Just for the record, I know little about the actual hunting habits of a sky dragons in DOTA. What the sky dragon does in this chapter is mainly inspired by the tactics of flying monsters in various video games, especially The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Monster Hunter: World, Skyrim, Dragon Age: Inquisition and Dragon's Dogma. What can I say? I like challenging monsters... virtually at least.

Getting them in range of a blade can be a major pain, especially those vexing Legiana.


Chapter Nineteen

Broken Scales

Here.

It had been right here.

To anybody else, this was just another dirty street in a slightly cleaner part of the Rasolir slums. It was just a convenient way to get to and from the market.

And it had been right here.

Concealed by the glamour, Kashurra stared down at a seemingly unremarkable patch of dirt. Nobody asked him what he was doing, nobody cared. It was the slum-dweller's code: if it's not your business, don't get nosy.

Kashurra did not care if they watched him. They would not see anything remarkable, thanks to the glamour. He simply appeared to be a cloaked and hooded man deep in thought, and the threat of muggers did not scare him. The cloak he had chosen was shabby and worn, and the glamour made him look poor and penniless. The plague did not worry him either.

The slum-dweller's code had never applied to her. Because of that, it had happened right here.

In this spot, when Kashurra closed his eyes, he saw it again. He saw what was perhaps the worst sight he had ever seen in his entire life, and his life had been a long one full of its own pain, torment and horror.

When he had wandered down here on that day, he had seen a cluster of large teenage boys surrounding something. He had seen their arms rising and falling, fists clenched and bloody.

He had known what was happening.

Heedless of disturbing his glamour, he had run at them, shouting for the guards, threatening to hurt the boys if they did not leave.

They had run. Kashurra had not been forced to carry out his threats, but he would have done if he'd had to.

She had lay sprawled there, broken on the ground. He could still smell the blood when he thought of it. He could see it welling from the ragged tears in her throat, pooling around her head, soaking into her tangled hair. He could still see her feebly choking, coughing up blood as it filled her mouth, eyes staring sightlessly into the evening sky.

Dying.

She had been just eight years old, beaten, torn and stabbed in the throat just for trying to be kind, for standing up for those who could not defend themselves.

Kashurra had tried to help her, calling for the guards. The gods must have smiled on them, for there were some men on patrol in the next street who heeded his cries. Kashurra had sent one of them on ahead to the palace, the other two had escorted him as he carried Marci, blood gushing all over his clothes. He had known that only the royal physicians had even the slightest chance of saving her. Anybody else would have simply suggested feeding her essence of nightshade to make the passing easier.

Nobody asked him why he had brought a dying slum-rat with no hope of survival into the palace and left blood all over the floor. Not that there had been much blood to spill at that point. Even as he carried her to the infirmary, Kashurra had seen the life fading from her. He would never forget feeling Marci slowly die in his arms.

They had all told him that she would die, no matter what they did. They had all told him that it was certain.

He had demanded that they try anyway. He had demanded that they save her no matter what it took, even if it meant using the magical scrolls locked away for the direst of emergencies.

They never asked why it meant so much to him, the life of this skinny slum-rat who was going to die. But he was the Viceroy, he spoke with the authority of the Emperor, so they obeyed.

Somehow, the knife had not severed her carotid artery. It had nicked it, but not cut through. But in the frenzied hands of her attacker, it had mangled her vocal cords beyond any hope of repair. Even magic could not mend them.

She should have died. But she had somehow found the strength to live. Though she would never speak again, Marci lived.

Kashurra had not been present when Mirana had met Marci, but he had been told about it later. It was not what he had anticipated, but it had suited his plans beyond his wildest expectations. For a long time, he had worried about the influence Shabarra had over Mirana. She had been spoilt and felt superior to everyone right from the start, and Shabarra had not helped matters.

Kashurra, always concocting grand schemes, had failed to see the simplest of solutions: bringing Mirana face-to-face with the world outside the palace, face-to-face with someone who lived another life. She had been forced to feel pity and sympathy for the first time in her life, and that had changed everything.

What Mirana had needed was something her family, with all their power, wealth and authority, could not buy or give her: a friend.

Marci may have lost her voice, but she had gained something precious too. Like Mirana, she too had never had a true friend until that day. Even amongst her family, she had been something of an oddity due to her inexplicable strength.

Kashurra shook himself from the memory and set off down the street, knowing that he was about to walk into another echo of the past. His boots scuffed the dust and dirt as he walked. In his mind's eye, he could see a pair of shabby sandals striking the rough ground.

He paused briefly outside the hovel, crammed in amongst numerous others. Sometimes she would have been found sitting on the roof, swinging her feet against the wall, watching the sunrise.

He remembered coming down here personally to tell her mother what had happened. She had collapsed into her husband's arms, weeping, as Kashurra told them that their daughter, their youngest child, would live, but that her voice would be forever lost.

"She had such a sweet voice." Kashurra had been told. "We used to listen to her sing in the morning, like a little songbird. Now we'll never hear her again."

There was always a price to pay.

