Masters at Se Fina claimed meditation was a teaching most useful to Gaverians, since it was easy for men who wielded unnatural forces to grow mad with power. It would have been sensible to listen to them. So often, Gaverians went mad, and the consequences were unseemly.

  Erisa Zeal never thought she would be one to go mad. Yet here she was, in jail. She sat cross-legged on the bare floor, her index fingers pressed to her thumbs, climbing mountains in her mind. They would crumble and crush her. She would open her eyes and keep them that way for as long as she could. Whenever she drifted into sleep, her mind was swarmed by violent deeds from her recent past.

  It did not help that she was locked up directly opposite the one responsible for her woes. Former High Commander Renna Sorel was hovering in a marker field—stripped away from the general continuum of time, bound in infinity. Her countdown clock now stood at 255,532 hours. When the cell finally opened at zero hours, Schemel was expected to be ascension-free—a reborn human with no threat to the natural order of the Living World. This was known as ascension decay: a process that occurs when ascenders do not practise their art for years, relative to the individual in question.

  For artificial ascenders like Erisa, it should not take that long in repose for her to completely lose her powers—five or ten years, perhaps. Not that long. Every day, she would wait for the HF prison guards to activate the marker hexes plastered around the room, to set the time for her sentence to begin. All they did was bring her food and water, passed through a slit in the glass barrier.

  The HF never answered her questions. The HF never asked her questions. The HF did not intimidate her. The HF did not entertain her. The only other person she could potentially talk to was locked behind the glass in the cell next to Schemel’s. In it was the earthen ascender, Jenne Aster, and his cell had yet to be activated as well.

  Erisa’s last encounter with him had been at the House of Sentry, when she kept watch over the boy until Schemel arrived to see him for herself. Erisa had expected him to sob, but he did not. He was eerily silent during his stay in the dark room, suffering alone. As much as she did not want to admit it, it reminded her of her own transition process. When she first responded to the ascension drug, every cell in her body had smouldered under numbing heat and pressure.

  Dragging him out of his home during the hardest moment of his life was not a good thing. Erisa could excuse herself by saying, “She was following orders,” but that was not true. She had always had a choice, and she chose to do the right thing a little too late. Of the three of them locked in cells right now, the earthen was the one who least deserved to be here.

  Against the routine, two HF soldiers arrived at her cell at what she supposed was morning. The first punched in some codes on the timer by her cell. She closed her eyes, waiting for the hum of the cell’s mechanics. The marker hexes on the floor did not glow, though. Instead, the glass barrier slit open. She rose to her feet and stared at the two soldiers. They stared back at her through their black masks. Their plasma cannons, on display, would have deterred the bravest of fools at this moment.

  She stepped down from her cell, and they locked cuffs around her wrists. Shaphet’s Law glowed a sombre red on the surface as she felt a weight of power leave her body. It felt like having your skeleton yanked out of you when you weren’t watching.

  One led from the front and the other guarded from behind. They flanked her in the shaft that took them to the surface. Dust pushed in through her nostrils, clinging to her chapped lips and powdering her cheeks. With her eyes straining to adjust to the daylight and the dust storm, it was nearly impossible to observe her surroundings. That was not to say she did not know where she was.

  This was Fort Humility, in the far north-west of Henrikia. It was the barracks of the Humility Force, which mainly operated underground. She knew a lot about them because she used to have friends among them. They no longer knew her.

  What her eyes could not see, her ears compensated for. A click followed by a crack—reminiscent of a Long Kenny rifle. It was an out-of-commission gun used for only one purpose these days: executions. Click, crack. As the men led her past, the faint event grew clearer. Two soldiers stood with the long barrels pointed at two targets. Even if she could not recognise the faces or uniforms from the distance she stood, she still caught a glimpse of an insignia glinting. The Alangre Captains of the Gold Army wore golden crown insignias on their shoulder pads. And here they were, standing to be executed.

  Maybe she was overthinking this, but why on earth would the HF execute Alangre Captains? Who would order that? She pondered the question as they navigated through the rubble in Henrik City. They arrived at the part of the city where the streets and buildings were intact—but with a different kind of problem.

