Passing the warehouse where the four merchants were meeting their swift and deservedly bloody ends at that very moment, a black-painted carriage trundled on the cobbled streets within the darkness of the city. Riding in front and behind on horseback were two Bodyhunters, armed with swords and crossbows. A third Bodyhunter drove the carriage, lightly lashing his pair of horses to keep a steady pace.

  Within the confines of the fine, velveted compartment was Baron Markus. He had his elbow in the window ledge, chin in hand as he surveyed the darkened alleys and narrow streets of the city he called home. There was something so calming about the night. He would have wished to have walked to the Royal Hall himself if it were not so dangerous to do so.

  Sentiments for the Oligarchy were not as high as the last year. The spree of rebel incidents and rumours abound concerning shadow warriors haunting the streets of the major cities were causing the people to lose faith in the structure of their society. A society that he and the rest of the Barons worked very hard to cultivate and control. He hissed through his teeth.

  These vermin… How dare they attempt to destroy what he had struggled to build? Back in the day, he could have been able to stroll down a street market to grab some apples or an orange, free of charge. Now he would only do so if he had a full number of bodyguards with him at all times. Tonight was no exception. Especially tonight. Even though he was loathed to attend it.

  A rough snore across from him drew forth his ire for a moment. Slumped in the opposite seat was a diminutive man with a pair of spectacles that made his eyes look more like a mantis than a man. Dressed similarly to Markus, this man was instead balding, caramel-skinned, and malnourished despite his affluence. Every part of Markus screamed an instinct to just reach over and snap the man’s neck in two, like when he was a child confronted by a pile of twigs that demanded the same treatment.

  This individual, that Markus was loathed to share this intimate space with, was Baron Vilx.

  Vilx was in charge of the Scribes at the College of Knowledge and Wisdom, the pioneering school of teaching that umbrellas all the schools and learning houses throughout the country.

  Well, Vilx put himself in charge of the Scribes as their Scholar, in actual fact. Normally, the Scribes would convene once every four years to vote on who would become the Scholar that would lead the newest studies into the world’s mysteries.

  But once the coup had reached its bloody and successful conclusion, the seven Barons split the responsibilities between them to alleviate responsibility. Vilx quickly disposed of the current Scholar and remained the leader for the last eighteen years. But it was soon clear that it was also to gain power. Markus learnt this the hard way.

  Power was all well and good in the avenues of weaponry, slaves, and soldiers. He and Baron Fosto took care of that and understood it fully. But knowledge was a power of an utterly different scale. Knowledge of the past that could control the present, which in turn could manipulate the future. And Vilx was obsessed with the past.

  He would spend his days in the libraries of the College, pouring over manuscripts, texts, tomes, volumes, journals, diaries, letters… all written word collected by the generations of Scribes since the first ruler of Dargania was crowned. He wanted to learn all he could. He wanted the knowledge so that he would have the control. The secrets of ancient kings and queens past, the weapons or magics, or wonders hidden from the world.

  And most of all, he wanted the power of the Marked. Few and far between, he began to find reports of the Marked throughout history. He was fascinated by them. He saw them as a tool sorely neglected in the building of the Oligarchy’s future.

  He had found a story from a century ago of an old woman able to summon torrential rainstorms at will. If she were alive and in the service of the Oligarchy, drought would have been a thing of the past. Baron Secra would have been pleased.

  And what of the eight-year-old boy fifty years ago who could speak with animals? Would they not have been the perfect spies in Baron Zult’s service?

  And there was the rumour of the Tashiishan Windmakers. A family of Marked who control the current of the four winds across the deserts of Tashiish. In a country where the fastest means of travel were by windsail, to have the winds as your common would make you king. Baron Malachi and his little private gang, the Docking Fellows, would benefit from the winds considering all the sea trade they have up and down the Eastern Coast.

  This logic, this determination to utilise and exploit the ethereal powers of the blessed Marked, drove Vilx’s obsession.

  It would be only this annual meeting which Markus ever saw Vilx outside the College.

  Markus found Vilx’s constant need for affirmation and to prove himself to the rest of them utterly insufferable. To be that desperate for acceptance was a sign of weakness. Markus was resolute in his position. So what if they despised him?

  He certainly didn’t hear any complaints when the monthly revenue for the slave markets rolled into their shared coffers. In that, he was better than Vilx. And Markus would let it be stated that it had nothing to do with Vilx’s parentage.

  While the rest of the Barons’ families were of classic Darganian stock, maternal and paternal, Vilx’s mother was Tashiishan. That certainly put a chip on Vilx’s shoulder, however, because upon learning of his origin, he disowned his mother and purposely rewrote his own birth chart to claim that he was wholly Darganian.

  Markus didn’t really care. He just wished Vilx would just stop being so… clingy.