Kashurra moved on. Sympathy could be powerful indeed. It had been critical in saving his plans when everything had spun out of control six years ago.

He found his objective at the end of the next street, passing through confusing warrens without getting lost once. To say that he knew Rasolir like the back of his hand was an understatement. Nobody knew the city as well as he did.

There was a lanky man leaning against the building, sallow and thin as a beanpole. He turned his pockmarked face towards Kashurra as he approached.

Though they were concealed, Kashurra knew that there was a stiletto, a gladius, a hatchet and a bunch of throwing knives hanging from his belt.

'Keep walking, old man.' the thin man grated.

Kashurra had his head lowered. The man never saw him remove the glamour. 'But I am right where I need to be.' Kashurra lifted his head.

'Oh, it's you.' The thin man stood straight and his mouth curled into what was supposed to be a smile. It looked more like a grimace. 'For our best customer, you're not here very often.'

'I would have thought that you and your master would value discretion.'

'We also value gold.'

'I have that as well.'

The man jerked his head. 'Head on in. We've got new stock.'

Kashurra stepped into the hovel and lowered his hood. The air within was cool against his bald head, the shadows deep and mysterious. As usual, something was bubbling deep in the back of the hovel, accompanied by an acrid smell.

'What can I do for you today, Viceroy?'

There was movement in the darkness. Emerging from the shadows like a ghost, the proprietor regarded Kashurra with his one seeing eye. The other was milky white and sightless. Apart from his blind eye, he looked deceptively ordinary.

He was thin, like most of the slum-dwellers, average height, bland facial features easily forgotten, balding, simple clothes, no jewellery or distinguishing marks other than his eye.

'I need certain ingredients, Blythen.' Kashurra told him.

'I assume this isn't something you could ask up at the palace?'

'It is something I can ask only of you.'

'I won't complain, my friend. Name them.'

Kashurra did so, rattling off a list of items both apparently mundane and obviously exotic. Blythen raised his eyebrows often, particularly when Kashurra requested saltpetre, sulphur and zinc.

'If I didn't know better, I would say that you're making explosives.'

'Is that a problem?'

The man shrugged. 'The customer is always right. It's no bother, so long as you don't blow up too many of my customers.'

'That is not my intention.'

'Well, you might have to wait a bit for some the stuff. My stocks of sulphur are low, and I'll need to acquire some more saltpetre.'

'How long?'

'Two weeks, maybe a month at most. How soon do you need this stuff?'

'Take your time. It's more important that you remain discreet.'

'That's my speciality, amongst others.' The man finished scribbling on a roll of parchment. 'I'll send out my collectors right away. Contact in the usual manner?'

'Yes.' As careful as this man was, Kashurra could not risk having one of his men caught anywhere near the palace. He made contact, not the other way around. If he was told to come back in a month, that was what he would do. 'I will return when it is time.' He pulled up his hood, then handed over a bag fat with gold. 'As usual, half in advance.'

'Pleasure doing business with you as always, Viceroy.'

'Likewise, my friend.' With that, Kashurra stepped outside.

'Making the boss happy?' the lanky guard asked.

'Amongst others, yes.' Kashurra restored the glamour and walked away. On his way back to the palace, he found himself lingering by that hovel once again, envisioning a child sitting on the roof, gazing into the sun-drenched sky, singing with the songbirds.

Now it was silent. It had been silent for so long.

Kashurra stepped away. The dice was still rolling. His fellow conspirators would not like this part of the plan, but it was necessary.

He had no intention of telling them what he had to do.


Davion stood at the edge of the field he had spotted, the battleaxe in his hand. Not an ideal weapon for tackling a dragon under normal circumstances, not for him anyway. Most Dragon Knights favoured swords simply because they were harder to break.

There was every chance that the haft of this axe would snap if he hit something hard, like the scales on the dragon's chest.

Davion had done his best to keep the sky dragon's attention on him, moving around and shouting. His allies needed to take the dragon by surprise.

Marci had concealed herself in a ditch, ready to attack the dragon's legs and wings. Fymrym was hiding amongst the trees on the other side, knives in her hands. Davion had told her where to strike. Mirana was somewhere behind Davion with Sagan. As their only archer, Davion had instructed her to try to shoot the dragon in the eyes. The sky dragon relied more on its eyesight than any other sense, even losing one eye would give them a tremendous advantage.

The dragon had already made three more passes, attempting to come in lower each time.

As well as its eyes, the sky dragon's greatest weapons were its wings and its talons. Rather than remain on the ground, sky dragons preferred to snatch their prey in their inescapable claws, which were curved and serrated more like a cat's than those of a raptor. They would swoop in, grab their prey and fly off to kill it in an isolated spot, usually a nest.

Davion had killed one sky dragon. They were notoriously hard to kill alone owing to their reluctance to fight on the ground. Earth dragons had no choice, and fire dragons would stand and fight. The preferred tactic of Dragon Knights sent to fight sky dragons was to have allies attack them with bows, crossbows and even scorpions, or try to trap them in chain nets.

