Night descended swiftly over Wylhome—it always did on the coast. The Winedark ocean, coloured deep red due to some curious algae that swarmed its waters, became a sparkling scarlet as the setting sun cast its rays across the waves. The night was almost perfect, save for a patch of odd, darkly tinged cumulus that hovered overhead, obscuring stars, almost as if some Engine were in the sky, belching smog into the atmosphere. But it did not spoil the view of the wine-coloured sea overmuch.

  Wine was on Lucan’s mind at the moment. He turned away from the vision of the port and the sea and instead went into Wylhome proper, navigating the wide, open lanes without conscious thought—the route was so well-trodden he could follow it without conscious effort.

  The streets were mostly empty, and lit by tall, metal lamps fed by Daimonsblood. The soil beneath the lush forests of Virgoda was saturated with Daimonic remains. Outside of Memory, Virgoda possessed the greatest concentration of these riches.

  A few revellers walked here or there. The odd cart and horse trundled along, as farmers or merchants returned from a day at the markets. But mostly, the roads were silent and still. On an avenue of stately buildings erected with stone rather than wood, all white columns and elaborate balconies and displays of purple-flowered ivy, he found the sommelier’s place. Ornate, wrought iron chairs and tables sat outside. The door possessed a glass window at eye level, a bright light visible within. Though the hour was late, Wyndara’s Vineyard would be open. Wyndara knew her clientele, knew their patterns and ways, and the best and most generous customers always came at night.

  Lucan’s mouth watered in anticipation of the Daimonwine, the way it scoured his tastebuds, the way it banished his mind and raised phantoms. He did not dream much, anymore. Certainly he never daydreamed. He wondered whether it was because of the endless strategy, the constant planning for all eventualities. The only thing he permitted his mind’s eye to encompass was his end goal: the mantle of Emperor. Thus, all other things had to be excluded.

  But even the most ascetic monk needed some form of release. Wine was his.

  He walked up to the door, and was about to knock when it suddenly burst open. A huge, portly man stumbled into the fore-garden, knocking over one of the ornate chairs with a clang. Lucan was used to wearing a political mask, and so he hid his disgust well. A moment later, he was glad that he did, for he realised the figure was wearing the fur-cloak of a dragonrider. This must be the Yarulian dragonrider Dreyne mentioned, Lucan thought, all thought of pleasure banished in the presence of opportunity. And I have stumbled into him by chance!

  The dragonrider, however, was drunk. He stood lopsided, as though he could not quite identify what straight was. As he tried to shuffle past the governor, he knocked over another chair, swearing loudly. The dragonrider seemed to then admit defeat, and slumped down into the last chair he had not overturned. As he spoke, he slurred:

  “They say everything is bigger in Aurelia but that’s not true. Your dragons are pissy little things. My Pandora could eat them for lunch.”

  Lucan forced a smile.

  “Is that so? Well, they do say the Yarulian dragons are the best. Tell me, what’s the secret?”

  The dragonrider chortled. The smell of Daimonwine washing off him was overpowering, almost causing Lucan’s craving to sour.

  “Same secret there is to good horses and good people. Breeding.”

  “Ah, yes.” The subject was a delicate one for Lucan, given that he did not know anything about his past or who his parent were. He suspected that he had been born in Yarruk, as the hair he had once possessed had been dark and lustrous, rather than blonde. Sadly, every lock had vanished at the age of thirty, leaving him with a gleaming scalp like polished wood. His exquisite sense of fashion more than compensated for his lack of hair—or so he liked to think.

  “May I ask your name, good sir?” Lucan asked.

  “Gryll. Gryll Blackclaw.” He puffed out his considerable chest. Though he undoubtedly carried a lot of fat on him, Lucan suspected there was a lot of muscle beneath it too, rather like the blubbery walruses said to inhabit the Rimelands, who could move faster than careless adventurers realised. “I’m the finest dragonrider in Yarruk.” Gryll choked, stifling grief. There were real tears in his eyes. “Was. Was… Those bastards!” He reached for a drink that was not there. Cried more. Lucan found the display of grief pathetic, but he saw an opportunity to glean more information.

  “I’d heard a rumour,” Lucan said, delicately. “That an unscheduled dragonflight had taken place, bearing some strange band of people. I even heard whispers of a theront. I’m sure it is all outlandish exaggeration...”

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  “No!” Gryll cried. “No, it is true! I was the one who took ‘em over the Winedark Sea. And I regret it, you hear? Those bastards. No payment. They threatened me, you know? They should be arrested. Gods, I should have gone to the authorities straight away, but I…” His eyes glazed over. Lucan could finish the sentence himself. But you were scared they would revoke your dragon. Well, I have no intention of doing that. You are too useful to me. And Wylhome needs more riders.