  That being said, Markus was finding himself intrigued by Vilx’s idea for using Marked persons. What if he had a couple of Marked trained in his Bodyhunters? Would that not be a delightful notion? He found himself smiling at the thought. It would be tricky though. The Marked were rare and never stood out for fear of persecution from those fearful of their abilities. Vilx claimed that he may have discovered a way to supersede the need to search for them, but Markus did not deal in claims or theories.

  A bump in the road shook the carriage and jarred the snoring Vilx awake.

  “Bah!” He snorted, in that nasally accent. “Are we there?”

  “No.” Markus said without looking at him. He was back to his city gazing. They were crossing the bridge that spanned one of the three main canals of the city.

  “Oh, that’s odd.” Vilx shifted in his seat in an attempt to regain his comfort. “We have been travelling for a long while.”

  “Only because you share my company, Vilx.”

  “Oh, certainly not, dear Markus! You are a lovely travel companion. I would have none other. It must be your driver; he may have taken us a longer route. I’m sorry if you’re feeling uncomfortable.”

  There it was, that sycophantic attitude again. “Perhaps.” Markus replied.

  A silence grew between them. Markus sighed through his nose as Vilx picked at his nails. If he had his way, Markus would’ve made the journey in peaceful solitude. But the College was on his path, so as a Baron, he was obligated to assist Vilx in the journey.

  “Thank you for picking me up along the way.” He said, as if he were invading Markus's mind. “I do wonder what the others have to say in this meeting.” He followed. “Once a year… can you believe a year has gone by already? Our eighteenth Council meeting… How time flies.”

  “Hmm.” Markus grunted. He was not in the mood for small talk.

  “Maybe a new tax will be discussed? Or Baron Secra has some new plantations to establish along the Southern border?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Another silence.

  In a normal place, like a tavern or a brothel or a temple or anywhere else in the world for that matter, a man would read a social cue of another and choose to remain silent for his own good. Sadly, Baron Vilx spent more time around books than people. Books tend not to react to unwelcome words.

  Vilx took a moment and then spoke. “I am sorry to hear of your brother. How is dear Malachi?”

  Markus felt his eyelid twitch. “What?”

  “It’s just that… I cannot imagine how pained he must be. I feel so awful for what happened. If you ask me, that town had it coming.”

  Markus locked his white and black-dotted eyes on his compatriot.

  He had had enough.

  “My brother cannot stand.” Markus hissed. “He is imprisoned by his legs. If he must piss or shit, he must be helped. If he must go up a flight of steps, he must be carried. If he wished to rut with a woman, she would straddle him like a bench or have another push and pull his hips so that he may plough. Never again can he stand at my height. Never again can he command the respect he once had. So I agree, dear Vilx… you cannot imagine how pained he is. And it would do us both a great deal of good that you refrain from mentioning my brother’s condition to me. Ever again.”

  With the conversation fully killed, Markus resumed his gazing and Vilx did whatever he could to avoid Markus's eyes.

  Finally, the now-silent carriage drew up at the inner city walls guarding the Royal Hall. The portcullis lifted as soon as the carriage was drawn up, with immediate effect, so that the carriage’s pace did not lessen by a single second. In the courtyard, Markus could see the other black carriages of the Barons, each with its own insignia.

  Fosto’s beheld a crisscross sword and hammer, signifying his warriors known as Smiters. Francisca’s had a pair of smiling lips, displaying her politicking aptitude and the symbol of her Speakers. Zult’s sported a raven’s skull, to represent his clandestine Ravens. And Secra was a bushel of wheat and barley for his agriculture. Markus's own carriage carried the signet of the Bodyhunters and his private Fist battalion; a fist wreathed in chains.

  Vilx had no carriage nor any symbol to call his own. He had not asked for one because he was too shy to consider one.

  The carriage came to a stop, the door was opened, and Barons Markus and Vilx stepped down onto solid ground.

  The mood was sombre. Usually, the Royal Hall with its three great bastions, five smaller alcoves, and ten high towers would be buzzing with activity. Various nobles and merchants and delegates coming and going, currying favour from Francisca’s council chambers or Fosto’s war room. On any other day, Markus would find a series of coaches, carts, and carriages parked in a staggering line that stretched thrice around the expansive circular courtyard. Servants and slaves tending to the petty needs of the highborn. Music playing. Horses billowing. Dogs barking. Sarku mewing. Activity abounded. Not so tonight.

  Tonight, the gates were closed. The windows shut. The candles blown out. Only those closest to the Barons and the Barons were allowed. This was not a time for socialites and bootlickers. This was a time for real people, serious people. The decisions made tonight would change the way Dargania was run. And in effect, the continent of Peteshko itself.

  Markus was not particularly interested in attending this meeting. He honestly had so much more pressing matters on hand.

  He had a trap to set and renegade slaves to hunt down after all. But no, the missive he received from Darius and Steer was that this meeting would be prominent and rumours ran that he would be a prime subject for the Barons’ discussion.

