Dawn crept in without ceremony. The night’s revelry had burned itself out, leaving Dagavia heavy and quiet. Even the roosters held their tongues. Low clouds dragged across the sky and bled a thin, cold rain that darkened the packed earth.

  Tyrus sat slumped against a wooden fence at the edge of the village. Mud clung to his sandals. His head rested back against the post, breath slow, shoulders still. When he failed to find West, exhaustion had claimed him where he stood.

  Bootsteps approached through the wet ground.

  Wallo moved along his morning patrol with his spear balanced across one shoulder. He noticed the figure by the fence and slowed. The sight of the Ura alone, unguarded, drew a thin smile to his face.

  “Hey, Ura. Wake up!”

  He nudged Tyrus with the blunt end of the spear.

  The response was immediate.

  Tyrus’s hand snapped out and closed around the shaft. For a brief moment, the weapon did not move at all. Wallo felt the resistance travel up the wood and into his arm. He jerked the spear back, more sharply than he intended.

  Tyrus rose in a single motion. Mud flaked from his clothes as he brushed himself clean. He did not look at Wallo. He stepped past him without a word.

  “Tsk! Hey!” Wallo barked, turning after him.

  Tyrus kept walking.

  “Do not walk away from me, Ura!”

  “I am looking for West.” The words came flat, carried forward without slowing his pace.

  “I don’t care what you’re looking for,” Wallo shouted. “You should not be lurking out here alone in the dark!”

  Tyrus did not answer. His footsteps remained steady, unhurried.

  “Do not ignore me, Ura!”

  Tyrus stopped.

  He turned slowly, the movement deliberate enough to feel predatory. His gaze did not rise to Wallo’s face at first. It traced the spear instead, the grip, the spacing of Wallo’s hands, the way his weight favored his back foot. Only then did Tyrus lift his eyes.

  The rain slid down his brow. His expression was empty of heat, empty of challenge. That was what unsettled Wallo most.

  “Alright,” Tyrus said quietly. “You have my attention.”

  Wallo tightened his grip on the spear. He leaned forward, searching Tyrus’s face for anything he could use. Fear. Anger. Defiance. He found none of it. Tyrus stood unmoving, rain darkening his clothes, eyes steady and unreadable.

  The silence stretched.

  “Keep walking, Ura,” Wallo said at last.

  Tyrus did not turn. He did not shift his weight. He refused to offer his back.

  “Move…” Wallo shouted, the word cracking as it left him.

  Still nothing.

  Wallo stepped forward, trying to reclaim the space between them. The tip of the spear lifted, leveled at Tyrus’s chest.

  “Go,” Wallo ordered, advancing again.

  Tyrus finally moved.

  He stepped toward Wallo.

  “What do you want to do?” Tyrus asked, his voice low, almost curious.

  Wallo reacted on instinct. He drove the butt of the spear forward.

  Tyrus slid aside. One hand caught the shaft and yanked hard. Wallo’s grip held, but his footing did not. He stumbled forward, momentum carrying him straight into Tyrus. Bone met bone with a dull crack. Wallo cried out as he fell backward, the spear clattering to the ground.

  His hand flew to his nose. Blood spilled between his fingers.

  “You…!?” Wallo gasped.

  He reached for the dagger at his waist and found nothing.

  Tyrus already had it.

  Wallo looked up to see Tyrus standing over him, spear in one hand, dagger in the other. The rain traced clean lines down Tyrus’s face as he stared back without triumph or fury. He flicked the dagger away into the brush, far beyond Wallo’s reach.

  Panic set in.

  Wallo scrambled backward on his elbows, boots slipping in the mud.

  Tyrus followed, spear held tight, his steps slow.

  “Do you want me to prove you right?” Tyrus asked, his voice tightening. “Do you need me to show you…The rage of the Ura?”

  The words carried weight. Not a threat. A warning.

  “No,” Wallo whispered. “Please…”

  Tyrus stopped.

  He tossed the spear down beside Wallo and turned away. His back was offered now, not in weakness, but dismissal.

  Wallo stayed where he was for a long moment before forcing himself upright, putting distance between them with shaky steps.

  Then came the sound of hooves.

  Stone rang beneath iron shoes, fast and urgent. Tyrus turned as the noise grew louder, body tightening, senses sharpening.

  A rider burst past them, rain slicking off his cloak.

  “Incoming Evokians!” the man shouted as he thundered toward the heart of Dagavia. “Incoming Evokians!”

  The warning echoed through the waking village.

  Tyrus broke into a run.

  Rain slicked the stone beneath his sandals as he tore through Dagavia, breath burning in his chest. Behind him, he heard Wallo’s heavier steps chasing the path of the rider, but Tyrus did not slow. He cut through alleys and sleeping courtyards until the hut came into view.

  He pushed inside.

  Omni lay asleep, bundled in his robes, the low fire reduced to embers.