  “Why were they coming to Aurelia?” Lucan had a sudden suspicion that this seemingly random event could be related to the “threat” mentioned in the letter from Oryn’s emissary. And if Lucan could uncover the plot and prevent it… honour awaited.

  Gryll shrugged, chewed his lips, said nothing for several minutes.

  “They were escaping from the law,” he said, after a while. “One of them was an ex-prisoner, I think. But he fell. Hit the sea like a sack of bricks. Dead, I think. We looked for him but no sign…” Gryll reached again for a drink that was not there, cursed, then rubbed his face aggressively until his ruddy features were blood-red. “I’ve never lost anyone before. You hear? Perfect record. Until today. Gods!” He spat. “The others were all runaways of one sort or another. I’ve no idea what they’re doing now.”

  “Runaways, you say…” Gryll had provided him with the perfect segueway. “Tell me, was one of them Qi’shathian?”

  Gryll’s eyes widened.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Damn jady! Talking down to me, to everyone! As if she were a royal!” He spat. “Not that I’d give a damn if she were!”

  Lucan smiled. Dreyne’s information, as ever, had proved reliable.

  “I see… Well, Gryll, it may please you to know I grately desire to apprehend this Qi’shathian. Do you know where she is?”

  Gryll shook his head.

  “Wanted nothing more to do with them. They went off towards the docks. Good riddance, I say!”

  Lucan struggled to conceal his disappointment. After all that buildup, it seemed Gryll knew nothing of their whereabouts, nor had much interest in apprehending her, despite his obvious racism. He decided to try a different tactic.

  “Do you know who I am, Gryll?”

  The dragonrider looked at him, though it seemed this was more difficult than it should be as he was peering through fog-thick layers of inebriation. His eyes narrowed.

  “No…”

  “I am Lucan Anvyl, the governor of Virgoda. Trust me when I say I sympathise with your plight. I wish to help bring these people to justice. So if there is anything you know, anything at all, you must not hesitate to come and tell me.”

  Gryll burst out laughing. Lucan felt his mask slip. He gritted his teeth as Gryll guffawed in his face.

  “Nice try!” the dragonrider chortled. “You dress fancy, I’ll give you that. But you missed a few key details.” The dragonrider tapped his ring-finger. “All governors wear a ring of signi… signification.” He stumbled over the words in a drunken slur, though Lucan was still impressed he possessed such knowledge. “You fall short of the mark, sir.”

  Gryll stood. He clapped the governor on the shoulder with a meaty paw and belched out laughter again. Then he waddled out of the fore-garden and into the lamplit street, burbling a tune without melody. Lucan stared.

  Perhaps it is better this way, he conceded. I have learned all I am likely to learn. Better not to have such an oaf around. He will only cause problems.

  It took a few moments for the tension of the encounter to wash off him. Even though it had not been a particularly taxing deception, his mind had trouble easing its grip on a given situation, and often replayed and replayed the back and forth of a conversation until he was sick and had memorised the dialogue. He sat down, closed his eyes, and performed a breathing exercise he had trained himself in that helped quieten the mind. After six breaths, the warm desire for pleasure returned. Lucan smiled, stood, and put his hand on the door to the sommelier’s.

  A noise like a shrieking crow split the night air. He wheeled. The sound was hideously loud, and came from somewhere above. He saw the gathering cumulus he’d spied earlier break open and something dark and colossal streaked down from it. There was a noise louder than thunder as it struck the waters, though he did not see clearly where it landed. The noise of the impact was a physical blow; he felt it in the sternum, in the heart.

  Wind rushed through Wylhome, kicking up leaves and rattling stalls and causing awnings to flap in the breeze. His luxurious cloak billowed about him and despite not being a religious man he had a presentiment of some coming terror, as though the wind was not merely meteorological but magically charged, an omen of change.

  What was that? What in the name of the gods was that? A meteor?

  Dread filled him as he heard a kind of hissing sound. The sound was quiet, at first, as though far out to sea. But it was growing louder and louder each second. Now, it was deafening.

  And then he saw the stars were blacking out one by one, as though a shadow were rising from the horizon, stretching darkly across the expanse of the heavens, blotting out the light. Indeed, the horizon was gone. A scream caught in Lucan’s throat as he realised with terror what he was seeing.

  A wave! A rogue wave!

  There was no time to raise any kind of alarm. The lighthouses and belltowers were silent as the two-hundred foot tall wall of ocean smashed into the city with the force of an avalanche.