Imperial capital of Hol Saro, 8th of Fourthmoon 3045 (19th age)

Roaring waters rushed over the edges of the cliff in wide cascades, nearly obscuring the features of the statues jutting out of the rock. It was only at noon that the sun could reach the viewing platform far below them. At all other times of the day the shadows cast by the statues and the mountain range behind them would darken the canyon into which the water flowed.

Ren’i stood on the platform all by himself and shivered. It was much cooler at the foot of the waterfall than in the city proper, and the constant downwards rush of the river filled the air with waterdrops, painting the view misty and surreal. He wiped his face despite feeling new drops hitting his skin almost immediately. Though the temperature on the day of the Spring Festival signified that winter had at last loosened its grip on Hol Saro, the material of his one-sleeved festival outfit could not keep the chill emanating from the water at bay.

The statues had been carved into a sheer cliff-face reaching tens of metres in height, and the water flowed in a myriad smaller waterfalls between their heads like an endless, constantly shifting robe. Water had smoothed the statues’ features over the course of many millenia, turning them soft and blurry, but even through the rushing waves one could tell each of them was of a different person. There were eight of them in total.

At the right-most edge of the waterfall stood Ahnin, the goddess of winds and the primordial seas, palms turned down towards the flowing waters. Najdur, also called the One-Handed, for the deity’s extended arm had been claimed by water and ice thousands of years ago already. Next to them stood Mashoer’an, the gatekeeper, whose long cloak was draped around her feet, eventually vanishing into the churning stream. Tari and Khuus, lovers, the ones to have raised the primordial continent. Their stony hands were depicted clasping one another’s into eternity. Long icicles hung from them in winter months.

Ren’i knew each of the eight gods from memory. He remembered watching them for the very first time from a much lower point of view. In his mind he heard his father’s voice as he pointed them out one by one and taught him their names. Most of his attention had gone to the roaring of the waterfall and the long drop waiting below the platform, which had terrified him at the time.

Now, after winter, the water was so high that he couldn’t make out the cave in the mountain side where the river flowed. It made the drop seem even longer in his eyes. If one fell into the river when the water was low, there was at least some relief in knowing that the journey’s end would come in timely manner against the sharp rocks awaiting at the mouth of the cave. The surge from the melting snow, on the other hand, could carry you all the way inside, granted that you survived the plunge, and no one knew how long the journey would last without any hopes of escaping.

He stepped towards the platform’s edge and leaned against the guard rail, squinting. The stone was cold and damp against the bare skin of his left arm. He could only just make out the faces of the farthest statues from where he stood.

Next to the lovers stood Merenos, the apostate, his face turned towards the skies. Ren’i thought he saw something dreamy in the expression of the mystic the mereshi called their god, though he knew he couldn’t see it clearly enough to really be sure. Next to Merenos stood Quan, the ancestor of the taivashi and the founder of the Kishan empire, whose palm rested on Merenos’s right shoulder as a symbol of a brotherhood long since shattered. His other hand was extended towards the stairs leading to the viewing platform.

It was intentional, Ren’i guessed. Quan, his expression austere, appeared to be pointing at the road leading all the way into his city, the very heart of the domain of his founding.

Farthest away from the others stood a lonely figure, between whose legs the river flowed and disappeared within the bowels of the mountain. Kauarin was said to guard the border between Melkem and Tuonela, the netherworld, where the river Tuoni carried souls towards the other shore much like a ferryman.

I wonder who sculpted you, Ren’i thought to himself, just like he’d done tens of times before.

The statues stood mutely in the rumbling of the waterfall. Though it had been decades since Ren’i’s first meeting with the Eight Highest, he still felt as tiny as a speck of dust in front of them.

According to tradition the bloodline of the imperial family was descended directly from Quan himself, but no one could say with utter certainty just how much of the belief was founded in truth. Ren’i had often stared at Quan, hoping for answers, but he couldn’t lie to himself; there was nothing in the stone god’s image that he recognised in himself.