  A conflict had broken out. Tens of people spilled out from a square-block building and onto the lawns and pavement. Gold Army soldiers manhandled councilmen, shoving them away from the entrance to the building Erisa supposed was the House of Sentry. There were insults. There were slaps flying. Robes tore from the backs of angry old men who got right back up and punched unsuspecting soldiers in the back of their heads.

  Soldiers banged on the sides of news vans, shouting for them to move. One correspondent tried to explain why she had to be there to an officer, when another soldier charged at them, grabbed the cameraman by the collar, and slapped the camera out of his hand.

  The HF were unbothered by their surroundings, and the surroundings did not bother the HF. A man bearing the golden crown insignia stood at the entrance to the building, hands behind his back, watching the Army batter civilians. Wasn’t this one of Talon’s friends at the Commission of Labour—a member of the Green Guard? He wasn’t wearing green today, though. He was in yellow, and the number on his sleeve was 1, signifying him as a member of the First Alangre.

  “Are you now the Captain of the First Alangre?” asked Erisa. “I saw Gunner on my way here. It doesn’t look like he’ll be returning to his post.”

  “Indeed,” said the man. “I’m in charge of the First now. Captain Strong.”

  He turned around and gestured for the men in black to follow. They shoved her along when she did not move.

  “You’re here to face judgement, Ms Zeal,” Captain Strong said. “That’s all that matters to you now.”

  They brought her downstairs to a room the captain called a detainment chamber. She was to wait until they summoned her again. The commotion was some distance away from here. Wind spilled from above, through the only open space in the otherwise dim room. The cuffs around her wrists seemed to tighten as a film of sweat formed around the edges. She lowered her head, breathing through her mouth.

  Was she ready to die?

  It may have been her imagination, but she could hear voices in conversation a floor above her, from where the slit was. The language, tone, and accent pointed to one group of people she had learned to avoid—the Treshim from Yuna. Following the death of their nobles on the Midder-Lands, it was inevitable for them to show up. This was far sooner than she had anticipated.

  A steady rise of insults and screams approached the detainment door. It burst open and a body flew in. The soldiers at the door dusted their hands and shut it again. Erisa moved her feet, giving the councilwoman some room on the floor.

  This was Renna Sabina. She had hated the Sorels before her own birth. She rambled on, reclining in her seat, growing warmer by the minute. She was too angry to acknowledge she was not the only person in the room. Erisa gave her space. One after another, other councilmen joined them in the detainment chamber, each of them as angry as Sabina. One name kept coming up in their heated discourse.

  Mariel. They spoke about how Mariel was a “tyrant” and had “betrayed” their country. They made it clear how much they hated her, and that they had been fools to trust a Sorel again. It seemed Mariel was acting chancellor. Whatever she had done, it had been unforeseen and drastic.

  With the room packed to the brim with fallen dignitaries, it became unbearable to breathe. The guards got Erisa out just when she had reached her limit of discomfort. They escorted her up the stairs and into the main chamber—more like a chamber of chambers.

  The room was a nest of fragmented offices. Stacks of files lay scattered across desks and the floor. Telephones rang non-stop. Despite how busy the room seemed, there was next to no one around.

  The guards handed her over to the HF on standby, who escorted her to an office space at the far end of the room. There she found two straw-coloured-haired men standing beside a desk, dressed in long leaf-green robes. The Treshim from Yuna, she supposed. Mariel sat on the desk behind them, surrounded by a stack of files.

  Both Yunnish diplomats kept a close eye on the cuffs around Erisa’s wrists. They were not taking any chances, not after what they had heard about the last time Treshim meddled in ascender affairs. She couldn’t help but smirk, noticing one wore a Shaphet’s Law bracelet. The other had a necklace, though it was tucked beneath his robe, making it hard to tell if it too was a warding amulet.

  “Ms Erisa Zeal,” said Mariel. “The HF arrested you on the night of Sovisansel, is that right?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Your offence is a grave one.” Mariel penned a final document, closed it, and folded her arms over the folder. She was tanned, glossy with sweat, youthful exuberance squeezed right out of her. Yet there was a sense of wonder—a twinkle you could only capture in Schemel’s eyes. She asked a peculiar question.

  “Would you do it all again, if given the chance?”

  Erisa had to be careful.

  “I did what I did because I believed it was in the best interest of this country,” said Erisa. “So yes, I would do it all again.”

  Mariel tilted her head, frowning in thought. Just before she could speak, a collective roar reached them. It was distant now, but you could feel the momentum behind it.

