Prince Sion dismounted from his steed, joining the Grand General in greeting the welcoming party.

  "Bishop Clemant," The prince said. "Your city has endured much. We've come to see how Marblehaven rises from adversity."

  "Your Highness honors us with your concern." The bishop gestured to the assembled leaders. "May I present the city's council?"

  The introductions proceeded. Magistrate Chen. Guildmaster Fenton. Lord Cassian, Lady Margrave, Lord Thornwald. Each bowed, each received a nod of acknowledgment from Prince Sion. Grand General Louis remained silent, his blue eyes cataloging everything with the same intensity as Clive's [Artist's Eyes].

  Lord Thornwald stepped forward. "Your Highness, Grand General. May I present Master Clive Weston, Chief Architect of Reconstruction. The city's transformation owes much to his vision."

  Clive bowed, acutely aware that every eye in the street had shifted to him. No matter how many times it happened, he could never get used to the attention. The limelight just never suited him.

  Prince Sion studied him. "Master Weston. Emissary Corwin's reports spoke highly of you. Apparently, you’ve built up quite a reputation. I confess, I'm eager to see what warranted such praise."

  "Your Highness, if I may." Louis walked forward. He turned to Clive. "Master Weston, would you care to join us for tea? I find that one learns most about a man over a proper cup."

  The square fell silent, before a wave of gasps erupted from the crowd. Of all the assembled dignitaries, the Grand General of San Dioral had singled out the artist.

  Bishop Clemant stepped forward, his face flushed beneath his ceremonial headpiece. "Grand General, surely—" His voice carried an edge of indignation. "Protocol dictates that you first attend the formal reception. The council has prepared—"

  Louis raised a single hand.

  The gesture was minimal but the bishop's words died mid-sentence. Something in the Grand General's bearing made it clear that the matter was settled.

  "I appreciate the council's preparations, Your Grace." Louis's tone remained pleasant yet absolute. "We shall attend all proper ceremonies in due course. But I hear Master Weston is a hero of Marblehaven. I think we can spare him an hour of informal conversation before the pageantry begins."

  He looked back at Clive. "That is, if you're willing, Master Weston."

  Clive felt every eye in the square boring into him. Lord Thornwald's expression was neutral, but Clive caught the slight nod—accept this honor, you fool. Cassian looked amused. The bishop appeared ready to spontaneously combust.

  "I would be honored, Grand General," Clive managed.

  "Excellent." Louis smiled. "Then let us see what insights can be found in a cup of tea."

  They moved to a reception hall in the Diplomatic Estate, an opulent room with gold finishings on the furniture. The servants had already prepared a low table near the windows, complete with a tea service.

  Louis gestured to the seat opposite him. "Please, sit. I promise the furniture won't bite, regardless of what the craftsmen charged for it."

  Clive sat, feeling slightly intimidated by the literal royalty across from him.

  In his old life, he'd been fascinated by royalty in that entertainment-focused way most people were. He'd followed the tabloid coverage religiously. The feuding princes whose passive-aggressive Instagram posts provided endless entertainment, their playboy uncle whose scandals provided reliable Monday morning water cooler content. It had been fun to observe from a safe distance.

  But up close, he felt a pang of nervousness. What did they want with him?

  Louis seemed to notice his tension because his expression softened slightly. "Relax, Clive. I promise this isn't an interrogation. I'm genuinely curious about your work."

  "Of course, Grand General," Clive managed, though his voice came out slightly more formal than intended.

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  "Just Louis, please. At least in private. Titles are useful for commanding armies. Less so for actual conversation."

  Prince Sion made a soft chuckle. "He says that, but watch how quickly the title comes back if you disagree with him."

  "Only when I'm right and people are being stubborn about it," Louis replied without missing a beat.

  The casual banter between them helped marginally to get Clive comfortable.

  A servant poured his tea. Louis lifted his cup, inhaling the steam with appreciation.

  "Morningdew blend," he said. "From the eastern provinces. I acquired a taste for it during the border campaigns." He took a sip, then smiled. "Though I suspect you're less interested in my tea preferences than in why you're here."

  "The thought had crossed my mind," Clive admitted.

  "Tell me, Clive. What do you see when you look at Marblehaven?"

  A vague question. Clive took a moment to consider his answer, letting his gaze drift to the window where he could see the water tower rising above the lower districts.

  "I see a city that has gone through hardship," Clive said. "Years under a stone curse that turned people into monuments. Raids from Vandiel that burned entire districts."

