King Ionith waits in the solar chamber, one white-gloved hand cradling a golden cup of tila as steam coils slowly towards the vaulted ceiling. His eyes rest on the view of the east wing gardens. The angle of the shadows shows that the sun is not quite at its zenith; in a few candlemarks, it will be.

  Three marks until the duel that has set his court about its ears.

  Three marks until they will all see what Titanbend’s new heir is made of.

  With only a year in his Class under his proverbial belt, Ionith is not expecting much. He wonders even whether Markus will attend the duel at all. Not showing after accepting would be an egregious mark on his honour, but perhaps preferable to him than risking a lingering injury or death with the competition already at hand.

  If the boy does attend, it will be a mark of his courage even in the face of certain defeat. A mark also of his naivety, perhaps. Ionith has never seen Valence fight, but he knows the legacy of the Fell family. With the conditions of the duel, the Titanbend heir is already disadvantaged; with his inexperience and recent arrival on this world, Ionith can see little chance that he will even survive should Fell choose to take his life. Perhaps he should fail to attend the duel.

  The knock at the door draws his attention; the click of the door opening has him turn his head slightly.

  “Lord Markus, Heir of House Titanbend, your Majesty,” his guard announces.

  “Let him enter,” Ionith instructs neutrally.

  He hears the footsteps first, and then Markus enters his vision as he enters the room, though he pauses not far into it. The guard closes the door with a decisive click. Ionith sees Markus swallow. He’s nervous – that’s expected.

  “Come closer so I don’t have to twist my neck to look at you,” Ionith orders him briskly. He remembers his mother’s demeanour – she used to be warm and inviting, making her visitors feel entirely at ease, almost as if they were in the presence of a mother or a favoured aunt.

  When she was pleased with them, that was. When she was displeased…her visitors would have been more comfortable sitting on sharp knives.

  Ionith has never been able to imitate his mother’s way with people, but it is of little matter – he has long established his own type of presence. People might not feel comfortable with him, but that is all to the better in his opinion. He would rather be feared than loved if he has to choose.

  The young man obeys his command, stepping towards the arrangement of luxurious sofas around a low table. His eyes flicker across the room, taking in exits, furnishings, the king himself – good. Not such a fool, then. He approaches with deference, rounding the corner of the sofa and dropping into a bow.

  Ionith runs his eyes over Markus’ posture – not bad for someone who has most likely only been practising it for a few days. A little unpolished, but not clumsy. An indication of points added to Dexterity, perhaps.

  “Sit,” Ionith instructs. Markus rises from his bow and obeys silently. Ionith runs his eyes once more over the boy’s form. He’s obviously tired – Ionith suspects that Markus has had little rest in the last few days. Either the anticipation has made him an insomniac, or he’s been training hard for the duel. It seems likely he intends to attend, then. Interesting.

  Ionith wonders wryly just how much Markus is cursing him for his invitation so close to the start of the duel. It was intentional – stress, tiredness, and nervous anticipation are useful for loosening a tongue.

  “Do you know why you’re here?” Ionith asks, voice mild as he takes a teapot and pours a cup of tila, pushing it over to the heir.

  Markus hesitates for a moment.

  “To speak with you, your Majesty.”

  Ionith’s lips twitch, though he does not permit them to smile.

  “An excellent deduction,” he agrees with a hint of irony. He takes a sip of his tila – it’s excellent today. Earthy, bitter, and with a buzz that starts on his tongue and warms him right down to his toes. He looks pointedly at the cup which Markus hasn’t touched. “Is tila not to your tastes?”

  Markus hesitates again and Ionith can almost read the moment on his face when he decides to be truthful. For the heir of Nicholas, whose expressions are almost as impenetrable as Clarissa’s, Markus is awfully expressive.

  “I am more concerned about it somehow disqualifying me from my duel in a couple of hou-candlemarks.”