They had just one archer and no chain nets. This dragon might be young and therefore possessed of weaker scales, but their odds were incredibly slim.

One of them would probably die. Davion had done his best to ensure that it would be him. Sky dragons were not kind killers. They played with their food.

Davion waved his arm over his head and bellowed again as the dragon emerged from the storm. In spite of the coming fight, he felt sorry for Marci. The poor girl was up to her stomach in muddy water right now.

The dragon screeched. He would be coming in with his wings outstretched, gliding in with his legs out, head back, claws open for grabbing. He would pull his wings back, increasing his speed as he attacked.

Davion would have seconds to react, if he was lucky. The dragon would attack at any moment.

Davion forced himself to wait. If he moved too soon, the dragon would abort his run and possibly spot another target. Apart from Davion, Marci was the most exposed. Davion had shouted and moved around as much as possible whenever he caught sight of the dragon, keeping its attention fixed on him. For her part, Marci had ducked down as much as possible whenever she heard him do this, even submerging fully when the dragon passed overhead. Not fun, but it was better than being eaten. She was a practical woman.

Fymryn had offered to take Marci's place, but Davion needed her to attack from behind. Marci was the only one who stood a chance of breaking the dragon's hollow but large bones. Marci had been less than happy about hiding in a flooded ditch, but she had not complained. Davion couldn't help but admire her fortitude.

Out of the grey lightning streaked clouds he came, hurtling through the rain. He was attacking exactly as Davion had expected.

Davion tensed, his teeth bared. 'Come on! Closer!'

The dragon came in closer, its descent now unstoppable. If those claws struck Davion, he would likely die long before the dragon could carry him back to his nest.

'Come on!'

It loomed closer, filling his vision with pure white scales, shining sapphire eyes and enormous steely talons.

Now!

Davion threw himself flat on the ground. The dragon was moving too fast to change direction and the wind was behind him. Davion felt the claws pass less than the width of a hair over his back. One of them bit into his left spaulder, slicing through the steel like it was air.

Davion felt a thrill of elation. It had worked!

As he lifted his head, he saw the dragon plough into the trees. It howled as it struck the pines, knocking three of them down before it stopped. Splinters of wood and pine needles cascaded around the dragon as it sprawled, suddenly ungainly on the ground. His over-large talons were a hindrance on the ground, and he had to walk on his wings.

Davion had hoped that the impact might break one of the dragon's arms, preventing him from flying. The dragon was still fully intact though, and now he was thoroughly pissed off.

The dragon stumbled round and screeched as Davion stood. Davion suppressed the urge to gag. The dragon's breath was awful!

Davion stood his ground, holding the axe with both hands. Closer! Just a little closer!

The dragon screeched again. He was torn between attacking Davion and trying to take flight again. Davion moved in closer, trying to force the dragon to stay put. If he took off he would come in faster on his next attack, they might not get another chance to defeat him and he would almost certainly kill one of them, if not all of them.

Something moved in his peripheral. Davion continued to advance, but he noticed a mud stained streak of blue and white, grubby pale skin and wet auburn hair, racing towards the dragon.

Marci! She was attacking too early!

The dragon would see her. He would take wing and return for another attack.

Davion charged forwards, forced to attack early himself. If Fymryn and Mirana failed to engage now, this would all go sideways in a hurry.

Davion swung the axe and managed to score a hit on the hide between his scales. Blood oozed under the blade, but this was where the hide was thickest. Sky dragons attacked head-on, most of their weak spots were at the back, not the front.

Mirana was going to have to move fast and circle around. Davion had wanted to make the dragon turn in her direction. Fymryn was going to have a harder time jumping on the dragon's back too.

Marci leapt, leg extended and aimed at one of the arms. Unluckily for her, the dragon, feeling the pain of Davion's strike, screeched and lifted his wings. The membrane struck Marci and she tumbled from the air, landing hard on her side. She rolled over, clutching her arm and grimacing.

If she had broken it... their chances would plummet to near non-existent without her at her peak.

An arrow whizzed through the air and struck the dragon in the jaw. The dragon snarled and turned towards Mirana, who was stood with another arrow ready to fly. Why was she holding?

Fymryn appeared out of nowhere. Literally nowhere. The elf leapt up the dragon's flank and onto his back.

Maybe they could end this! But Davion's hopes sank as Fymryn panicked and lost her grip. She fell across the dragon's back, managing to jam one of her knives into the hide. A pinprick, nothing vital hit.

Davion redoubled his efforts, swinging at the dragon's head. Marci had climbed to her feet and was trying to find a spot to attack. Eventually, she managed to launch a kick into the dragon's leg.

The wrong spot. She fell back, her mouth open in a silent yell of pain. She might have broken some of her toes, or even her entire foot. Davion had no time to check. He did not know why she was not calling upon whatever power had allowed her to break his chains or wrestle Kaden. Maybe she still could not figure out how to use it at will.

Sagan came bounding in, roaring and drawing the dragon's attention. It was all the opportunity Mirana needed.