  Louis nodded slowly. "Emissary Corwin wrote that you've led the restoration efforts. Earthquake-resistant foundations, fire suppression systems, infrastructure that makes this city more defensible than some fortresses I've seen." He paused, his gaze following Clive's to the water tower. "Impressive."

  "I just tried to solve the problems I saw. But something tells me you didn’t come all this way to discuss architecture." Clive met Louis' gaze. “So how can I help you?”

  Louis set down his tea. “Direct, I appreciate that. You’re right. I didn't ride two hundred miles to discuss architecture. I came to talk about the future. Specifically, about ending a stalemate that's lasted too long.”

  “Vandiel.”

  "Indeed. For twenty years, we've maintained an uncomfortable balance with the Empire. They raid our borders, we fortify and retaliate; nothing fundamental changes. Both sides lose soldiers, both sides claim victories, and the border remains essentially where it's always been.”

  He paused for a moment before continuing. “But recently, the balance has changed. Thanks to a certain artist—” Louis looked straight at Clive, “—the border fortifications, along both sides were destroyed by an angry earth god.”

  Clive felt his stomach clench. That must have been the Titan incident. Who knew that it would have such repercussions.

  "The Empire isn't wasting time mourning their losses," Louis continued. "Our scouts report massive troop movements along the northern territories. They're building supply depots, consolidating forces, and establishing staging grounds. All the signs point to a full-scale invasion within the year. Maybe sooner."

  “That’s where you come in.” Prince Sion said.

  Clive blinked, trying to connect the dots. “I’m not sure I follow. It sounds like you need an army.”

  Prince Sion stood up and walked to the wall where a spear rested in decorative brackets. He lifted it then turned back toward Clive.

  "Catch," the Prince said, and threw.

  The spear flew through the air. Clive's [Motion Vision] kicked in, tracking the weapon's arc. The trajectory was off. It would pass harmlessly a foot to his left. No need to flinch. No need to—

  The Grand General moved. His hand shot out and tapped the spear with a casual flick of his finger.

  The new trajectory resolved in Clive's vision. It was heading for his head. He threw himself sideways, out of harm's way. But the Grand General redirected the spear again with another tap.

  Clive's hand snapped up, grabbing the spear just below the spearhead. But catching something and stopping something were entirely different problems. The momentum was strong.

  His arm buckled, elbow bending involuntarily as the spear's force drove through his grip. The point continued forward, straight toward his face. His [Artist's Eyes] tracked it with merciless precision: three inches, two inches, one inch from eye socket.

  The spear point stopped. Millimeters from his left eye. For one heart-stopping moment he thought his grip would fail, that the spear would punch into his skull. But he held.

  "Good reflexes," Louis observed, as if he hadn't just attempted to murder someone over tea.

  Prince Sion returned to his seat, entirely unbothered.

  "I—" Clive's voice came out strangled. He carefully lowered the spear, setting it on the table. The tabloids had always warned that royals were crazy. It seemed that remained true even here. "What the hell was that?"

  "Just an affirmation of your ability," Louis said. “We would like you in our army.”

  Clive hesitated. He was never really a military person. Someone else dictating his schedule and priorities. Orders that didn't allow for questioning or creative interpretation. The expectation of obedience over innovation. It all made his artist's soul recoil.

  "Why me?" Clive asked. "You have armies, resources, mages. What exactly do you need from an artist?"

  Louis and Sion exchanged a glance.

  "We know about your abilities," Louis said. "Your pictomancy which can create something from nothing. Your ability to cast any spell. And we know that you survived the Thunder God, the Winged Lady and the Moon Mother. The three of them attacked Marblehaven, and you played an instrumental role in driving them back."

  "Which brings us to our actual objective," Prince Sion said. "That was just a warning attack. If we wait for them to strike again, we'll always be reactive, always scrambling to defend. We need to take the initiative and hunt them down."

  Clive's chest tightened at the mention of those names.

  The Moon Mother.

  Her voice echoed in Clive’s mind. He'd been so busy with reconstruction that he'd shoved aside the bigger question. Was she really Jill?

  If there was even a chance, any chance at all, that following this mission could lead him to answers about Jill...

  "I'll join you.”

  The Grand General's recruitment methods were... unconventional. But then, conventional approaches rarely identified those capable of surviving what came next.

  — Chronicles of the Vandiel Campaign, Royal Military Archive