  “Ah,” Ionith answers with a slow nod. “Understandable. I promise you that tila will not disqualify you from any sort of duel, not even an honour duel. Your wariness is commended, however I do urge you to try this blend. It is from a producer for whom I am the only client – you will not taste its like outside my rooms.” And if Torrent later accuses him of trying to skew the duel, Ionith can easily counter with the fact that he is interrupting Markus’ preparations in order to have the conversation at all.

  Markus doesn’t take the cup immediately, thoughts passing through his mind and shading his expression like passing clouds. But he evidently decides to trust Ionith’s word as he lifts the cup and takes a sip. Wise. Wariness is sensible, but too much of it is not. Appearing to call a King’s word into question definitely falls on the unwise side of the spectrum.

  “I’ve been watching you, Markus,” Ionith announces while Markus is halfway through a sip. He sees the young man’s fingers clench on the arm of the tila cup, but he doesn’t reveal anything else and, by the time he sets the cup back on its saucer and looks up, his expression is composed.

  “And what do you think of what you’ve seen, your Majesty?” the boy asks politely, his body language tense but not in a way that might reveal hidden guilt.

  Ionith takes his time in answering, drawing out the moment. He sees how the tendons in Markus’ neck become more defined, and a muscle in his jaws starts ticking. And then, as if the young man has given himself an internal reprimand, he forcibly relaxes.

  “You are going to be a force for change, I can see that,” Ionith murmurs thoughtfully. Inevitable, he supposes, considering that Markus is from another world. “But what I do not yet know is whether you will be fire, water, earth, or air.”

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  “I don’t understand, your Majesty,” Markus responds quietly after a moment of thought.

  “Fire rages hot and dangerous, yet it is short-lived and makes little long-term change. Water carves its own path with determination, surmounting or avoiding any obstacles set in its way, yet it takes a long time to show more than the most basic of effects. Earth takes even longer to make changes, yet they are the furthest reaching. And air…air blows and howls, and may knock over a few trees, but when it’s gone, there is little trace of its presence and its consequences are easily righted.” Ionith lets the words hang in the air. Then he breaks the moment by leaning forwards. “Tell me, Markus, what do you want?”

  “Other than getting through the duel in a few candlemarks’ time?” Markus asks with an almost insolent lift of his eyebrow. Ionith just waits. Markus sighs, his face relaxing and his eyes going distant. “For me and mine to be safe. To be able to build something that…lasts.” Then he focusses and his eyes are abruptly sharp as they settle on Ionith. “A place where people are treated as people, regardless of what might or might not be around their necks.”

  Ah. And here it is. Ionith had been expecting something of the sort, given what he has heard of the first time Markus ate with the other heirs – dinners since then have been reportedly far more bland. Still, he finds himself a little surprised at how easily Markus criticises one of the fundamentals of their society – he can’t think of any other heir who would be so straightforward. Especially not to his face.

  “You struck a noble heir in defence of a collared palace slave.” Ionith’s tone is almost accusing – he doesn’t need to ask whether it happened; his intelligence was clear on that point. “And it sounds like you would do it again.”

  “I’m always going to have a problem with someone assaulting a person in my presence,” Markus answers, his eyes fiery. Perhaps this answers his earlier question about which element Markus is. And his fire paints the abolitionist streak he had been half-expecting.

  Ionith leans back, studying him as he might a map before deciding which opponent’s stronghold to attack.

  “You understand that it is only repeat criminals who are collared? That they represent a large portion of the workforce which underlies the economy of this country? That there are a huge number of interests tied into ensuring that the system continues to work as it always has?”

  “I do,” Markus replies firmly, “but I also understand that, regardless of what the law says, they are still people with the same desires, needs, and fears as they had before their sentence. And I think it speaks poorly of a society which depends on dehumanising people to be profitable.”

  Ionith feels a curl of anger in his belly at the boy’s bold words.

  “You’re not from here,” he says with perhaps a touch more heat than he intended – fire spreads easily. Dangerously. “This world, its rules, its power. It’s not yours by birth. And yet you presume to claim a part of it. To change it. What gives you that right?”

  Markus’s answer is slower this time. More measured.