The next arrow found its mark. The dragon lifted his head, screaming, an arrow embedded in his eye. Fymryn's knife came loose and she fell to the ground, scrambling away to avoid the dragon's claws.

Davion swung the axe again, embedding it deep. But it was not deep enough.

The dragon pulled back, yanking the axe from Davion's grasp.

The song was growing louder, piercing Davion's mind with painful crescendos and jarring screams. He could feel the blood thundering in his ears.

The scales started to cut through his skin. Slyrak was taking control again.

Davion screamed as the change started to overcome him. All he could do before it took him was cry one word: 'RUN!'

Knowing what was happening, Mirana whistled sharply to Sagan. Marci grabbed Fymryn and practically threw her onto the saddle.

'Marci!' Mirana yelled. 'Marci! Over here! Now!'

Marci leapt onto Sagan's back and whistled. Sagan took off, with Fymryn bouncing awkwardly behind Marci and yelling curses. Mirana ran after then as they passed the treeline.

Mirana looked over her shoulder as Davion finished his transformation. Roaring, the creature which had been their friend swung a clawed fist into the sky dragon's head.


Slyrak had no time for this.

Sinking his fist into the dragon's head, he brought up his knee into the jaw next. Fangs splintered and bones cracked.

As the sky dragon howled, Slyrak jumped, using his wings to gain height, and fell upon the dragon's back. Scales and bones gave way and the dragon screamed again. Slyrak slid off, landed next to the left leg, and stamped hard on the foot. Claws broke, ligaments tore and the hollow bones snapped.

Screeching with pain, the dragon shoved past, beat his wings desperately, and unsteadily took flight. Slyrak snarled, flames licking between his teeth, as the dragon vanished into the storm.

With that nuisance out of the way, he could press on with what really mattered. He had little time before Davion returned. Forcing his soul into the body of a human had been a desperate move, and at the end of the day it was Davion's body. Ultimately, he would revert to his natural form.

Whether that would continue with their souls merging was a question only time could answer. Slyrak had no time.

None of them did.

He stomped into the trees and lifted his wings. In this form, the distance he could fly was limited.

Voices distracted him. Whispering.

'Just stay down!'

Selemene's priestess. The voice stirred Davion's consciousness.

Slyrak sensed Davion returning. He'd had to put up with the man's idiocy for long enough. Even now, Mirana's voice caused his mind to turn, as it would in a dream, to the mute who so irritatingly plagued his thoughts.

She would be close.

Slyrak bared his needle-like teeth. No more distractions. If he had to, he would kill them. Too much was at stake.

'Stop! No!'

Seeing a threat to the woman she protected, the mute had emerged from hiding. She stood with her fists clenched and high to defend her face, feet apart and firmly planted.

If she wanted to die, then so be it. One less distraction.

Something held him back for a moment, a sliver of hesitation.

Just as he was part of Davion, so Davion was a part of him. He had always been able to sense Davion's thoughts and see through his eyes, and now Davion was starting to do the same.

He was trying to regain control.

As Slyrak hesitated against his will, he saw specks of golden light appear in Marci's eyes.

Slyrak snarled and charged. Marci ran forwards in response. He swung a fist, she rolled under it and sprang at him, seizing his other arm. She scurried up him like a spider.

Slyrak bellowed as a fist struck his head. He reached round, but Marci scrambled around onto his back and struck him again. It was like being hit by a lightning bolt.

Her fist continued to pummel his head, each blow threatening to knock him senseless.

Davion had half-jokingly suggested that she beat Slyrak into submission if he took over. She seemed to have taken those words literally, and it was working.

Slyrak reached round and seized her. He threw her over his head.

He heard Mirana scream Marci's name as she hit the ground. Marci span round and jumped to her feet, bruised but unbroken. The golden lights were sparking intensely in her eyes, growing brighter.

'Insolent mongrel!' Slyrak boomed. 'Stand aside or I will tear you apart!'

Marci charged again. Slyrak missed again and she launched herself straight at his head, her mouth open in a silent shout. Her clenched fist struck him right in the forehead.

Stars flashed before Slyrak's eyes, filling them utterly with white light.

So much for getting rid of that distraction.


Marci held Davion's bare shoulder as he sat up, groaning. He was holding his head, which must have felt like it had been struck with a warhammer. Several times.

She felt guilty for hurting him, but Slyrak had been getting too close to Mirana for her to just hide. Nor would she allow Slyrak to remain in control.

The golden spots retreated from her eyes as Davion opened his own eyes. Marci smiled and tried to make it clear that she had not wanted to hurt him, that she was glad he was back.

Her heart stuttered when he looked up.

His eyes were still yellow.

Paralysed by shock, she failed to respond when his hand shot out and closed around her throat.


Mirana sprinted forwards, drawing her dagger. She would not let Davion kill Marci. If she had to kill him then she would. No matter how much pain it would cause both her and her handmaiden, she was not going to let him take Marci from her!

Sagan bounded after her. Fymryn hesitated, not understanding what was happening. Marci wheezed as she futilely tried to breathe, writhing against Davion's grasp.