  As he ascended the marble steps of the Hall’s entrance, he shot a glance at the thin and small Vilx beside him. Markus narrowed his eyes.

  What does he know? He knows. And he will not tell me. No matter. Whatever may be awaiting me in that room, I will handle it like I have handled all my problems. With ruthless efficiency.

  Walking down the carpeted corridors of the palace, Markus took a moment to admire the artwork adorning the walls. Oil paintings, dozens won both sides, lined the spaces. Their subjects were nature, war, birth, death, love, loss, grief, humour… all the factors of life itself on display. The shadows of the corridors were banished by the triple-rowed oil lamps - flames no bigger than little fingers - and were so numerous in their numbers, they mimicked daylight without the danger of self-inflicted arson. Markus and Vilx required no escort; in fact, Markus banished the footman that awaited them at the front door. They knew this place like a second home. Technically, it was their second home before and after the coup.

  Markus felt memories drip through the crevices of his skull. He remembered walking down these very halls in his youth, eager to please and serve the last two kings.

  The king before the unworthy one, now that was a fine man. Granem Dargan had true strength and guile, wit and wrath. A proper king. Granem understood that the common man was a savage man and to corral such men, one had to be savage even more so. They would then fear you and only then would they respect you. That was a good era of ruling. Peace was secured. It was bloody, but it was peaceful. Markus and Fosto liked that notion and would keenly apply it later on in life with accurate results.

  It was a great shame that mentality only rewarded Granem with a crossbow bolt through his throat whilst hunting stags in the borders of the Great Thicket. Markus swore to the Hands of Fate themselves that he had nothing to do with that death, neither did any of the other Barons. To this very day, the assassin was never found, despite Zult’s continued efforts to hunt down the murderer.

  And that death caused more problems than Markus was ready to handle.

  For Granem’s only son, his successor… Oh, he was a foolish child, that damned Yorick. A boy no more than eighteen and still immature for his age. He lacked conviction, assuredness, willpower. Nothing like his father, to the point that Markus questioned the boy’s heritage.

  Yorick was not fit for the throne and no more fit to be a father.

  Oh yes, all seven Barons (Markus, Malachi, Francisca, Vilx, Zult, Secra and Fosto) knew of that young king’s dirty little secret.

  An illegitimate child, begotten from a tryst with the Royal Horse Master’s daughter. A trite little tale of forbidden love, one that Markus was very anxious to snuff out. It was easy and quick enough to do away with the horse master, his daughter and their lowborn family; a nightly visit from Baron Fosto and the Smiters resolved that error.

  But the child… A daughter of royal blood… What was to be done? The barons were sworn by royal decree that they would serve and protect the House of Dargan. Not once did any of the Barons throughout history ever harm a hair on the Dargan bloodline. This child— illegitimate bastard as she was— fell under that protection by the grace of the blood in her veins.

  However, Markus, Malachi, and Fosto were vehemently adamant that the child be disposed of.

  Vilx was indecisive as usual. Zult and Secra were neutral and only content to watch. But Francisca, being the diplomat that she has been to this very night, argued against it. Using the Baron’s Oath, made six hundred years prior when King Toska Dargan formed the Royal Arms and, in doing so the first Oligarchy of Barons, Markus was silenced into indignant submission.

  He held his tongue as King Yorick welcomed the baby daughter as his ward (hiding her true born nature to all as a recommendation by Francisca) to appease the Barons and Markus's indignant anger. The demise of the horse master and his family was attributed to a raid by bandits who subsequently burnt down the home. It was easy enough for Baron Zult to round up suitable scapegoats to be executed for the deaths.

  It had worked. Peace lasted in the Royal household. For a time.

  But the final straw was when Yorick had rejected practically all the spousal proposals set up by Vilx and Francisca. Daughters, sisters, and cousins of powerful merchants, promising captains, exotic Tashiishan explorers… all of fine highborn bloodlines. An unmarried king was a commodity to be utilised. Francisca saw great opportunity to sew the tear between the countries of Tashiish and Dargania. Especially after the numerous skirmishes between the two people.

  But the King was dissatisfied with them all. He was bereft with grief. No one could compare to the lowly horse-breeding daughter. He was infatuated with her, even in death and even after six months.

  And so much so, that in a moment of sheer madness and before a gathered court of nobles, merchants and all important dignitaries during the first birthday of his ward, he revealed the true nature of the little baby on his lap. And declared that she would be his first-born daughter and heir to the throne of Dargania.

  Her name would be that of her maternal grandmother forevermore: Frigga. Frigga Dargan of Dargania.

  A bastard queen, blood of lowborn and born outside of the Blood Rite… You can imagine the uproar that folly caused.