  “Lord Omni!” Tyrus said sharply, already moving. He gathered the Red Dragon, hands quick and practiced, wrapping the blade in cloth and tucking it out of sight. “Wake up!”

  Omni stirred, blinking against the dim light. “What is going on?” he asked, voice thick with sleep. His eyes sharpened. “Where is West?”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “I could not find him,” Tyrus said, the words coming fast. “There is word of incoming Evokians.”

  Omni sat upright at once.

  “Evokians?” The fog of sleep fell away. “Then we must find West.”

  They were outside moments later.

  Dagavia was no longer quiet. Doors creaked open. People gathered in low clusters, pulling cloaks tight as they moved toward the gates. Tyrus and Omni were carried along with them, swept forward by the shared unease. Tyrus searched every face, every shadow, but West was nowhere among them.

  By the time they reached the gates, the men of Dagavia were already assembled.

  Nadrin stood at the front, flanked by his hunters. His posture was loose, careless, the remnants of last night’s drink still clinging to him. He rolled his shoulders and rubbed at his eyes, then turned to the village.

  “Our scout says it is only a small group of Evokians,” Nadrin announced. “A diplomatic endeavor.”

  A yawn slipped past his hand.

  “You are free to return to your homes.”

  No one moved.

  The crowd stayed rooted in place, eyes fixed on the road beyond the gates.

  Nadrin noticed and shrugged, turning his attention outward. The jungle road stretched long and narrow, mist coiling low along its edges. Then the shapes crested the hill.

  Helmets. Banners. Ordered movement.

  The Evokians emerged from the green in disciplined lines, their armor dull beneath the overcast sky.

  Tyrus felt his jaw tighten.

  Nadrin did not react.

  He watched them approach as if counting livestock or tallying supplies.

  “Sixteen men,” Nadrin said to one of his own, calm and unconcerned.

  Tyrus glanced at Omni.

  Neither of them spoke, but the same thought weighed heavy between them. If this was Evokain diplomacy, it was not meant to be friendly.

  The sixteen Evokians halted just short of the gates, leaving a deliberate stretch of open ground between themselves and Dagavia’s men. The difference was immediate and uncomfortable. The Evokians stood aligned and silent, armor fitted and scarred with use. Nadrin’s people shifted their weight, hands rough and familiar on hunting spears and axes that had fed families more often than they had spilled blood.

  The Evokian at the center raised his right hand in salute.

  “Captain Nadrin,” the bearded man called, voice smooth and unhurried. “It has been a long time. Too long.”

  He removed his helmet and wiped the sweat from his bald head with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving Nadrin.

  “Captain Steu,” Nadrin replied, returning the salute without warmth.

  “It is Colonel now,” Steu said mildly as he slid the helmet back into place. “There have been some changes in command.”

  “My apologies, Colonel,” Nadrin said. “I heard about the general’s death.”

  Steu nodded as if acknowledging the weather. “Yes. A tragic thing.” He reached beneath his breastplate and drew out a thin chain. Hanging from it was a small, yellowed bone. One of Dresdi’s rotting toes.

  Steu kissed it.

  “As they say,” he continued, voice almost pleasant, “upon every grave lie flowers. Either planted by the living or grown by time.” He tucked the relic back beneath his armor. “We are blessed to be able to collect those flowers.”

  The silence that followed felt suffocating.

  “Captain Nadrin,” Steu went on, “I am here on the orders of our Supreme General, Commander of the Southern Forces, Rombo the Fair.” His lips twitched faintly at the title. “We have much to discuss regarding contracts and tribute. So if you would be so kind as to allow me and my men passage into Dagavia.”

  He gestured forward, palm open, already assuming the answer.

  “Contracts?” Nadrin asked. “Will the General not honor the agreements I made with Dresdi?”

  Steu smiled, slow and practiced. “It is a new world, Captain. Dresdi is dead, and the southern bureaucracy has seen its own shake ups. General Rombo has his own vision for how we move forward.”

  “Dresdi swore not one Evokian soldier would walk through these gates,” Nadrin said. “He gave me his word!”

  Steu’s smile did not falter.

  “Then the least you can do,” he said lightly, “is bring out some tables and chairs for your guests.”

  He signaled with two fingers. Several Evokians swung down from their horses at once, movements crisp and efficient. They began assembling a small camp just outside the gates, stakes driven into the earth as if this had already been decided.

  Steu clapped his hands once.

  “And that smell,” he added, nostrils flaring as he glanced toward the village. “Roasted ham, is it? Promising, Captain. I hope there is enough to go around.”

  He swung down from his horse, boots landing firmly on Dagavian stone.

  Nadrin took a long breath through his nose before turning to his men. “Bring out some tables and chairs,” he said, voice steady. “And whatever is left from the hunt.”

  He turned back to Steu and swung down from his horse. “Very well, Colonel. You have my ear.”