Mirana lifted the dagger, ready to plunge it into Davion's head.

Marci reached up and wrenched Davion's fingers away.

Davion snarled, then came to a halt. The yellow irises darkened back into a warm brown and the slit pupils expanded once again into their usual shape.

He stared at Marci, who was rasping as she sucked in air and massaging her scarred throat.

Mirana came to a halt, her dagger still high in the air.

'What...' Fymryn breathed, 'what was that?'

Marci coughed and lifted her head. Despite what had happened, her gaze was still soft and concerned when she stared at Davion. She reached out, trying to touch his shoulder.

Davion slapped her hand aside, backed away and clambered to his feet. He was breathing hard, eyes wide and frightened.

Marci stood too, staring at him. Despite his bare skin, her eyes were fixed on his. She trilled his name.

'Just...' Davion held out his hand. 'Just stay away from me.'

Marci moved closer. Davion's face hardened and he shoved her. He actually shoved her! Mirana had to fight the urge to hit him.

Marci was unprepared and she fell onto her backside. Her eyes widened, now brimming with tears.

'Davion!' Mirana cried, outrage sharpening her tone.

Davion stepped back. 'Just stay away from me!'

Mirana glared as he walked away, off to find what was left of his clothes and equipment.

Fymryn was dumbfounded and scared. Mirana could not blame her really.

Sighing, Mirana bent down and helped Marci back onto her feet. She was still staring after Davion, her eyes over-bright and damp. It was hard to tell if her cheeks were streaked only with rain or if the water was mixed with tears.

Mirana pulled her close and put her arms around her. 'He's just scared, Marci. We're all scared.'

Marci nestled her head against Mirana's shoulder, blinking quickly to clear away her tears.

'Can somebody explain what just happened?' Fymryn whispered.

Mirana shot her a glare as she continued to hold Marci. Fymryn got the message and kept quiet.

Sagan grunted and nuzzled Marci's shoulder. Marci huffed and tapped Mirana's back to let her know that she wanted to be released.

Mirana was reluctant, as usual. A little part of her was enjoying the contact, having Marci close to her like this, despite her being upset, and she felt guilty. She let Marci go, sighing softly. 'If he doesn't apologise, I'll put an arrow through his manhood.'

Marci shook her head.

'I'll just slap him then.'

Still no smile.

'Is that dragon going to come back?' Fymryn asked, still watching out for Davion.

'I hope not.' Mirana rummaged around in Sagan's saddlebags and found a piece of flatbread. She handed it to Marci, who nibbled at it. Mirana managed a small smile as Marci started to eat more quickly. She was tough, she would manage.

Mirana wished that she didn't have to cope. She just wanted her to be happy, no matter what.


The sky dragon did not return. He would not dare to, not until his wounds were healed.

Nevertheless, Mirana found them a more sheltered spot to rest and recuperate. Marci was bruised, but otherwise unhurt, the same went for Fymryn.

Davion was keeping his distance from them, wearing some of the spare clothes they had brought for him. Most of the armour he had taken from Weiß Wache had been ruined by his transformation, stretched and bent out of shape. His axe had gone with the dragon, leaving him with just the shard in his gauntlet.

Fymryn was understandably nervous. Mirana had finally told her as much as she could when Davion had gone off to recover what he could. Though Mirana disliked the elf, she thought it only fair that she know the danger.

Davion looked round at her. He was more afraid than angry, but Mirana was still furious with the way he had lashed out at Marci.

It was there in the way Marci now sat with her knees against her chest, looking down at her feet. It was an old spectre Mirana had tried to put to rest, but it wasn't gone yet. Davion had reminded her of it.

Mirana moved over and put her arm around Marci's shoulders. She still remembered helping Marci to overcome some of her fears. But fear was an ever-present ghost, as Mirana knew all too well.


Rasolir, thirteen years ago...

'That one there,' Mirana pointed at the gold shape in the water. 'That one is a goldfish. Mother had them imported a month ago.'

Marci peered at it, fascinated. She enjoyed watching the fish, she had never actually seen a live one before. No canals ran through her district.

Mirana watched her in turn, still feeling sympathetic. The bruises had faded away, and the cuts on her arms were gradually becoming scars. She was walking without a limp now, and she could use her arm normally.

The body was healing. Her spirit was still wounded.

Mirana sometimes saw her touching the scars on her throat. Sometimes she would open her mouth and push, trying to force out a sound. Her throat would convulse, but nothing would happen.

Mirana had been told that Marci's vocal cords were beyond all hope of recovery. She would never speak again.

There was also the lingering spectre of her newfound fear.


Ever since that first meeting, Mirana had spent as much time as possible down in the infirmary with Marci as she recovered. The poor girl needed company. So far her family had only been allowed to visit her once. Even if they had been allowed in more often, her parents were too busy trying to keep their sons fed and clothed.

Mirana had sat at Marci's bedside and done her best to keep her content. She had felt uncomfortable at first purely because Marci could not speak. She had spoken into the silence about whatever came to mind, worrying that she was boring Marci stupid.

