The afternoon sun was a brutal, oppressive weight, baking the very air in the Drazti garrison. Kazi navigated the teeming, dusty streets, the single silver coin from his sale a cool, heavy promise in his pocket. He returned to the tithe collection point in the main plaza, where the lines had thankfully dwindled. The same grim-faced paymaster who had overseen the chaotic collection earlier sat behind the table, looking bored and irritable.
Kazi stepped forward and placed the silver coin on the rough-hewn wooden table. It spun for a moment, its polished surface a stark contrast to the grime and dust.
The paymaster looked from the coin to Kazi, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. He consulted the slate in front of him. "Recruit... Kazi. It says here you were assigned collection from the textile and leatherwork sectors. Two vendors. Total tithe: eighteen bronze." He jabbed a thick finger at the coin. "This is one silver. It is not eighteen bronze."
"The textile merchant was short, sir," Kazi explained, his voice even and respectful. "She could not pay her full tithe in bronze."
"And?" the paymaster grunted, unimpressed. "That is not my concern. The tithe is the tithe."
"Yes, sir," Kazi said smoothly. "So, I made an arrangement. I took what bronze she had, and the leatherworker had, and I gave it all to the textile merchant. In exchange, she gave me a silver coin from her personal savings to cover both their debts, with enough left over for my trouble. It seemed a more efficient transaction. All debts are paid in full."
The paymaster glared at him for a long moment, then scribbled a series of notes on his slate. He swept the coin into his collection bag.
"Creative," the paymaster muttered, his voice laced with annoyance. "Don't do it again." He made a final mark on his slate. "Dismissed."
With a small knot of relief in his gut, Kazi turned away, his first thought to find Mira. He wanted to tell her that his scheme had worked, that he had earned back the tithe and then some. But the sprawling, chaotic reality of Drazti immediately swallowed him. This wasn't the simple, winding path of his village; it was a labyrinth of noise and bodies.
He pushed his way into the lower market, a place that assaulted the senses. The air was a thick stew of smells that made his head swim.
"Spices from Circadia!" a vendor with a stained turban shouted, waving a handful of dried, red leaves in his face. "Make your meat taste like a king's feast!"
Kazi shook his head and moved on, the path narrowed by a crush of bodies. He passed a blacksmith's stall, the rhythmic clang-clang-clang of a hammer on steel a deafening counterpoint to the market's roar. He stopped for a moment, mesmerized, watching a burly, bare-chested man quench a glowing spearhead in a trough of water. A great cloud of steam hissed into the air, carrying the sharp, metallic scent of hot iron. The Eye-and-Wave sigil was stamped onto the smith's leather apron, just as it was on the banners hanging limply from every building and on the pauldrons of the legionaries who shouldered their way through the crowd. The Goddess was everywhere, a silent, golden observer of this churning human sea.
He saw a woman leaning against a stall, her dark eyes, lined with kohl, giving him a slow, deliberate appraisal.
"You look lost, pretty boy," she said, her voice a low purr. "New off the boat? Your face has the look of the West in it. A woman in Drazti could show a man like you a very good time for a few bronze."
Kazi felt a hot flush creep up his neck. He had never been spoken to like that in his life. "I'm just looking for a friend," he mumbled, hurrying past her, her throaty laughter following him down the alley.
He checked the barracks first, a vast, echoing space that was mostly empty now, the other recruits assigned to various work details. No sign of Mira. He tried the mess hall, but it was being scoured clean by a sullen-looking crew who just grunted and pointed him away. He felt a growing sense of unease. He was a good fisherman because he knew how to read the patterns of the seaâthe subtle shift in the wind, the color of the water, the way the gulls behaved. Here, there were no patterns, only a relentless, grinding chaos he couldn't comprehend. He was lost in a way he had never been lost at sea.
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Feeling adrift, he found himself drawn toward the center of the garrison, the plaza opening up before him. In its heart stood a colossal statue of Raychir. It was nothing like the small, sea-worn totems in the Zirellan longhouse. This Goddess was a conqueror. Carved from a pale, foreign stone that seemed to drink the harsh sunlight, she stood twice the height of the tallest mast Kazi had ever seen. One hand was raised, not in blessing, but in a gesture of command, while the other rested on a massive stone shield bearing the Eye-and-Wave. Her carved face was serene, but it was the serenity of absolute, unquestionable power. This was not a goddess who listened to the prayers of fishermen; this was a goddess who commanded legions.
