish to remind you that anyone beyond these doors is on Rahashel’s staff and the terms of the alliance protect them just as they protect you.”

  Peter’s head cocked to the side. What an odd specification.

  She pushed the doors open, exposing a throne room.

  Rahashel rose from his elevated seat.

  Peter’s fists tightened. He had seen Rahashel’s likeness, as he puppeted Nebetka back at Fort Zero, but here and now, for the first time—Rahashel in the flesh.

  Julian’s hand flexed, hovering near where his Druk was tucked away.

  “Vigilance,” Kulafu whispered as he shot Peter a glance. He indicated his head.

  Peter turned and froze. Three Nosmerian men lounged near pillars, Slagters hanging from their belts as they studied the group. Peter’s jaw clenched, and suddenly he understood Rokiela’s warning. He knew these men. Morris Dewolf, Benedict Smulders, Skye Brink—the King’s Cell. Legendary gunmen who sold their skills to the highest bidder; traitors filling Rahashel’s vacancies.

  Morris tipped his hat to Peter, smiling through his scruff.

  Before Peter realized it, a finger brushed a hevig and he jerked it away, not trusting his instincts around these three.

  More than simply double-crossing Nine Fingers, Morris had manipulated Peter into thinking he was a friend, getting him to confide in him so he could find leverage—Iris. They had put a gun to Iris’ head, demanding the Bedorven in exchange, and Peter would never forgive them for that.

  “Welcome guests,” Rahashel boomed, bare chest rippling as he strode down the dias. His Bedorven pulsed faintly on his arm. Peter turned his attention to the Court, but he marked the King’s sell’s position.

  Rahashel opened his arms wide. “These are trying times, and we’ve all been placed in a difficult situation. I hope we can set our differences aside and focus on a common foe. Welcome, Sebastian Van Graif, Julian Gerrits, and Van Seur.”

  Morris tipped his hat back, cocking a brow. “Van Graif isn’t here.” His finger raised, pointing. “That’s Director Van Den Hoek.”

  Rokiela, the chain mediator, frowned at that.

  Van Den Hoaek stepped forward, stress trickling down his temple. He cleared his throat. “Court Rahashel, I’m Colonel Van Den Hoek. I’m here representing Lord Commandant Van Graif, who has sent me to determine the veracity of your offer.”

  “Of course,” Rahashel said, his voice a deep bass. “Wise of him to exercise caution, but our time runs low. I hope we can come to an agreement before Lady Libshee reaches Stalpia.”

  Rokiela cleared her throat. “Is anyone else not who they say they are? This is a legal accord, and I expect transparency.”

  Peter, Julian, and Van Den Hoek shook their heads.

  Van Den Hoak glanced at the King’s Cell. “What are they doing here? I hope you haven't taken them in? They’re traitors to the core.”

  Rahashel shifted, nodding in acknowledgement. “They once fought against me, and then you, and now here we are, all together. I believe in second chances. I hope your Lord Commandant does as well.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Van Den Hoek murmured.

  Rahashel turned to Peter, and he had to force himself to relax. According to Kulafu’s lessons, tensing could slow him down if he needed to move. “Van Suer. The lowly crop ascended to Court. The Rat Lord’s successor.”

  Rahashel’s gaze snapped down at the Bedorvan on Peter’s arm, eyes glinting before being quickly masked.

  “Rahashel,” Peter said simply, mouth dry.

  “I understand you’ve had difficulty accessing your potential. Let’s find out why. Together as full courts, we can resist Libshee. Add her Bedorven to our collection. End the war across this strange system.”

  “You mean conquer,” Peter corrected, heat rushing his face as he spoke. “Do we, traitors and enemies, come together for survival or conquest?”

  Rahashel hesitated at the heat in his words. “I understand your anger, Van Suer. I’m not here to ask for forgiveness or to try to get you to see things from my perspective, but the tactical necessity of working together is our only path forward. Surely you see that?”

  Peter exhaled sharply, shoving it all away. He had a mission, and Rahashel was wearing the objective around his arm. But this wasn’t the time nor the place. He had to be patient.

  He forced the most difficult smile of his life. “Of course.”

  Rahashel turned to Julian. “High Steward of the House of Nyamar.”

  “You seem well informed,” Julian said. “Your wights just called me priest.”

  “Yes, I’ve been keeping good company,” Court Rahashel snapped his fingers and a door on the side of the chamber swung open.

  A woman limped forward, her eyes found Julian, and she cried out in joy.