But Marci had never indicated that she wanted Mirana to stop. She had actually encouraged her to keep talking. It turned out that, like Mirana, she too had not had any friends until now. Why, Mirana did not know. Marci seemed to be a sweet girl.

Mirana had suggested that Marci write down what she wanted to say. A good idea, but there had been a problem which Mirana should have foreseen: like most slum-dwellers, Marci was illiterate. But since she was stuck in the infirmary, Marci had wanted to learn.

Mirana had therefore started bringing books, quills and velum down to her, even reading to her in the evenings until she fell asleep. It had become the norm to find Mirana asleep in a chair at Marci's bedside, and her parents had not had the heart to disturb her.

It was temporary, and they should have disapproved since Marci was a commoner—a slum-rat. Yet they could see the effect she had on Mirana. The daughter they had been too busy to teach sympathy to was learning how to value others thanks to Marci.

Eventually, Mirana had eagerly hurried into the infirmary one day with a new book for Marci to try.

And she had not been there.

Mirana had felt lost, and had dreaded what she would learn next. Sure enough, she had been told that Marci had recovered enough to leave and that her parents had taken her home. Marci had left a note for her, an untidy, loopy scrawl in which she thanked Mirana for her friendship and hoped to see her again one day.

Mirana had gone straight to her parents and asked if she could go down to the slums to see Marci.

Out of the question. It was too dangerous for a Princess, even with the Sun Guard to protect her.

Mirana had not given up and had asked if Marci could visit her.

Absolutely not. She was a commoner, a slum-dweller. Her uncle had added that she would probably steal anything which wasn't nailed down.

She would not see Marci again. It was as simple as that.

That night was the first time Mirana had ever cried herself to sleep.

Mirana became sad and withdrawn after that, pining after the friend she had barely known. She would often be found by a window, staring down at the slums as if, by force of will or sadness, she could somehow draw Marci to the palace. She would learn later that it had been a similar experience for Marci, who would no longer leave her home to wander the streets or visit the markets. For once in her life, Marci was too scared to face anything. She had become a ghost of her former self.

Mirana had reached the point of planning an escape from the palace when she was told that she would be assigned a new handmaiden.

"I don't want a new handmaiden," she had told her parents, picking at her food listlessly. "I just want to see Marci again."

"Who?" her mother had asked.

"The injured slum girl Kashurra had brought here." her father supplied.

"Why here?"

"He said it was her only chance of survival. He also thought it might elevate us in the eyes of the common people. It would show them how beneficent and merciful we are."

Mirana's mother scoffed. "A lot of trouble for a slum-rat."

Mirana had scowled at her mother, sudden anger blazing in her heart. "Don't call her that!"

"Don't raise your voice, Mirana. Listen to me. The plight of the poor is sad, yes, but they have their place in society. You should not be mixing with them."

"Forgive me, your Majesties," Kashurra, always on hand in case the Emperor needed some sage advice, had bowed respectfully. "Maybe the Princess should mingle with the common folk."

He might as well have suggested that Mirana stick her head into a lion's mouth. Kashurra did not bat an eyelid as Mirana's parents rebuked the idea forcefully.

"You raise good points, your Majesties," Kashurra had said when they had finally stopped chastising him. "And you care for your daughter, as you rightly should. But I pose to you this: one day, Mirana will be Empress. She will be responsible not just for this city, but for the entire Imperium. There are many peoples under your care, rich and poor. How can you seek to govern a land if you do not understand its people?"

They'd had no answer to that. Kashurra had quietly been told to leave. That he had not been bellowed at was telling. He had clearly stumped the Emperor and Empress.

The Senate had chosen to name Mirana the heir to the Solar Throne, despite Shabarra being the Prince before her birth. Teaching her how to govern had been slow going, yet that had changed when she had met Marci. She had become attentive and respectful, open to the opinions of others and willing to learn. Now she was barely present, her mind elsewhere most of the time.

What her parents had to face was the fact that Kashurra had been right. Over the generations, the royal family had lost touch with the people of the Imperium. They kept them at arm's length, if not a spear's length, and dissent was a threat they were facing more often as time passed.

Above all, they wanted one thing: they wanted their daughter to be happy.

Mirana still remembered that second meeting clearly, a moment of joy she would never forget.

She had been sitting by her window, glum as she had been for the last few weeks. The sunny evening sky did not match her mood, and she had been toying with the idea of trying to escape the palace and attempting to find Marci's home.

The chamber next to hers was empty, devoid of a handmaiden. Mirana now felt guilty whenever she thought of those previous handmaidens. She had made things impossible for them.

Their "failures" were not theirs, they had been Mirana's.

"Mirana?"

Mirana had turned to see her father and Kashurra enter the chamber. Something moved behind them, but she did not see what it was. Her father had been pensive and expectant. Kashurra had been as unreadable as always.

"I have consulted with your mother and the Viceroy, and we have found you a handmaiden we think you will be happy with."