  “Lock the doors,” ordered Mariel, pointing at the Gold Corps guards near the entrance.

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  The roar morphed into a chant—a derivative of the Henrikian Anthem.

  “You understand the consequences of your actions, Ms Zeal,” said Mariel.

  “I am to be sentenced to death under the Humility Act.”

  “All because you stood against Schemel.”

  “Had I acted sooner, it would not be the biggest regret of my life.”

  The crowd had reached the gates, having overcome Mariel’s security in the courtyard. They pounded on the doors, demanding Mariel open them by chanting louder.

  “Renna,” a guard called.

  “Hold!” yelled Mariel.

  The remaining guards pulled out their rifles, positioning themselves behind the door.

  “Am I going to die?” asked Erisa.

  “I have a proposition,” said Mariel, speaking quicker now. “When I am overthrown in about five minutes, I will be jailed for treason while you are executed for attempted murder. But that can change if you’re willing to let us help each other.”

  Erisa held her breath. “I don’t follow.”

  “Prestigious men of the Gold Corps, as the one and true Chancellor of Henrikia, I order you to lay down your weapons and open these gates.”

  Demettle.

  The chanting ceased. Every guard in the room could feel the heat now. They looked at Mariel, and then at each other. The only men unmoved by the shift of power were the HF. Mariel stood, pointing a finger at the soldiers.

  “Stand where you are,” she said. “The Assembly is in session and must not be disturbed.”

  The soldiers looked around the empty room.

  “I shall not put my order forth a second time,” said Demettle from behind the door. His staff struck the ground. Power surged from beyond it. Desks scraped across the floor. The Treshim clutched at their pendants.

  Henrikian culture—before the entanglement of councilmen, the Primus, and chancellors and the like—had been a simple one. The most powerful ruled Dominus. Lord Rheina ruled Dominus, and Henrikia was his footstool. At times like this, power mattered more than anything. Demettle was still chancellor, for no other reason than that he had demonstrated his power in a way Mariel could not replicate.

  The guards opened the gate. A multitude waited at the entrance, not daring to take a step inside the chambers unless the old man at the front did so. Demettle descended the short stairs and the rest followed. The Gold Army guard struck a salute. As of now, the only shield of defence between Mariel and Demettle was the black, immovable wall of HF soldiers who had not budged from Mariel’s side.

  “Selling your soul to the Yunnish empire, sacking your own councilmen from court — there is nothing as treacherous to this country as Sorel blood.” Demettle looked tired, old and withered to the bone, but the fire in his voice was as young as ever.

  “I am saving us from annihilation,” said Mariel. “Something you would understand since it’s what you’ve spent the last decade trying to achieve.”

  “Your justifications are worth as much as the means you take,” said Demettle. “You have no honour, and you have no cause.”

  “Am I hearing this from the same man who sabotaged the former High Commander so many times in an attempt to end the war? Acts that were very illegal. I don’t think a criminal deserves to be chancellor of anything.”

  The councilmen yelled for Demettle to order her arrest. How dare she accuse Demettle with such heinous lies. Demettle tipped his head at the Gold Army guards. They pulled out their cuffs but dragged their feet when they drew nearer to the Blacks standing between them and Mariel.

  “It seems Henrikia has come to a stalemate,” said one of the Treshim, speaking from behind the HF soldiers. “We, as a diplomatic body, exist to resolve international matters in any landscape. With Chancellor Deus’ permission, we shall arrange for an arbitrary process to begin right in the auditorium and the outcome shall determine if Mariel Sorel has any basis for her accusation against Chancellor Demettle Deus.”

  If the call for Mariel’s head to roll was loud, the call for the Treshim to be torn open by chainsaws and fed to dogs was louder.

  “I had hoped this would not escalate any further,” said Demettle. “It does not matter if you have the Humility Force in your pocket — they alone can’t save you from the rest of this country. If you have any iota of dignity left, you should stand down now and prevent any further escalation. God knows we cannot stomach another round of violence.”