  Later that very tense evening, within a drinking room like the ones Vilx and Markus passed on their journey tonight, the seven Barons convened and finally planned the coup.

  This had gone too far. Enough was enough.

  Yorick would bring the country to its knees should he be allowed to rule any longer. His reckless abandon of the rules and disregard for responsibility and duty was insulting. If he was willing to break tradition, sire a child outside of wedlock and anoint as queen, Gods knew what other impetuous actions he could take. Even Francisca - who was a staunch Royalist from the day she was born - was swayed to the others’ line of thinking. It was for the good of the land. They had no other choice.

  King Granem would have wanted this. At least, that was what they told themselves.

  Passing a window, Markus snatched a glance towards the northernmost tower, where they kept Yorick. He resided there to this very day.

  The night of the coup, only a day after the Barons decided to stand against their king, was a long one. Markus still remembered the year. 1883.

  The fighting began in the barracks, with the Smiters subduing or killing the soldiers who stood for the King. Then the fighting spilled all throughout the Royal Hall. The Royal Arms, though unprepared, fought like caged Sarki, killing Smiters and Fist soldiers. But they were also taken down with bloody effect.

  The gate was never even raised as Fosto had his best fighters already stationed within the inner parts of the wall, whilst Markus had the makings of his Bodyhunters hidden in the kitchen and servants’ quarters throughout the palace itself. It was until after the fighting in the Hall had ceased and was announced what had occurred, which sparked the protests and riots in Fennaposia. Francisca was prepared though. With her Speakers, she had spun a lie that some of the Royal Arms had started an insurrection against Yorick in retaliation for Frigga’s anointment. Vicious infighting erupted, leading to the complete destruction of the Royal Arms.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  But as Markus later found out, not all the Royal Arms had been in the capital. There were some spread around the kingdom. They could have organised some sort of return to the city, find the king and reinstate him.

  However, it was too late. The Barons had won and secured all corners of Darganian society. That was the purpose of the Barons when they were formed. To handle the affairs of state when the ruling royal was indisposed.

  And indisposed, he was. Yorick was not executed like his band of Royalists and Royal Arms when the coup reached its bloodiest hour.

  Keeping to the Barons’ Oath, the Barons had Yorick locked away, instead of killed.

  He accepted defeat with all the grace of a coward, pleading and begging as he was physically dragged off the throne. Markus granted the boy king a mocking smirk as a reply before personally locking him in the tower. That was a memory he cherished on cold nights.

  And only the Barons knew of this incarceration.

  The people remained uninformed of the royal family’s fate. Hearsay ran around the city and the country that Yorick and the daughter died in the fighting. So the Barons allowed that to be the main fact. It would keep the populace in line. Should they ever get wind of it, especially now in this fractious time, it would be disastrous.

  And what of the bastard Frigga? She was given to the matron and her daughter, who tended to Yorick when he was a babe. The two ladies-in-waiting and Frigga were secreted to another part of the palace, in the eastern tower by the sea. There the princess remained to this night, raised and taught and cared for. Out of sight and mind.

  “Royal prisoners,” as Francisca had advised Markus that day, “saved for a rainy day.”

  The notion was a heady one for Markus to be sure. Whatever ‘rainy day’ Francisca was alluring to, Markus had yet to find out what she meant. But it was resolved, and well enough that the Barons had enjoyed the benefits of ruling a somewhat peaceful land for over seventeen years. Until now.

  They soon arrived at the doors of the Throne Room. Already opened, they stepped in.

  It was a chasm of a room. The ceiling was a great twenty metres in height, with tapestries of the Dargan Family history hanging down from the wooden rafters. The tapestries were left there untouched. The Barons’ Oath extended to protecting the legacy and memory of the Dargans.

  The room stretched out just as far with a purple carpet covering half its width and connecting end to end. Four pillars supporting the arched ceiling were of the finest stone with that telltale polished look that only pearl white Tashiishan marble had. King Toska, who had been crowned the First King of Dargania, had commissioned a famed Tashiishan architect to design the Throne Room. It was a sign of good faith and trust between the two nations. A noble sentiment, but one that would not last after his peaceful death.

  At the end of the room, there was a raised platform where a solitary throne of wood, filigreed with gold and silver, stood empty. The Throne of Dargania, which had now remained unseated for near two decades.

  This grand room once served as the main meeting ground for the nobles and merchants and courtiers to petition favours and decrees from the seated royal. Now it merely served for the Barons’ Council.

  A circular wooden table was situated in the centre of the room with seven chairs around. Two of the chairs were already being used as Markus and Vilx arrived.

  Sitting with his back to the door was a great bear of a man suited in a robe of shining fish-scale metal with spiked pauldrons and gauntlets. This middle-aged man was brooding and silent, giving off an air of simmering aggression strengthened by confidence. His jet-black and grey hair was slicked back with oil and his thick, ashen beard was trimmed to a lengthy but sharp point that reached his nape of the collarbone. His muscles pushed against his sleeves, almost straining against the metal material that provided both protection and a facade.