Mirana had fully expected them to usher in somebody from one of the Houses, maybe a Senator's daughter. She would be prim and proper, keen to serve but always distant. A servant, not a friend.

Mirana had decided to give this new handmaiden a chance. She would be a person just like her, just not as fortunate.

She almost failed to recognise the girl they ushered in. Her pale skin was clean and mostly healed. Her auburn hair had been washed and was now held back in a short, messy tail. She was dressed in the simple, functional yet elegant garb of a palace servant.

It was the eyes she recognised: wide, soft, pale brown, amber in the sunlight, and full of warmth.

Hands clasped nervously before her, Marci dipped into a curtsey.

Mirana's response was not proper, and her mother would have scolded her for it. But she did not care about propriety right then.

She had hurried forwards and swept Marci into a hug. Marci was startled, but she embraced Mirana in return.

The Emperor opened his mouth to speak. Kashurra put his hand on the man's shoulder, a small smile on his normally impassive face.

"Marci has been given some training in her new duties," the Emperor explained, smiling as he saw how happy his daughter was to be reunited with Marci. "But the rest falls to you. I hope that this eases your heart, Mirana. I will see you in the morning."

"Father!" Mirana called, causing him to pause at the door. "Thank you."

He had smiled at her again, then left them with Kashurra.

Kashurra had approached as Mirana released Marci, both girls grinning with delight. There were happy tears sparkling in their eyes. "Marci's family has been elevated in accordance with her new position. They too will be working here in the palace. As for the ones who robbed young Marci of her voice, they have been cast from Rasolir." He slowly strode over and placed his hands on their shoulders. "There is always a price to pay, and a debt must always be settled."


'How should we say "fish"?' Mirana asked. Whilst Marci could now write fairly well, it wasn't practical for her to walk around clutching rolls of velum and ink bottles. There was no official way for deaf and mute people to communicate in the Imperium, so Mirana had been working with Marci to find a new way to speak.

Marci lifted her hand and waggled it back and forth, like a fish swimming.

Mirana chuckled. 'That's good! How would you say "swim"?'

Now Marci looked uncertain. She shrugged, then lifted both hands to her sides, palm up. I don't know.

'Like this?' Mirana made a paddling motion with her fingers.

Marci shrugged. She mimicked the motion, pointed at herself, and shook her head.

Mirana had to think about this for a moment. 'You can't swim?'

Marci shook her head.

Mirana should have seen that coming. She knew a little bit about the district Marci had called home. There were many things down there. Water was not one which was in abundance.

Mirana smiled. 'I could teach you. Would you like that?'

Marci looked uncertain. She bit her lip and nodded once, slowly. She was willing, but afraid.

'It'll be fun,' Mirana assured her. 'You'll see.' She stood and smoothed her clothes. Marci stood with her, but Mirana held up a hand. 'You can stay here if you want, I'll be back. I found a new book for you but I forgot to bring it with me. I'll see if I can find some bread too, we can feed the fish.'

Marci beamed. Though she was still slow, she loved to read. They had both sat together in the evening poring over storybooks, sometimes pretending they were part of the tales themselves, many times.

Marci remained by the fish-pond as Mirana set off for her room. Although she did not treat Marci like a handmaiden, nobody had complained. Her father was actually pleased. No longer did Mirana treat the other servants like dirt. It seemed that Kashurra had been right once again.

Mirana had just rounded the corner when she heard somebody running. She barely had time to comprehend the sight of Marci pelting towards her, one hand cupped against her cheek, her eyes shining with tears, before she ended up cowering behind Mirana, trembling and crying.

'Marci!' Mirana stared at her. 'Marci, what's wrong? Why are you crying?'

Marci shuddered with fear and tried to make herself smaller. Mirana wheeled round as quick, heavy, angry steps came closer. She moved to protect Marci.

Shabarra was advancing on her, his face contorted with rage. 'Girl!' He was shouting at Marci, who was still cowering behind Mirana, trembling against her back. 'Move away from the Princess before I have you whipped! I'm not finished with you yet!'

'Uncle!' Mirana cried. 'Please stop shouting. What's happened? Why is Marci upset?'

'Who?' Shabarra glared at the quivering shape behind Mirana. 'You mean this servant?'

'Her name is Marci. I introduced you to her, didn't I?' Mirana glanced over her shoulder. Marci had her face in her hands, her back shaking as she sobbed. 'Marci,' Mirana put an arm around her. 'It's all right, Marci. It's all right. You're safe. You're safe with me.' Mirana looked round at her uncle again as Marci continued to weep. 'She's my handmaiden. Did something happen?'

Shabarra scowled. 'I found her gawping at the fish. Obviously she's been neglecting her duties if she found time to be idle.'

'She wasn't neglecting anything. I said that she could stay here. I just went to find a book for her.'

Shabarra's scowl briefly became a confused frown.

'I've been teaching her to read.'

'Your handmaiden cannot read?'

'She's learning,' Mirana gave Marci's shoulder a squeeze. The poor girl was still terrified. 'Uncle? Did you shout at her?'