  One of the Treshim cleared their throat, calling for attention. “We brought with us a message from his Holy Lordship, the Supreme Ruler of the Great Empire of Yuna, Felis Matraes. He says to Chancellor Deus of Henrikia: ‘If Acting Chancellor Mariel Sorel is deposed by force after her excellent ambassadorial efforts to avert his Lordship’s wrath on Henrikia, one hundred warships shall set sail for Dominus; twenty thousand armed men and five thousand warplanes shall converge on Henrikia and reduce the country to rubble. This, and only this, shall atone for the death of his Lordship’s Grandmason Leo Xeneris and his wife Cara Xenerisis, niece of the emperor, and their children, Leori and Despina Xenerisis.’”

  The message hit the councilmen. Stunned into silence, they withdrew their commands in anticipation of what the one and only Chancellor of Henrikia had to say.

  Erisa was not the best at history, but she knew for certain Henrikia had never attempted such a thing.

  “You can go ahead with your sham of an arbitrary process,” said Demettle. “Let us hear what Mariel has to accuse me of.”

  “I employ Erisa Zeal as a witness,” said Mariel.

  Demettle stumbled. He did not fall.

  It was about midday, when the sun was at its hottest. No doubt about it. The office complex had transformed into a courthouse. Rows upon rows of dignitaries awaited the hearing, fanning themselves with whatever they could hold in one hand. Most had forgone their official robes, leaving them half-naked in their undergarments.

  Mariel’s brow gleamed with sweat. Her unblinking gaze begged Erisa to make good on their deal.

  Erisa sat on a stool between the opposing factions. On her right were Mariel and the Humility Force soldiers. On her left, Demettle — composed again, the only one unfazed by the heat as wind constantly swirled around him with a twist of his staff.

  Erisa faced the arbiter, one of the Treshim who had been in cahoots with Mariel. He sat behind a makeshift high table and ordered for the proceedings to begin.

  Before she could utter a word, Demettle passed Erisa a look. It was subtle, quick, and missed by everyone else. She understood these kinds of things — and how they were supposed to go. A good soldier followed the orders of authority to the end.

  She would not be the one to break Henrikia.

  “On the night of Sovisansel, you were arrested in the home of Tenrad Gallant,” Mariel began. “You broke in, held the former High Commander’s daughter, Ashamel, hostage, and threatened to kill her if the former High Commander did not put a stop to her spell.”

  “Yes,” said Erisa, to the dramatic gasps of the councilmen. “I did all that.”

  Mariel gave Erisa a look — one Erisa understood as well.

  “I did so under the orders of the Chancellor,” said Erisa.

  This time, the dramatic gasps did not come.

  “On the ninth of September, Chancellor Deus ordered me to join the recently dismissed Firstman, Ren Savage, in an attempt to prevent the Midder-Land conflict from escalating further. Our objectives involved manipulating events surrounding Renna Sorel’s life that would lead to her removal from office as High Commander. We devised a plan to target the people Renna Sorel cared about most.”

  “Did that happen to be Ashamel?” asked Mariel — pale like the rest of the council, yet strong enough to listen to the story to its end.

  Erisa avoided looking Demettle’s way for the next part. “Ashamel was not the target at the beginning. The earthen ascender was. Savage arranged for vehicles and weapons to be prepared and sold to Myersian radicals in Dormitia — people who hated Schemel, people who wanted revenge but had no means. All I had to do was give them a slight push, suggest the right plan, and pull the strings to get them to plan a kidnapping of Ashamel. With Demettle’s help, we knew the earthen ascender would be near Ashamel to protect her. The final piece was the Humility Force who, under the Humility Act, are ordered to shoot down any ascender who attacks a non-ascender, regardless of the circumstances.”

  “Schemel lost her temper when she heard Jenne had been gunned down,” Mariel realised. “And she lost her job soon after.”

  “And how about Wiseman?” Renna Sabina asked. “Was he complicit in your scheme?”

  “That was an unplanned advantage,” said Erisa. “We did not expect a connection. We did not know he would take the fall.”

  “And Chancellor Deus was aware of all this,” said Mariel.

  “Yes.”

  The truth was out. It was now up to the leaders of the country to act upon it — if they would.

  Demettle sat at the centre of the court. His wrinkled hands rested on his cane, calming the swirling winds. All was quiet.

  “I have come to love this country,” he said. “I have done much to protect you. Great heroes know when their time has come. Mine has been long overdue. Schemel is a child who cannot stand to lose, and I was wrong to think I had it in my power to subdue her, as I am. May the Six judge me for my misdeeds.