  This was Baron Fosto, the Warmaster and founder of the Smiters.

  Seated opposite Fosto and facing the door was a man of nondescript nature. He was plain-looking with mousy-brown hair that was unkempt and receding to such a point that his widow’s peak pointed to the middle of his forehead like an eagle’s beak. This nondescript man wore a suit of grey flannel with black feathers ornately laced into his sleeves and cuffs. But as much as his tailors had tried, their best efforts could not hide the gut that dared to reach the edge of the table. He was busy scratching at the table with absent-mindedness when Markus and Vilx walked in. The nondescript man flicked his eyes towards the pair, noted Markus, and sat up straight to exude an understated power. It was like a match was struck within that man’s soul. His sagging nature faded away and a bird-like focus was awakened.

  This was Baron Zult, the Spymaster of espionage and leader of his infamous cohort of spy-assassins; The Ravens.

  Vilx sat down next to Zult whilst Markus opted to sit alone, leaving one chair each between Fosto and Zult.

  As soon as he walked in, Markus knew the game had started. Even their seating arrangement and the order in which they had arrived spoke volumes of their personalities.

  Zult, with his incessant spying on all the goings-on in the city, would have likely arrived first. He would be the one to watch all who arrived at work and who had their priorities set. It was always like this. As soon as Markus and Vilx sat down, Zult gave a final look over of the pair before returning to his idling at the table. It was almost no mistake that he sat down facing the Throne Room’s entrance. In all the time that Markus knew the man, Zult never had his back to a door - be it open or closed.

  Fosto was the exact opposite. He sat with his back to the door because he was confident that any attempt on his life would end in deadly failure. Fosto was no stranger to a blade in the shadows. Especially in the aftermath of the Coup, he had fended off attacks from all sides, particularly from those who had sided with the Royalists.

  Rumours abounded that he was immortal. That he had been struck mortal blows many times, but always survived them.

  But Fosto was no man to shy from a challenge and he would consistently walk unarmed into markets, meetings and social functions. Here was no different, he was unarmed but ready. He also sat alone, showing that he was unafraid of isolation.

  Vilx sat down next to Zult because the two would often find their areas of function coinciding. After all, a Spymaster requires information and knowledge and a leading Scholar needs spies to spread misinformation and rumours to hide said knowledge. But no talking was done here. They would all sit in silence until all had arrived.

  The door opened and a squeaking wheel alerted Markus of his older brother’s arrival. He stood up and saw that Malachi was pushed into the room in a wheelchair with the help of a young man with a mop of scraggly blonde hair humming a ditty to himself.

  Firstly, Markus noted with surprise at how much weight Malachi had lost. Before, he had gained weight through his power and wealth as the Coinmaster of Dargania’s economy. He had a healthy appetite that he fed with wine, women, and food. This led to his portly nature.

  Having been deprived of all three due to his crippling, his body was starting to eat itself in order to survive. Markus was informed such things would occur by the physicians brought in to help save his brother’s life. The poison was merciless and would have certainly killed him if he had not been found by men loyal to the Barons. But Markus was certain Malachi would have rather died than be reduced to this helpless state. His hair was long and unkempt, his beard scraggly, and his clothes were creased and twisted in all the wrong areas. An embittered man, much contrasted by the musical idiot pushing him.

  Markus sneered inwardly. While he disliked Vilx for his asinine scrounging, he loathed Baron Secra the Master Gardener, for his deluded waywardness.

  Secra was younger than all of the Barons gathered. He was barely reaching out from his thirtieth year, and his doe-like eyes were nearly as big as his mouth. Clear-eyed, yet utterly unfocused, he would be seen in the Tashiishan tea houses, smoking Violet Leaf by the boxful. Apparently, he claimed it was for his ‘headaches’.

  Well, as far as Markus was concerned, that was his own damn fault. What did the fool expect when, as a child, he decided to eat a handful of iridescent mushrooms as a dare? The doctors said that the chemicals within those mushrooms scrambled his brain and twisted his perspective upside down to the point that he hallucinated ‘tap-dancing rabbits’, ‘singing frogs’, and ‘erudite roosters’ (his words).

  But it was seemingly a mixed blessing as well as a curse. It opened his eyes to other parts of the world unseen to the common man. He began to trust and understand what crops worked in what soil. How best to encourage the produce to grow beyond what was normally possible. He could almost predict what the seasons would bring; rain, sun, wind, snow, or storm. With such keen understanding, the crops were bountiful in his hometown, and his skill at farming was soon utilised as a member of the Barons at the unheard age of thirteen. He was that skilled.

  And yet, he never acted like a proper Baron. He would whistle, skip, and dance down the halls like a madman, laugh inappropriately during important conversations, and never follow up on the social cues that higher society demanded.