Yet, it was the only anchor he could find. He approached the base of the statue, the stone radiating a fierce heat. Ignoring the strange looks from passing soldiers, he found a small patch of shade, closed his eyes, and bowed his head.
Goddess, he prayed, his voice a whisper in the vastness of his own mind, thank you for guiding me. The tithe⦠I did not know what to do, and you showed me the way. Thank you.
A wave of guilt washed over him. Please, watch over Jole and Linara. Keep their nets full and their hearts from aching too much. Forgive me for the pain I caused them. I was⦠I am selfish, I know, but this question inside me is too heavy. Please, let them understand.
He thought of his friends. And please, protect Mira. She is only here because her heart is good and her family needs her. Give her strength. And Lennik⦠wherever he is, keep him safe. He dreams so big. Donât let this place crush that out of him. Let me find them both. Let us be reunited soon. Let usâ
A sudden roar from a nearby training yard shattered his prayer. It wasnât the bark of an officer; it was the ugly, collective shout of a mob. Kaziâs eyes snapped open. The calm heâd found evaporated, replaced by a cold spike of dread. He pushed himself to his feet and ran toward the sound.
He rounded the corner of the armory and saw it. A unit of recruits, their faces smeared with dust and sweat, were being drilled in the sun-scorched yard by a powerfully built woman with a cruel, knotted face and a sneer that seemed to be her default expression. She paced before the line like a caged animal, her presence a magnet for fear.
"Faster, you maggots!" she bellowed. "The Sankareth will not wait for you to catch your breath!" Kazi recognized her as Captain Drekkar, an officer with a reputation for brutality. And he spotted Mira among the recruits, her small frame struggling to keep pace, her movements sluggish with exhaustion.
As the recruits completed a grueling set of lunges, another soldier, one of Drekkar's lieutenants, emerged from the mess hall carrying a wicker basket. With a smirk, he tossed a single loaf of hard, dry bread into the center of the exhausted group. "A reward for your diligence," the lieutenant sneered.
It was a calculated cruelty. A desperate, animal scramble erupted. Kazi saw Mira, too slow and too tired to compete, about to be trampled.
"Mira!" he shouted, his voice raw with panic.
She looked up, startled by the sound of her name. In that split second of distraction, she stumbled over the recruit next to her and fell hard in the dust.
Drekkarâs face twisted in disgust. "Insubordination! You break formation for a crust of bread?" She strode toward the fallen Mira, and Kaziâs blood ran cold as he saw her uncoil a long, black whip from her belt. Runes, etched into the leather, began to glow with a dull, orange heat.
As Drekkar raised the whip, time seemed to slow. Kaziâs feet were rooted to the spot, a hundred yards away, completely helpless. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed with a desperation he had never known, a silent scream sent out to the heavens.
Goddess, no. Please. Not her. She's innocent. A sign. Any sign. Stop this.
The world held its breath. For a long, agonizing moment, nothing happened. The sun beat down. The whip began its descent.
Then the sky answered.
The brilliant, bleached-white sky over Drazti vanished, consumed in an instant by a bruised, purple darkness that seemed to boil down from above. A freak wind howled through the training yard, kicking up a blinding wall of dust. A crack of thunder, so loud it shook the very foundations of the garrison, split the air.
In the sudden, terrifying gloom, the glowing runes on Drekkarâs whip were the only source of light. She brought it down with a vicious snap. A thin line of fire seared across Miraâs back, and the girl cried out, a thin, sharp sound of pure agony.
"Rogue magic!" Drekkar roared, her voice cutting through the wind and thunder. She pointed at the weeping girl on the ground. "It was her! The witch summoned the storm!"
As if summoned by the accusation, two figures in the stark, matte black armor of the Sentinels emerged from the swirling dust. They moved with an unnerving, silent purpose, seizing Mira by her arms and hauling her to her feet.
"Look at her hands!" Drekkar shouted, pointing to the angry red welts where Mira had tried to shield herself from the fall, now blistered by the heat of the runic whip. "The magic burns its user! She is untrained! A hedge-witch!"
The Sentinels didn't speak. They simply began to drag the terrified, sobbing Mira away. Kazi stood frozen, his heart a cold, dead weight in his chest. He had prayed for a sign. And the Goddess had delivered a storm to condemn the innocent and validate the wicked.
The image of Lennik being dragged through a doorway on the Vigilance flashed in his mindâthe same black armor, the same silent, absolute authority. The Sentinels had claimed Lennik. Now, they had claimed Mira. The world no longer made sense.