  “I have only the power which others have given me – or may give me in the future. And that which I might take for myself during the competition. You’re right, I’m not from here. And because of that, I know that a country’s economy doesn't have to depend on dehumanising slavery.” He looks Ionith directly in the face, and perhaps sees a hint of how troubled the King feels. “That’s not to say that I intend on trying to change everything – I know this is a different world. But I can’t just stand by and watch as people are destroyed in the brutal teeth of the system. I know too well what it’s like to be powerless against a system that’s too big for an individual to fight.”

  He says it plainly. No flourish. No apology. Just obvious emotion.

  Ionith breathes in slowly. The boy is a true scion of his House. The Titanbends have played with fire far too often over the millennia. For better or worse depending on the generation.

  Then he lets out the breath once more. Fire may be highly destructive, but it clears away the deadwood and fertilises the ground for a renewal of growth. The histories have made it plain: Moriax is stagnating. Perhaps a little fire is just what they need. It’s why he decided on the competition to begin with.

  Ionith makes his decision. He will not support Markus. But he will not stand in the boy’s way either. Not unless his actions are clearly detrimental to Moriax. Ionith is grateful once more that he followed the Oracle’s advice to have the competition take place on the Lost Continent – he can watch this boy’s dangerous ideologies play out in a theatre far from his own. By the end of the five years, he should know whether to support or to destroy this particular heir, for the good of Moriax. There are few other contenders who will be quite as divisive as this one.

  He lets silence stretch between them. Then:

  “Do you imagine I arranged your duel?” He rewards Markus’ plain-speaking with a plain question of his own, curious how the heir will take the abrupt topic-change.

  Markus doesn’t flinch, but this time the hesitation is longer. The King raises an eyebrow.

  “I think it benefits you to see me tested,” Markus says carefully. “I don’t know if that means you arranged it.”

  A clever response – honest without any sense of accusation.

  “Let’s say I did,” Ionith muses. “What would that tell you?”

  Markus’s answer comes more quickly this time.

  “That you’re testing how I respond under pressure and whether I’m willing to face an opponent who’s had many more years of experience using his Class than I have. That you want to see what I can offer even when I’m disadvantaged.” He hesitates for a moment. “Perhaps also how I might take defeat.”

  Ionith allows a small smile. “And?”

  “I don’t intend to lose.”

  The words are bold enough to startle a small chuckle from Ionith. Younger than Valence, less experienced than him, so new to this world that he almost still smells of the other, and disadvantaged by being unable to bring his Class’ strongest assets into play…the thought that Markus might actually win is ridiculous. But it is a testament to Markus’ character that he refuses to believe in his defeat before it happens – or perhaps a sign of delusion.

  “Few intend to lose,” Ionith points out. Markus inclines his head briefly.

  “I suppose we will see, won’t we, sire.”

  “That we will,” Ionith muses.

  He stands. The signal that the conversation is at an end. Markus rises as well, respectful but not servile – not that Ionith would have expected or trusted the last given how much fire Markus has revealed in this conversation.

  “One last question,” Ionith says as they walk towards the door. “What do you believe makes a good ruler?”

  Markus meets his eyes one last time.

  “Someone who protects their people. Who grows what they’ve been given. And someone who remembers that power’s a responsibility, not a prize.”

  Ionith studies him in silence. Then he nods, just once.

  “I look forward to seeing you prove it. Guard!”

  He turns away and strides towards the window. Behind him, he hears the guards open the doors without a word. The sound of footsteps herald Markus’ departure. The doors click closed. The room is silent once more.

  Ionith remains by the window, staring sightlessly into the garden where the shadows have become noticeably shorter. His cup of tila is cooling on the table, only a short distance from Markus’ almost empty one.

  A foreigner. A threat.

  A possibility.

  It may be irrelevant. Markus may be gone before the shadows have had much time to lengthen. This interview may have been the final words of a dead man walking. But if they are not, if Markus makes it through the next trial….

  Fire, water, earth, or air, Markus is still a storm not of this world’s making. It remains to be seen whether that will be beneficial for Ionith’s domain.

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