  “Hey, nonny no, delightful brethren!” He cried out into the silence. His shout echoed, reverberating against the glass windows and marble pillars. No one replied, though Fosto rolled his eyes.

  Malachi shot him a dirty glare, snapped his fingers, and pointed to the chair beside Markus.

  Secra put a hand over his mouth in a display of semi-serious admonishment and pushed Malachi towards Markus. Markus moved the chair aside, and Malachi was slotted into place, with Markus sitting down to look at Malachi at his level.

  Malachi was angrily scratching his nails into the arms of his wheelchair, creating straight divots in the wood. Markus was not the most nurturing brother, but to his own credit, he felt for his brother. All his brother had done was lean hard onto the ungrateful louts of that no-name mining town. Just to keep them in line. He did not deserve this.

  Malachi glanced at Markus and gave his young brother a small, malicious smile.

  “I heard what you did.” He said in a lowered tone so that the others would not hear. “Good work.”

  Markus patted Malachi’s arm. “I did what was required. Blood for blood.”

  “Blood for blood.”

  “Blood for blood for blood for blood!”

  Both brothers snapped their heads up to see that Secra was standing next to them.

  He did not go for his seat beside Fosto as they had assumed. No, he was only standing right behind them and looking down at them with his toothy smile.

  “How much blood is enough, I wonder?” Secra crowed. “When all the oranges bleed into juice bottles and the cherries into pies?”

  Malachi made to snap at Secra for his violation of privacy. But Markus held his brother in place and instead fixed Secra with a cold stare. “Have a care, Secra. A rooster that crows too early or too loudly could get the axe.”

  Secra just gazed back at Markus with a nonplussed expression. After several seconds of this silent exchange, Markus honestly thought that Secra had lost his damned mind at last.

  But then Secra suddenly grinned and without a moment’s hesitation, made a rooster crow right in the Bodyhunter Master’s face. “Cocka-doodle-doo!”

  Markus jumped to his feet and his eyes flared. Malachi spat a curse and lurched his arms up to grab Secra. But Secra was younger than them and faster. He jumped back like a rabbit and cackled. Markus pushed back his chair and made to pursue the impertinent little raver and throttle him like the rooster he decided to play.

  But a loud fist slammed the table, drawing all eyes to the usually silent Fosto who looked the three Barons with a placid stare. But his teeth were clenched. His body seemed to expand as his muscles tensed all at once.

  “Sit down.” Fosto commanded in a solid, yet quiet tone that carried across the table to them. “Now.” Those three words had an effect on the Barons.

  Vilx and Zult watched and waited with silent expectation.

  Malachi spat another curse at Secra but manoeuvred himself back to the table.

  Secra bowed with deference, uttered a quick apology to the Barons and shuffled to his chair with his head down and a chastised face like an admonished schoolboy.

  Markus made a deep inhale with his nose, smoothed back his hair and lowered himself into his seat. He placed his hands on the table as a sign of peace.

  Fosto leaned back into his normal posture of relaxed confidence, clearly pleased with his resolution. Markus felt a stab of envy at his colleague.

  Fosto had that effect on most people. He was a powerful and dangerous man. He knew that. Everyone else knew that. So he didn’t need to flaunt. Only threaten to do so. And that was all it took to corral the army to his side.

  The Barons, though at his level, were no different. Markus wished he had that level of control. But when you have the army at your back, not even the Bodyhunters would exude that much power. Sure, with his fifty-five Bodyhunters, Markus also had a hundred and twenty-five-man contingent of the Fist under his direct command. A solid force. But only as a token of cooperation with Fosto. He held the remaining force under his thumb. A force that dwarfed Markus's own fighting power a staggering twenty to one. Nearly four thousand against his hundred and eighty… Markus disliked the uneven balance of power.

  “I’m surprised by your reaction, Markus.” Baron Zult finally spoke, breaking the silence. “For someone like Secra to get under your skin like that… you must be preoccupied with a great deal. Care to share?” Zult propped his elbows on the table, interlaced his fingers, and smiled politely to Markus.

  Markus uttered a small laugh. “Nothing that needs concern you, Spymaster.”

  Zult raised a mud-brown eyebrow. “Oh? That is strange. I feel that if something is bothering you, it would bother us all. As dear Secra has joyfully pointed out, we are brethren after all.”

  Markus chewed his tongue. He cursed himself for his improper reaction. Was he that bothered by the Silverstreakers and his plan to lure Blade and his rebel friends that he would lash out like a bullied child against the idiot jibes of Secra?

  Everything had been planned out at the fortress. All the possible ways in which that boy could attack, assault, or sneak into the fortress had been considered and resolved.

  All was ready. Except… except… no one could find Blade! It had been weeks since the last sighted reports of Blade and his people in Silverstreak, and nothing else made it back.

