Of Stone and Sky

  Emperor Kunagnos Ozewrath’s personal request received. Forty master mason’s sent to Jerrico. The man hasn’t been emperor for over a half-decade and he builds for five-hundred years in the future. Needless-to-say, we favor him. The Stone Father’s masons accepted payment. Briben’s finest will see the work done. We still have no idea what a skyway is though.

  —Ivvora Stonequill, Historian of Briben’s Forge.

  Raven snorted, ears flicking back as his eyes widened. The great warhorse sensed what lay ahead as he and his rider approached the entrance to Jerrico’s legendary skyway bridges.

  Stretching gracefully toward the second tier of the plateaued city, the bridges arched upward like the limbs of some great stone tree. They led toward the upper district—where temples, noble estates, guild halls, and at last the Obsidian Palace stood like jewels on the city's crown.

  Their construction was a feat of wonder: born from the rare alliance between the dwarves of the Iron Stone Mountains and the Mages’ Guild. Enchanted and enduring, the skyways gave Jerrico its mythical reputation—a city not only carved from stone, but lifted by it.

  Biaun Greyblood had known these bridges all his life.

  His family had settled Jerrico from its founding, claiming prime ground along the edge of the plateau. Their estate overlooked the sprawling lower city and the wilderness beyond—a panoramic view traded for proximity to the imperial court. When later generations of nobility had moved uphill, drawn like moths to the warmth of power, the Greybloods had remained. They were warriors, not flatterers.

  Even now, as the former Captain of the Arms and a legend in his own right, Biaun had kept to that distance.

  Like his ancestors, he was no sycophant.

  Patting his trusted steed’s neck to calm him, Biaun urged Raven forward onto the pearl-colored stone. The bridges shimmered faintly beneath them, magic humming in the air like a sleeping storm.

  It wasn’t the height that made Raven nervous—he was three-quarters Pegasi, after all—but the arcane enchantments holding the skyway aloft. Like his master, the steed had never come to fully trust magic.

  Biaun exhaled sharply, realizing he’d been holding his breath. He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “Acting like a ninny…”

  How was it that he could face ogres, trolls, and worse with calm resolve—yet feel his heartbeat race while crossing a glorified bridge?

  With the ground level far below, he focused on keeping Raven steady. His thoughts, however, wandered.

  To her.

  The elven druid.

  Such astonishing beauty.

  He smirked bitterly at himself. When she had touched him—only briefly—his heart had leapt more fiercely than during any duel. Dangerous, that one. No doubt about it.

  She would be at the ball tonight.

  The thought settled over him like a shadow—half anticipation, half dread. Perhaps he should turn around now, return to the estate, and let the night unfold without him.

  That, surely, would be the wisest path.

  Then again… she’d return to her forest soon enough. He’d likely never see her again.

  That thought troubled him more than he liked to admit.

  “There, Raven,” he murmured aloud. “No matter what changes in this world, one truth remains constant—women will always be trouble.”

  Raven gave no reply, prancing onward as if unimpressed by his rider’s wisdom.

  The pair continued on, exiting the bridge and stepping onto the wide platform of the skyway itself. Biaun guided Raven northward along the largest of the routes—an elegant span that soared high above the winding paths of the stone plateau below, cutting straight toward the grand entrance of the Obsidian Palace.

  Beneath the pearlescent walkway, massive arching columns and exquisite ribbed vaults—crafted with breathtaking precision—supported the awe-inspiring structure. As they traveled, the pair passed a number of equally magnificent estates: Gothic-styled mansions, angular magi towers twisted unnaturally by arcane whim, and temples that jutted skyward like fingers grasping for the divine.

  A thick fog now blanketed everything. Though visibility on the skyways was limited, glowing enchantments traced the edges of each path, while stout railings lined either side to ward against misstep or mishap.

  With the world so obscured, it felt to Biaun as though he were riding through a dream—adrift in mist, unsure of where ground ended or sky began. He found himself wishing it was a dream. Anything but a formal ball.