  “I have come to love this country, but it is not my home. After sixty years of service to Henrikia, I, Demettle Deus, step down as Chancellor of Henrikia and exile myself to the Grem Islands, where I shall spend the rest of my days. I name my successor, Renna Mariel Sorel. Stand for the new Chancellor of Henrikia.”

  The councilmen rose to greet the new chancellor at once. Mariel caught herself standing as well, unable to believe her eyes or ears. Erisa stood at Mariel’s right-hand side, knowing full well she would have to keep close to the new chancellor if she hoped to survive the day.

  Finally, the greying old man rose. And, to no one’s surprise, applause trickled in. These people would clap for a bread thief if the bread thief said he did it for Henrikia. Amid the cheers, Demettle approached Mariel, offering to shake her hand. Mariel was sceptical at first, but she closed in to embrace her predecessor.

  “You won’t last the year,” Demettle said before pulling away.

  After all was said and done, Erisa got out of the situation fairly well. She was suspended indefinitely from her role as Gaverian and was thus forbidden from crafting, even in self-defence. She was to spend a lot of time out of service to clear her head, get a good look at the state of her nation, and realise what she wanted to do. Or so she thought.

  Mariel invited Erisa on a trip to the far west of the country.

  The Western Gates were Henrikia’s abandoned shipping port. Fren Rheina had closed it down some time before the Great Oppression, meaning any ship that wanted to reach Henrikia would have to make the long trip around the continent and dock at the east.

  Erisa stood a step behind Mariel, watching from a port tower. Thousands of workers spread thin across the shipyard, preparing for the incoming cargo moving in from across the Moratte Sea. Rings could no longer support the minor imports coming through. Whatever Yuna was bringing in was on another scale entirely from what they’d seen so far.

  “Yuna used to be our closest ally,” said Mariel, her voice barely heard over the noise from both the sea and the machinery. “Like all our old allies, we shunned and demonised them the day their power rivalled ours.”

  “You’re talking about the earthens,” said Erisa.

  “I’m putting an end to our pride,” said Mariel. “I’ll heal our old wounds and mend the broken bridge.”

  Sacrilege was an appropriate word to use in this context. If the people could get so angry about what they had seen Mariel do, imagine what they would do now, knowing the plans in her head.

  “I’ll free the earthens because it’s the right thing to do.”

  Something about this felt like a daydream — the chancellor who reversed the Great Oppression. Did Mariel have the capacity to pull off such a thing?

  “The people would never stand for it.”

  “The same people ate and drank with earthens for centuries, yet brother turned on brother when Fren Rheina willed it. They see me as the one hooked to strings when they can’t see their own.”

  Erisa pressed her thumb into her palm. Her thoughts on the matter remained scrambled. Mariel’s ideas were far too different from the kind Erisa was used to. And different meant dangerous.

  “Do you know why I invited you here?” asked Mariel.

  “No, Renna.”

  “I know my plans will kill me in the end,” Mariel said. “I’ll die young, probably miserable and disappointed that I couldn’t achieve more than I did. When the time comes, please do whatever you can to spare my loved ones from the consequences of my actions.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My father lost everything for being a good man. He tried to stop the Great Oppression in its infancy. I got sick from a poisoned cup of tea meant for him. He disappeared from our lives a year later. In this world of ours, great sacrifice is needed to achieve little good. I’ve decided to follow in Ashel’s footsteps and give up everything to bring what little goodness I can to the world.”

  “If it’s within my power,” said Erisa, “I’ll be there for Ashamel when she needs me most.”

  “Thank you,” said Mariel.

  “Is this all you called me for, Renna?”

  “No, actually,” admitted Mariel. “There’s an ascender I want you to find.”

  “Ren Gallant and Jay Arson are still missing,” deduced Erisa. “You want to find them.”

  “We don’t have the resources to find those two. Who I want is much closer. I’ve had reports from the Green Guard about a swayer wandering in Van Haven. While it may be nothing more than a rumour, I don’t like the idea of a swayer suddenly showing up when Jacqolin is still bound by a swayer’s spell.”

  “You want me to find out who this person is.”

  “Yes.”

  “Alright, Renna.”

  “And Ms Zeal, please remember — do not use your power under any circumstance,” said Mariel. “You are still forbidden.”

  “I would not, Renna.”

  “Good.”