Shabarra ground his teeth together. 'I asked her what she was supposed to be doing out here. She wouldn't answer me or show me the proper respect. She just waved her hands around like an idiot and started to whistle like some demented troubadour.'

Mirana sighed. 'Uncle!'

'Don't take that tone with me, Mirana.'

Mirana narrowed her eyes. 'You should know that Marci...' she looked round at her mortified handmaiden, 'sorry, Marci. You should know that she cannot speak as you and I can. She uses her hands and whistles to speak.'

'You've been given a half-wit for a servant? What was your father thinking?'

Now Mirana scowled at him. She had gotten along well with him, but now she was angry with him for the first time in her life. 'Marci is not a half-wit!'

Shabarra raised his eyebrows. 'I beg to differ.'

Mirana fumed. 'You hit her, didn't you?'

'I told you—'

'How dare you?' Mirana snapped. 'You shouldn't mistreat any of the servants, no matter their rank! And you will not strike Marci or upset her again. Do you understand me?'

Shabarra's face turned red with his rising apoplexy. 'I am your elder, girl! You would do well to remember that!'

'And I am the Princess, the future Empress of the Helio Imperium!' Mirana retorted. 'And you will know your place, Uncle.' She gritted her teeth, fiery fury burning in her veins. She guided Marci forwards, gently encouraging her to straighten up and stop hiding her tear-streaked face. 'You will apologise to Marci. Now.'

'I will not!'

'You will,' Mirana stood as tall as she could. Shabarra still towered over her, but she refused to be intimidated. 'You will because I have commanded you to. Now apologise to Marci.'

Shabarra balled his hands into fists. If he refused, Mirana would go to her father. He doted on his daughter. He'd gone to the trouble of having Marci employed as Mirana's handmaiden just to keep her happy. And her father was just as soft-hearted too. He would not tolerate Shabarra lashing out at the servants, especially Mirana's precious handmaiden.

Shabarra appeared to deflate. His hands uncurled. 'I am sorry...' he looked to Mirana, who mouthed the name, still glaring fiercely enough to make a troll blanch. 'I am sorry, Marci. Forgive me.'

Marci continued to tremble. She nodded shakily, still weeping, her cheek red where he had slapped her.

'You will not strike any of the servants again.' Mirana stated firmly. 'Is that understood?'

'Yes, Princess.'

'Good. Now get out of my sight.'

Shabarra glowered briefly, then bent into a reluctant bow, turned on his heel, and stormed off.

Mirana had not spared him another thought as she hugged Marci, who sobbed into her shoulder. Mirana whispered gently in her ear: 'It's all right, Marci. It's all right. I'm here for you. I always will be.'


It took some time for Marci to calm down. Until then, not counting their first meeting, Mirana had never seen her so upset or so afraid.

Mirana had felt obligated to inform Marci's family about the incident, if only to assure them that she would protect their daughter. She had been startled by their disbelief. Marci? Terrified witless by a slap? They were surprised that she had not broken Shabarra's nose. True, she had not gone out onto the streets since she had been attacked, but they had not realised just how easily she was frightened now.

Mirana had sat and listened, growing ever more incredulous, as they told her that Marci had been a fearless brawler. She had spent her days protecting the vulnerable children, fighting off large bullies and becoming known as the district's protector. She was unusually strong for one so small, and brave to a fault.

Mirana had a hard time comparing their idea of a fist-swinging girl to the cowering handmaiden she had defended and comforted.

It was Kashurra, wise as always, who explained everything. 'What her family says is true, Marci had a reputation as a fighter. But you have to understand, Princess. What happened to her is something which would have instilled fear in even the bravest of the Sun Guard. She went from being the best fist-fighter amongst the children of the slums to a powerless little girl, and she came so very close to dying. She lost, Princess. She hadn't lost a fight for years, and then she was rendered helpless. They showed her that she is not invincible. Now she feels vulnerable, cripplingly so.'

'She has no faith in herself now.' Mirana surmised softly, pitying the poor girl.

'Correct, Princess. She has lost her confidence.'

'I'm more than willing to help her and defend her, but...' Mirana paused, wondering. 'You said that she was good at fighting?'

'Very good, Princess.'

Mirana nodded thoughtfully. 'But she wasn't trained?'

'No, Princess. She learned on the streets.'

'What if she could learn how to fight? What if she was given the same training as the Sun Guard?'

'I'm not sure your parents would want a child to run around with a sword.'

'The Sun Guard learn from an early age.'

'But Marci is not a Sun Guard.' Kashurra murmured, deep in thought as always. 'However... Yes... Yes, your idea has merit, Princess.' He smiled. 'Marci was a confident fighter. We can give her a measure of that confidence again. Leave this to me.'

'What are you going to do, Viceroy?'

Kashurra continued to smile, as if he was in on a joke Mirana was not aware of. 'I'm going to see your father, Princess. Tell Marci that she will be training in hand-to-hand combat tomorrow. I think she'll learn to enjoy it, and she'll learn that she can still fight.'