  He passed several slower-moving carriages and ceremonial wagons, each likely bearing nobles from the distant corners of the empire. Horses were seldom used on the skyways—too easily spooked by the altitude and residual magic. Instead, the carriages were pulled and pushed by teams of servants who, despite their labor, looked around with subtle wonder. Few of them ever had reason to visit the upper levels of Jerrico.

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  There were no laws preventing travel on the skyways, but few citizens ventured here unless to worship, serve, or glimpse the power that resided above.

  As he rode by, hails were exchanged—some murmured respectfully, others louder—but no one lingered. A few offered quiet congratulations to the warrior, but most kept their distance.

  Biaun didn’t mind.

  At last, the skyway broadened into a great onyx expanse, and a colossal blackstone gateway emerged from the fog like a monolith from some ancient dream. Light shimmered in the haze—glinting everywhere and nowhere, caught between mist and enchantment.

  The towering gates stood wide in welcome. A dozen guards in formal white and blue uniforms moved briskly about, inspecting carriages and checking titles against a long scroll of invitations.

  A pair of overly adorned officers stood at the center, stopping passengers, verifying names, and marking entries with ceremonial flourish.

  Then came the knight—approaching like a demon astride a beast of shadow.

  Biaun’s dark hair was drawn back in a formal topknot, his neatly trimmed beard and mustache oiled and shaped to perfection. He wore the black vest of a Captain of the Arms, cut at the arms to reveal the crisp white sleeves of his undershirt. Black leather breeches clung to his legs, secured by a gleaming silver buckle—the very same style worn by Captain Ogrebane at the contest. His tall black boots were polished to a mirror shine.

  Beneath him, Raven moved with barely contained disdain. The great steed’s obsidian coat gleamed as though dipped in moonlight, and both mane and tail were braided in ceremonial fashion. White ribbons brushed his ears and cheeks, drawing occasional snorts of irritation from the moody stead.

  His saddle blanket was masterfully embroidered in white, the saddle itself polished black, gleaming like glass beneath the lights.

  The knight carried only ceremonial arms—a longsword and dagger, more decorative than deadly. Ornate, yes. Functional? Not in any true fight.

  At the sight of the knight, the two lead guards snapped to attention. The rest of the security detail followed suit, delivering crisp salutes—momentarily forgetting the carriage they were in the middle of searching.

  “Bladesmaster Greyblood, sir. You’re expected,” one of them announced smartly. “I’ve been instructed to direct you to the emperor’s personal stables with your steed, sir.”

  Biaun recognized the speaker—Sergeant Grasen Komnel. A competent officer who had served under him during the final campaigns of the Dark Wars. If Ogrebane had placed Komnel on this detail, then security was in good hands.

  Biaun dismounted and stepped forward, offering his arm in greeting. “Grasen. It’s been a while, eh?”

  The sergeant clasped his forearm and shook it heartily, beaming with pride. “It has, sir—and allow me to congratulate you on your performance in the arena today. Quite the spectacle.”

  Biaun gave a small nod of thanks. “Appreciate it. As for the stables, I can find my way. Raven wouldn’t take kindly to an escort anyway.”

  Grasen chuckled. “No, sir. I remember. I doubt Raven would tolerate the company.”

  He stepped back, still smiling. “Enjoy your evening, Lord Greyblood.”

  Then, with a practiced bark, he turned to the other guards and began herding them back to their duties.

  With the emperor’s invitation to stable Raven privately, Biaun turned his steed away from the long line of waiting carriages.

  A small smile escaped his lips at the dual purpose behind the gesture.

  He was relieved he wouldn’t have to waste an hour idling among powdery-nosed nobles—and they, in turn, would be spared the tension of enduring the presence of an imposing knight and his equally intimidating steed.

  The private stables weren’t far, and soon the mist parted just enough for Biaun to spot the blurred shape of a man sprinting toward the entry doors. It was Gordon, the emperor’s stablemaster, already throwing open one of the heavy double gates.