  “Esmee!” Julian cried, rushing over to her.

  Peter’s eyes widened. Esmee Smit was a hunter maid and pulser who had joined Nine Fingers on their failed attempt to steal Rahashel’s tiles. Peter had assumed she had been killed.

  “Julian,” she said, eyes darting wildly as she gripped his forearms. “I didn’t tell him anything, I promise I—” her voice broke, breath ripping raggedly from her chest.

  “It’s okay,” Julian said, lowering his voice as he afforded Rahashel a dark glance. “Tell me, did he hurt you?”

  Esmee’s eyes shifted past Julian, finding Rahashel. “They were heavy-handed at first, but not recently.”

  Julian nodded, squeezing her forearms. “I am so sorry I didn’t come from you. I saw you fall. I thought—I thought—”

  “Julian,” she cut him off. “My brother—?”

  Julian’s temples bulged. “I’m sorry, Esmee. Albert’s dead. There was a raid—The old kings. He didn’t make it.”

  Esmee sniffed, wiping her cheek with her palm.

  “I love happy reunions,” Rahashel said, stepping up to them as if they were old friends. Julian stiffened, hand twitching.

  “It was and still is well within my right to have her skinned alive,” Rahashel said. “But as a sign of good faith, I’m releasing her back into your custody.”

  Julian turned. “Thank you.” The words came naturally, but Peter caught the slightest tightening of anger around Julian’s lips.

  “I have a particular interest in mending relations with the House, High Steward,” Rahashel said, stroking his chin as he spoke. “As far as I’m aware, no other court knows your sorcery nor its origin. It’s not Voor. I’m hoping you’d teach me.”

  Esmee stiffened, whirling on him. “You think you can buy Nyamar’s gifts?” she hissed through her teeth.

  Julian turned, raising a placating hand. “There is a way.”

  Esmee flinched. “What?”

  “Things have changed, Esmee. I’ll explain later.”

  “I’m listening,” Rahashel coaxed.

  “Perform your bonding right on Peter. Subjugate yourself to his will, and debase yourself, and I’ll make you a footman in the House.”

  The corners of Rahashel’s eyes tightened ever so slightly. “I can’t do that.”

  Julian sighed and raised a hand, palm up. “The other way is simple. Give me the Bedorven. Forsake this power. Show your humility.”

  Rahashel sniffed, unamused. “I had hoped to follow this path with you, but if you’re intent on mocking me, I’ll have to find another way.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Camille?”

  A woman stepped from around the throne, grinning down at Julian. She wore a Nosmerian dress, a burgundy so dark it bordered on black. Two silver spikes secured her honey-blond hair in a bun. A scar marred her otherwise pretty heart-shaped face, cleaving through her eye from brow to cheek. A black glass ball filled the socket, iris burning with voor light.

  “High Steward Julian,” she droned. “I was hoping for Anton. The High Butler owes me an eye.”

  Peter searched the other domestics, unsure about this newcomer.

  “Ataggonite scum,” Esmee hissed.

  “Please,” Julian tried to pacify the pulsest. He turned back to the new woman, the Ataggonite exprite, Camille. He raised a hand, palm up. “Camille, come back to us. I need you in the House.”

  Her face reddened, and she hitched her skirt as she descended the dias. “Come back?” She hissed. “Come back after years of being hunted, cast aside like a dog? There is no coming back. The House has never taken one of us back.”

  “Things are different now,” Jullian said, stepping up to her. “Nyamar needs you.”

  She laughed, a pained cackle. “Really? Does he now? You mean you don’t want to awaken Rahashel? The court who embraced me, gave me a new eye?”

  She inhaled sharply, voice heavy with a history Peter had no context for. “No. The House no longer has a monopoly on power. The courts are here now, and there’s a place for me in their world.” Spittle flew from her lips as she stepped right up to Julian.

  Julian winced and let his hand drop. “I’m sorry,” he said simply.

  “You’re sorry?” She shook her head, her eye leaving an afterimage as it streaked through the air. “You’re not sorry, but you will be.”

  “Camille,” Rahashel said, stepping beside her. “These people are now under my protection, just as you are.” He glanced over to the king’s cell before shifting his gaze to Doctor Aarts, Fin, and Gertrude, who had been content to back up to the far wall.

  He grinned, taking another sweep of the room. “Vendettas, wounds that haven’t healed, Hatred.” His hands settled on Julian’s and Camille’s shoulders. “An enemy's hand is still a hand when the abyss opens.

  I look forward to working with you.”