Governor Lucan’s manse was almost as ostentatious as its owner. He had been called a peacock many times throughout his life, but growing up as an orphan—never knowing who his parents were—had inculcated within him a desire to be seen.

  He had achieved that desire, and more. As he walked through hallways panelled with the finest Sumyrian wood, wearing robes of Qi’shathian silk, the taste of his favourite Daimonwine vintage still zinging on his tongue, he felt every inch the statesman. At the mere age of forty-seven he had been made Governor of Virgoda, hand-chosen by Emperor Darius himself.

  He opened the door to his office and stepped within. The walls were lined with bookshelves stacked with precious volumes, all hand-bound by the most skilled Virgodan binders. Virgoda was known as the Land of Learning—in part due to its gigantic forests which provided ample supply of paper—and so he felt it was important to reflect that in his décor, even though he was not a man who enjoyed reading himself.

  His desk was carved from the same Sumyrian wood that adorned the hallways of his palatial manse, each corner formed into the likeness of one of the Four Guardians of Aurelia: the Lion of Tezada, the Owl of Virgoda, the Scorpion of Northern Dashar, and the Phoenix of Phaedril. This desk had been a gift from King Gilgamon of Yarruk for his help in dealing with the theront threat overseas. He regarded Yarruk as no more than a backwater island, a remnant of the past, but he did like the desk, so the king was evidently not without some taste and means.

  Lucan took a seat behind the desk, luxuriating in the soft crimson upholstery that reminded him of the glorious vintage he’d tested earlier that day. I must remember to get the name from the sommelier. He had almost forgotten his meeting tonight, and remembering it suddenly, had been forced to depart the wine-tasting in haste. Lucan did not like to do anything in haste. He was a planner, first and foremost. When all was meticulously clear in his mind’s eye, then he acted, with the perfect precision of a surgeon.

  An ornate box sat on his desk, a pipe and Qi’shathian lamp beside it. He opened the box, took a pinch of gold-leaf, and placed it in the pipe. Then he used the lamp to generate a tiny flame, lighting the pipe. He sucked deeply on the rich leaf. He felt the acrid flavour filling his lungs, his mind slowing like an Engine as it chugged gently into the station. When perceiving the world through this sluggish lens, he felt no problem was insurmountable, for he could perceive the threats in slow-motion. Most people tried to work harder and faster to get ahead, but Lucan had found the secret paradox of this slowness.

  A soft, lilting knock came at the door.

  “Enter,” Lucan said, knowing already who would step within.

  A shadow entered and closed the door behind him without a sound. Dreyne had no need to move stealthily, for he was an honoured guest in the manse and under Lucan’s employ, but Lucan supposed old habits died hard. Dreyne wore simple leathern gear, black, although were one looking carefully, one might perceive the hilt of a poisoned dagger protruding from the top of his boot—so fine most would not see it until it was in his hand—and the second blade concealed in the sleeve of his jerkin. He wore a hood and a mask, but these he lowered before Lucan as a sign of respect, revealing the handsome features of a Qi’shathian man in his thirties, marred only by a single jagged scar over the left eye.

  Dreyne was Lucan’s greatest asset, a selfless intelligence agent whom he’d had the good fortune of rescuing from a life of abuse and poverty. His family had fled Qi’shath decades ago and, landing on the shores of Wylhome, had quickly fallen into bad company and debt. These had made an already tyrannical father downright monstrous. Lucan had saved a ten year old Dreyne from his own family, and spent the next few decades moulding him into the perfect spy. The end results were astonishing. Lucan doubted the gods could have shaped a better servant.

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  “Your report, Dreyne.”

  “I had hardly anything to report, until a mere hour ago,” Dreyne said. He had a hoarse, rasping voice. His father had tried to strangle him when he was a child, in order to save money, and it’d left him with strained speech. “But now I have a report worthy of your attention.”

  Lucan reclined and smoked.

  “Tell me.”

  “A party of travellers arrived from Yarruk via illegal dragonflight. They had a theront with them.”

  Lucan felt as though a bolt of iron had been welded to his spine. He sat up straight.

  “A theront?”

  Dreyne nodded.

  “But there’s something else. Something even more interesting.”

  “More interesting than a theront openly walking the streets of my town?”

  Dreyne nodded.

  “There was a Qi’shathian with them. Not just any Qi’shathian. She tried to hide it, but I could tell. The royal line have certain mannerisms that distinguishes them from commoners. Only a Qi’shathian would notice.” Dreyne smiled. “She’s one of the royal family.”

  Lucan’s eyes widened.

  “You mean their missing princess has shown up on our doorstep?” He sat back in his chair. “How fascinating.” A smile crossed his face, not dissimilar to that of a crocodile. “She is hear for an army, obviously. I see an opportunity in this, Dreyne.”

  “As do I. What is your bidding, Governor?”

  “The theront must naturally be killed. The princess, captured. This is for her protection, of course.”

  “Of course,” Dreyne said, his smile remaining, never more than a thin, jagged line. “There was one other with them. An Aurelian girl. There is also the matter of the dragonrider.”

  “The dragonrider is of no concern. No doubt he was coerced into transporting these criminals. If he wishes to set up shop here, then there is no harm in us acquiring a new dragonrider.” Dreyne nodded along, listening intently. As a spy, Dreyne was an exceptional listener, and it made him immediately likeable—another valuable skill for an intelligence officer. “The girl, however, could pose a problem. If she is an Aurelian citizen, then she has the naturalborn right to make an appeal to one of the Emperors.” Lucan did not fear an appeal to Emperor Darius, for he had the ear of the Emperor, was certain Darius even admired him... But the Emperor of the North, Oryon, was a different story. Oryon’s sense of justice was so rigid that he would keep the whole of Northern Aurelia stuck in the Daimonic Age. He was insensible to advancement, profit, or friendship. An appeal to him would trigger the wheels of the justice system, and the Emperor would oversee every step of that laborious process to ensure the pleas of one of his citizens were heard and accordingly dealt with.

  “Tread lightly with her,” Lucan said. “If you can, separate her from the others without bringing harm to her.”

  Dreyne nodded and bowed.

  “As you command, governor.”