  Gordon had once been a horse thief of infamous reputation throughout the local territories. Five years ago, he’d finally been caught.

  But instead of sentencing him to rot in a prison cell, Emperor Ozewrath—ever pragmatic—had been impressed by the man’s astonishing knowledge of horses, tack, and nearly everything equestrian. Rather than lock him away, he’d offered Gordon a three-year indenture in royal service.

  It had been a shrewd gamble. After his term was complete, Gordon had accepted a permanent position, running the emperor’s private stables with unmatched efficiency—and more than a little charm.

  Despite the man’s checkered past, Biaun couldn’t help but favor him.

  “Jolly good evenin’ to ya, Master Greyblood!” Gordon called out cheerily. “I see ye brought yer oversized puppy to rest in me fine accommodations.”

  He grinned as he threw one door wide and reached for Raven’s neck, giving it a familiar pat and a scratch behind the ears.

  “And don’t you look like the devil himself tonight, Raven—dolled up in all that frilly finery.”

  Raven, who rarely allowed anyone but Biaun near his head, lowered it just slightly and gave a soft nicker of approval.

  Gordon was the only man the knight had ever met to whom Raven had taken an immediate liking.

  “Aye, Gordon,” Biaun said, dismounting. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spoil him rotten this time, eh?”

  He handed the reins over.

  “The last time I brought him back from your care, he had a bellyache from all the apples—and he seemed to think I was available at all hours to serve him.”

  Despite the complaint, Biaun grinned broadly.

  “Ya have to excuse me, Master Greyblood,” Gordon said wistfully, still watching Raven with near-reverent awe. “I’ve never in my life laid eyes on such a fine creature.”

  He ran a hand admiringly down Raven’s flank. “Truth be told, had he belonged to anyone but yerself, I’d have returned to my old profession in a heartbeat—ridden off with him and lived the happiest man in the world.”

  “Only you, Gordon, would be so bold as to admit such a thing,” Biaun replied, not at all offended. “And that, more than anything, is why I trust only you to care for him while I’m away.”

  “Fear not, good master,” Gordon said with a theatrical bow, “for yer steed shall receive the service of a king while you enjoy an evening of pleasure.”

  With that, he led a near-beaming Raven to the finest pen in the stables.

  Biaun turned, his grin fading, and made his way into the smooth ebony corridors that threaded beneath the Obsidian Palace. Though the path he took led through the servants’ ways, it was still a formal route—used for processions and highborn arrivals. It was far grander than he preferred.

  He would rather have slipped in through a modest side door and quietly taken his place at the emperor’s table. But tonight, he knew, demanded appearances—and proper decorum.

  The Grand Hall of the Obsidian Palace was the most immense chamber Biaun had ever walked.

  Titanic columns—each fifteen feet across—rose to support perfectly symmetrical arches of gleaming blackrock. They spanned a hundred feet above, cradling the vaulted ceiling like the ribs of a slumbering colossus. Statues of past rulers and mythical beasts stood vigil over the floor, and the walls bloomed with murals of imperial conquests and sacred oaths. Between them, fountains gurgled quietly, and trophy cases shimmered with the memory of victory.

  From somewhere above, the notes of stringed instruments drifted down in slow, delicate spirals—casting a peaceful charm over the massive space.

  Returning his focus to the task at hand, Biaun found the single carpet that ran the length of the hall and followed it with quiet purpose.

  He passed groups of nobles meandering the gallery, marveling at its grandeur. Many, it seemed, were visiting the Obsidian Palace for the first time. Polished boots clicked on the stone. Perfume and powdered wigs abounded.

  Nods were exchanged. A few bold lords and ladies even ventured to introduce themselves.

  Biaun, ever efficient, discouraged such encounters with polite formality. He did not stop walking.

  Moments later, he reached the grand stairwell that overlooked the ballroom floor—and paused.

  Now came the day’s real gauntlet.

  He steeled his resolve and entered.