  For someone like Markus, who planned everything, that aggravated him. The unpredictability of Blade’s hidden whereabouts. Markus also failed to receive any word via homing falcon from the garrison of Fist soldiers he left to watch over Silverstreak. No word for days. Which would mean that Blade had returned and killed them during the last two weeks.

  Which also meant that Blade was possibly anywhere between Silverstreak and this very room in which the Barons sat.

  Markus felt his neck twitch at the thought of Blade making his way to rescue his allies, bringing with him the same chaos that brought Malachi’s seemingly iron-wrought authority to nothingness in a matter of a day. At first, Markus thought that twitch was a reflex of excitement. But it was not. He knew now that that twitch was a reflex of… Trepidation. He disliked feeling such an emotion.

  “Only affairs of a Bodyhunter’s nature.” He answered clearly. “It is lucky that I was able to make this meeting to begin with. I have a great many obligations that require my attention. Even if you have all required my presence.” Markus gestured in a single sweep to the four Barons facing him and Malachi. “I am duty-bound to secure our security in my own way.”

  “Of course. Such a busy life you lead.” Zult nodded. “Just know that we are here to offer you any assistance. Should you ask for our service.”

  And take my men and place of work as a payment for said services, you opportunistic carrion-bird. Markus growled inwardly. But he replied with a smile that hurt his idle facial muscles. “I appreciate your offer. It is noted.” Zult smiled simply and nodded once.

  “Where is Francisca?” Vilx piped up. “I am surprised that she is late. She’s usually punctual.”

  “A woman’s weakness… Timing.” Malachi grumbled, and Markus chuckled. It felt good that Malachi still held onto his snarky and caustic humour.

  “She’ll be here, sirs. Have a little patience.” Fosto said softly.

  “I like patients.” Secra chimed in. “Always polite and easy to find in a hospital.” He cackled at his own joke with such fervour as if he thought it was the funniest thing he had ever said.

  The rest of the Barons groaned at the comment. Markus even began to theorise the possibilities of doing away with the insufferable madman.

  Five minutes of waiting later, and the doors opened once more, allowing a young woman to stride in with purpose and attitude. Markus stared and blinked. As did the rest of the Barons.

  The woman was not Francisca.

  “What in the hells?” Malachi blurted out as the woman strode past Markus and headed for the empty seat left for Francisca. She did not sit in the chair, but stood beside it only. She had one hand behind her back as she gave a military salute to the men. Fist over the chest and a click of her shoe heels. Fosto gave one back out of muscle memory and militant indoctrination.

  “Barons. Good evening to you all.” She said with a clipped, educated tone.

  Her chocolate-brown hair was cut back to a short and tidy crop, with the crown pushing forward like a cap. She did not wear a dress. Instead, she sported a slim-fit uniform suit with a sweeping coat, with its hem reaching her sharpened buckled shoes. She had a pair of white gloves button tightly around her wrists. Her jawline matched the sharpness of her dress sense. Her eyes matched the colour of a frozen sea. She was efficiency itself.

  “Well, a surprise to be sure to see you, Eva.” Zult addressed her. He half-rose from his chair, bowed his head to hers, and sat back down. “I, however, would be better off knowing that your mistress is currently outside those doors and awaiting her grand entrance.”

  “She is not, I’m afraid.” Eva replied coolly.

  “And why is that?” Markus demanded hotly. He did not like where this was going.

  “Business of a dire nature has drawn my lady’s attention elsewhere.” Eva glanced down at the empty seat that was supposed to host Francisca. “She deeply regrets her lack of attendance this night, but rest assured she has taken it into consideration. If you would bear with me for a moment.”

  Eva unbuttoned the top of her coat and reached inside.

  Markus quickly scanned the faces of the other Barons to gauge their reactions.

  Of course, Vilx and Zult began whispering to one another. Most like coming up with theories and possibilities for Francisca’s absence. All this would only feed Zult’s paranoid nature.

  Fosto was silent and watched Eva with mild curiosity. A man truly untroubled by the world he rules.

  And Secra? Secra was too busy staring up at the ceiling and mouthing numbers in sequence. Was he—? Was he counting the tiles in the ceiling? Gods… truly hopeless.

  Malachi leant over to Markus, whispering. “‘Dire nature’, she says. Are we all not knee-deep in dire natures? What gives her the right to do such a thing?”

  Markus shrugged. “I do not know, brother. But hold your noise, let us see what paltry excuse her little paramour grants us.”

  It was no secret of Francisca’s predilections. She enjoyed waxing lyrical with merchants, lords and their ladies, dockspeople. And women. Markus knew fully well of Francisca’s thinly veiled enjoyment for the fairer sex. How the female Baron would enjoy taking fair maids to her bed and enjoy their softness for days or even weeks at a time. Eva was her longest thus far, coming up to a good ten months. Markus knew of all the others who had come and gone either by their choice or Francisca’s. This one that stood before him seemed intent on remaining useful to Francisca.

