Adaptation is important, whether an idea or a course of action.

  - The Canticles of War 5th Edition revised by Gennaro Sanserrano.

  The problem with my more visceral approach to fighting was, well, it was visceral. Blood clung to my clothes, and bits of various innards, possibly even brain matter, were scattered through my hair. Elwin, blessed by whatever gods he worshipped, seemed almost untouched. Only his blades were stained from the violence. In contrast, Enkidu and I must have looked like we’d just stepped out of a charnel house.

  Had I been in a maudlin mood, I might have reflected on the sight as a grim reminder of the fragility of life, of how easily human existence could be snuffed out.

  Given our appearance, it was no surprise that Aelayah’s guards kept their distance, their eyes fixed straight ahead. I was starting to understand that power and awe were essential tools. They were the shields that kept people in line and protected me from the unseen knives waiting to strike.

  Summoning the power of Improved Entropic Aura without the clamoring voices within was difficult. Difficult, but not impossible. I spoke it aloud, unable to contain the magic with my Silent Casting skill, not that I wanted to. This was meant to be a demonstration. The dark magic blossomed, trying to expand in a slow, creeping pulse of a slow end. I did not let it. Whether it was my new Aura Manipulation skill or just my growing mastery of these strange energies, I found I could exert a greater degree of control. With sheer will, I held it close, not allowing it to extend more than half a pace from me. It felt like holding back a tide, but I struggled on nonetheless.

  So caught up in controlling my spell, that I almost stumbled over an uneven part of the street. Regaining my balance quickly, the gore and viscera slid off me like a fine dust of white and grey as the magic took hold. The bloodstains, however, remained, darkening the fabric with their violent history.

  There were murmurs among the men, whispers as they wondered what I was. "Pyromancer," some said. Farzan, who had seen me heal Elwin, muttered the hated name of the goddess Avaria in his thick accent. They did not know. In this society, those who walked the path of Mana were respected. And, in my case at least, feared.

  It was Aelayah who voiced her curiosity. “You’ve lied to me, Gilgamesh,” she said, parting the curtains of her palanquin to address me.

  “I’ve done no such thing,” I replied, keeping my annoyance in check as I continued marching.

  Her brow furrowed prettily. Again, I was reminded that she would be exceptionally beautiful if not for her strange eyes. “Lies of omission are still lies.”

  “What a simplistic way to view things,” I replied, not bothering to look in her direction. My focus was on any potential threats that might block our path.

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  “I need to know about these things!” she protested, her usual regal confidence slipping away. The girl who had been so sure of herself now seemed lost like a fish out of water.

  It was desperation, a familiar and predictable emotion.

  “You never asked before. And now you suddenly need to know more? Now you show interest?" I said, my tone polite, even if the words were not. "We can discuss it later, at your leisure, if that pleases you.”

  “That we will, Gilgamesh,” she snapped, pulling the curtains closed in a huff. Larynda shrugged at me.

  *****

  The news had traveled faster than we had. By the time we arrived at the palace of the Salahaem, chaos had already taken root. The private army of the great Holder House was stirring, readying itself for bloodshed. Soldiers in their dark armor ringed the compound like a steel net, and Farzan, always whispering in my ear, informed me these were men recalled from their posts along the city walls.

  We were given an hour to make ourselves presentable, time enough for me to don the trappings of war. As I returned to my quarters, the servants swarmed around me like busy bees, eager to serve. In the Zajasite light of my chamber, my eyes fell upon the new harness and armor that had been delivered. It stood there, waiting, as if it had a life of its own. The gunmetal black of the plate gleamed faintly, kissed with a trim of gold along its edges, a lion’s mane of metal. It was a thing of beauty, brutal and imposing, fully articulated and crafted with an expert hand.

  The artisan, no mere blacksmith was he, had followed my instructions despite his earlier protests. The plates were nearly twice the thickness they ought to have been in places where it would not disrupt my movement. Next to the armor was an undershirt, or gambeson, of thick linen, with riveted mail at the arms awaited. And then there was the helm, the crown of this fearsome regalia. It was shaped like a serpent mid-strike, its jaws open wide, poised to devour. The eyes, crafted from cold metal, gleamed. The visor was narrow, mere vertical slits, that could lock into place, completing my protection.

  The armor weighed heavily upon me, just as the armorer had warned. The Adamantine alloy felt like stone, solid and unforgiving, pressing down across my shoulders. Yet, for a man like me, strengthened by gifts most men could not imagine, it was bearable. This was no armor, borrowed or looted, and hastily thrown together. No, it had been made to my exact measurements. As the servants tightened the straps and secured the final pieces, anointing me with perfumed oils, I felt a strange sense of completion.

  No longer would I face the storm of violence unprotected.

  Even with their help, it took a full half-hour to don the armor properly. Piece by piece, the servants worked in semi-silence, their hands deft and reverent. When it was done, I spent the remaining time testing it. The armor did not overly slow my movements and, in fact, it might have an even better range of motion than even my Aranthian harness. Beneath the serpent’s helm, I smiled, though none could see it. Satisfaction swelled in my chest.

  I was finally wearing higher-tiered gear, the kind of armor that made kings of men. I glanced toward the borrowed axe, which I had never returned. It was mine now. I hooked it to my waist, alongside the fancy crossbow and quiver of bolts, and then grabbed the hammer, Bellringer. Now, truly, I was clad in the full regalia of war. The wealth I wore, the craftsmanship of it, would take an ordinary man several lifetimes to gather. It felt good.

  A messenger arrived, his tone polite but his eyes flickering with urgency. I was to present myself in the great hall of the Salahaem, the Heart of the Desert Spring, as some poet might call it.

  A nameless servant, slender and demure, appeared to accompany me. Though I did not need her help, I let her guide me toward the heart of the palace, my boots ringing heavy against the stone floor and the weight of my new armor feeling like fresh judgment.