  Steu’s mouth curved upward. “Still the same unpleasant man, aren’t you, Captain?” He chuckled softly. “The General only wishes to establish authority. These contracts are not so different from the old ones. Just a few policy adjustments. Minor increases in gold tribute. Nothing Dresdi himself would not have asked for, had he lived.”

  He pressed a bundle of papers into Nadrin’s hands.

  Nadrin scanned the pages without urgency, eyes moving slowly. “And the officials in Vaga are all in agreement?” he asked.

  “Vaga?” Steu leaned closer, lowering his voice as if sharing gossip. “Vaga is dead! Can you believe it?” His eyes glittered. “That whore governor and his officers allowed their slaves to poison them. In one night, and the entire political class was wiped clean.”

  Nadrin’s brows lifted slightly. Nothing more.

  “The weakness of men, Captain,” Steu continued. “The scent of a woman.” He exhaled through his nose, amused. “The Evok himself granted our Supreme General full control of the south. This must have been Dresdi’s vision all along. King Rombo of the South.”

  His hand drifted instinctively to his chest, where the pendant rested beneath his armor.

  Nadrin skimmed the documents a moment longer before handing them off to one of his men. “The world does seem to favor men of a certain temperament,” he said quietly.

  “We pray we learn from them,” Steu replied. He reached into his satchel and produced a small tin. Inside, crushed berries stained the metal dark. He dragged a finger through the fruit puree and rubbed it across his teeth, smiling widely. “So that we may also ascend.”

  Nadrin watched him for a beat, then gestured toward a table that had been set near the gates. “Please,” he said. “Sit. Allow us to offer Dagavian hospitality.”

  Steu lowered himself into the chair as if he had been invited all along. His men followed suit, loosening their armor straps, resting helms at their feet. More tables appeared. Platters of meat and bread were carried out through the gates, the smell of roasted boar drifting into the open air.

  Nadrin turned back toward the gathered villagers. “There is nothing to fear,” he called, spreading his hands. “You may return to your homes. There are no threats here.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, people began to disperse. Mothers tugged children closer. Doors shut. Paths emptied.

  Nadrin returned to his men, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. He nodded once to each of them.

  Everything was under control. At least, that was what he needed them to believe.

  Omni and Tyrus remained near the gates with the handful of villagers who had not yet obeyed his order. They had seen enough to know something had shifted.

  “Nadrin’s uneasy,” Tyrus muttered, keeping his voice low. His eyes stayed on the Evokians. “We need to find West and leave. Now.”

  “He will return to me,” Omni said, though the words sounded like a prayer rather than a certainty. He straightened his robe and moved toward Nadrin.

  “Captain Nadrin,” Omni said, offering a shallow bow. “Forgive me. We are searching for West. He did not return home last night.”

  Nadrin turned, confusion flickering across his face before it vanished behind duty. “I do not know where Master West is,” he said. “But it may be wise for him to remain unseen for the moment.”

  He gestured toward the Evokians and the growing bustle around them. “Excuse me, Lord Omni. I have other matters to attend to.”

  Before Omni could respond, Nadrin had already turned away, issuing quiet instructions, directing hands and platters and watchful eyes.

  Omni returned to Tyrus, unease tightening his chest. “Where can he be…?”

  Tyrus scanned the thinning crowd, searching every familiar shape, every movement. West was nowhere among them. He exhaled sharply and turned back to Omni.

  Omni met his gaze and understood at once. The unspoken accusation sat between them. “I allowed my passion to cloud my judgment,” Omni admitted, voice unsteady. “We must find him.”

  A man stepped out from among Nadrin’s soldiers. Wallo approached, pressing a cloth to his nose, red already soaking through onto his hand.

  “Lord Omni,” he said, lowering his head. “Tyrus…” He hesitated, then forced the words out. “I overheard you speaking. Master West came to me last night. He asked to be let into the dungeon.”

  Omni stilled. Tyrus’s jaw locked.

  “Where Beiru is kept,” Wallo continued. “He said he needed to speak with him.” Wallo wiped his nose again, leaving another smear of blood across his fingers.

  Omni closed his eyes for a brief moment, then nodded. “Thank you, Wallo. You have done us a service. Are you ok?”

  Wallo wiped his nose again. “I am fine Lord Omni, I slipped earlier on my patrol” he responded

  Omni turned to Tyrus. “We will find him there.” Then back to Wallo. “Will you lead us?”

  Wallo glanced once toward Tyrus, then nodded. “Yes, I can take you there.”

  “You just left West by himself in there?” Tyrus questioned.

  “It was his request to be left alone with Beiru, and I have too much respect for Master West to have challenged him” Wallo responded. “Now I can take you there, before Captain Nadrin finds out and stripes me of the key”

  He turned and began walking.

  Omni and Tyrus followed.

  And beneath Dagavia, the dungeon waited.