  Eva pulled out a folded note from her breast pocket, cleared her voice, and read out the letter.

  “‘Dearest comrades,

  I hate to be the bearer of bad news. That is why Eva shall deliver it for me. I have abstained from my attendance at this year’s Council because of troubles arising in my home district to the south. A spree of bandit attacks on an iron ore caravan nearby Maiden’s Glade has caused delays, halting my travels to this city. I have opted to remain here to resolve the crisis, as the perpetrators of the attacks are the siblings of one of our substantial supporters to the Oligarchy. The question of whether this is rebel-related, I shall find out in due time.

  Eva, already situated in Fennaposia, shall be my voice this evening. When she speaks - as she will tonight - it is with my voice. When she votes on matters of state - as we shall tonight - it is with my hand and permission. Give her the respect that I am sure you gentlemen of high standing shall provide. She will send a falcon to inform me of all the goings-on here and what shall be spoken of.

  I am truly apologetic for this. I wish I could spend my evening with you all here, as a year is such a long time to wait for us all to be united under one roof.

  I miss you all. Especially you, Markus.

  With my deepest regards and well wishes,

  Baron Francisca, Master Speaker.

  Post note: Malachi? I have made subtle enquiries about your ailment. I have some promising leads from Tashiish. I shall pass them on to your private physicians. I hope it helps, I cannot stand to see you so moody.

  Second post note: Secra? I was at a marketplace and found a complete collection of poems and rhymes written by the ex-Scholars Maximus and Theodore. I have dispatched them via post. They will be at your residence by the end of the week.

  Third note: Vilx and Zult, there is a rumour that Eva shall tell you which will intrigue you deeply. Stay attentive. You want to hear this.

  Fourth note: Fosto, I would like to suggest doubling the recruiting number by the end of this year. You shall hear why. It coincides with an idea I will have Eva here to propose.

  And lastly: Markus. I do not like to hear horror stories from the north. I have enough trouble sleeping without you filling my head with fresh nightmares.’”

  Eva folded the note, placed it back in her pocket, and waited patiently for the men’s response. She had to wait for a moment as none of the men replied. They all stared at her. At the note she read from, and at each other.

  Markus was stunned.

  This never happened before.

  Not in all the years since the Barons’ Council was established multiple centuries ago. All the Barons would gather. All of them. The very fact that Francisca would send a subordinate in her place was the greatest insult she could send. And she made that very clear.

  He placed his hands on the table and rose to his full height, in a slow and silent motion. And glared at Eva with fire in his corpse-like eyes.

  “How dare you,” he uttered.

  He pointed a finger, as if he were expecting a bolt of lightning to launch from his fingernail and pierce both the impudent note and the impudent harlot in one strike.

  “I will not stand for this. This lack of propriety. This lack of judgement. This lack of respect. Who does she think she is? And who the hells are you for even speaking these words to us?”

  Eva calmly looked back at Markus without reproach or fear. A feat not accomplished by most whilst in the presence of a man like Baron Markus with his reputation.

  “I am Eva Binder. A woman who worked for a bookshop before being brought in my Lady’s Speakers to work in her private library. I am a woman who has worked exceptionally hard to get where I am today. And now I stand at the height of power, speaking with my Lady’s authority. You speak of lacks in respect and judgement? I do not see that. The fact that my Lady has gone to very strenuous lengths to ensure her voice is heard and regarded here speaks volumes of her dedication to this Council. I appreciate tradition as all people should. But not to the detriment of progress. I apologise if you have been slighted, Baron Markus. That was not my intent, nor my Lady’s.”

  Markus pursed his lips. His neck’s muscles tensed and strained against his skin.

  This damned woman… Well trained by Francisca indeed. Diplomatic in the face of anger.

  Markus closed his eyes, inhaled and exhaled deeply through his nose, and lowered himself to his seat. “Apology accepted.” He said.

  At least, if he could not intimidate Eva into leaving the Council, he could play the offended party and hold his honour intact. He waved his hand at the rest of the men. “Well?” He snapped. “Any of you wish to respond to this unbelievable circumstance?”

  Fosto regarded the news read by Eva with a series of slow strokes of his beard. “No. I have heard what I needed to know. Let us begin the meeting.”

  “Seconded.” Zult said. “I am particularly intrigued by this rumour Francisca wishes to impart.”

  Vilx nodded in silent agreement, whilst trying not to pick a side.

  Malachi crossed his arms and glared at the table, as if he wished for it to spontaneously combust.

  And Secra blinked and looked around at the others with a simple smile.

  Eva thanked each of the Barons by name before taking her mistress’s seat.

  The eighteenth Baron Council meeting had begun.