Ren’i’s hand went to his neck instinctively. He found the familiar shape of the pendant resting against his skin through the fabric before coming to his senses and realising what he was doing. It was only reluctantly that he removed his hand.

Historians of the Imperial Academy said that the statues of the Eight were older than the city of Hol Saro itself. The thought sent shivers down his spine. Hol Saro in its current form had stood in its place for entire ages, almost one hundred and fifty thousand years. It had seen emperors and empresses come and go; even before its founding there had already been a city in the same location, dating all the way back to Quan’s days.

Yet in the canyon time seemed to stand still in a way that made the rest of the world pale in comparison. Ordinary stone would have crumbled and been smoothed to sand over such a long stretch of time, but the statues stood immobile like the gods themselves had resided inside their images. Ren’i guessed the sculptors had protected them against erosion with some spell, the knowledge of which had likely vanished from history along with the names of its creators. Perhaps the spell itself had corroded over the course of the years, just the like statues, slowly giving in to the water and the forces of nature.

There was one thing even a taivashi knew. No magic in the world was eternal.

Ren’i heard the metallic clang of approaching footfalls behind him and took a deep breath, collecting himself mentally.

”Prince Ren’i.”

Ren’i closed his eyes momentarily. His voice was even and colourless when he replied. ”Yes, captain?”

Metal let out a faint creak as the captain shifted his balance from one foot to another. ”I apologise for the interruption, your highness, but they’re already expecting you at the palace.”

Ren’i placed his left hand in the middle of his chest and bowed deeply towards the waterfall without taking his eyes off the statues. He straightened, wiped damp strands of hair off his forehead, and turned around to meet captain Hamr’s expectant gaze.

Even on a festival day – or perhaps specifically in its honour – captain Hamr had donned his half-plate armour, all the way to the armored boots and the breastplate. His long black hair was collected on a tight ponytail at the nape of his neck, leaving his long, pointed ears exposed, which marked him as a taivashi at first glace. It wasn’t quite necessary. The tattoo that circled his naked left arm announced him a soldier of the Guard of Honour, and only full-blooded demons were allowed to serve in the Guard of the Kishan heir.

The captain cleared his throat meaningfully. ”Highness, could you please…?”

Ren’i dug out a handkerfchief from his pocket and mopped his face. The cloth came away stained with black. The captain sighed, his expression one of exasperation.

”Might be for the best that we take a detour through your apartments.”

”I can’t be late to the parade.”

”With all due respect, highness, but we can’t allow you in front of the empress looking like that,” Hamr said pointedly, and Ren’i grimaced. ”This way, your higness, would you kindly.”

Ren’i ascended the stone stairs, Hamr clanking at his heels. He’d read from the captain’s tone what the man wouldn’t say out loud out of sheer politeness; that his imperial highness himself had made the decision to visit the waterfall and ruin his makeup on the morning of their biggest annual celebration.

Even as Ren’i climbed upwards his gaze lingered on the statues one last time. History books were full of illustrated replications of what their faces had looked like once upon a time, before the inescapable forces of the river and the seasons had left their marks on them. They’d once been detailed pieces of art, sculpted by the hands of someone who must have seen the people their work depicted with their own eyes – during an age when the gods had still walked amongst their people.

Twenty soldiers saluted and smacked a fist against their breastplates simultaneously when Ren’i reached the upper platform. Like Hamr, they were all wearing decorated half-plate armour, similar to what Ren’i himself tended to wear when on duty. From each soldier’s belt hung a Kishan one-handed sword. Ren’i nodded to them. Captain Hamr marched at his side, and the Guards assumed their usual escort formation behind them, ten on each side.

The road from the canyon to the city passed through a narrow, dusty mountain path that twisted and turned like a snake towards the gates of the workers’ district in the old town. The sounds of drums and horns grew louder as they approached. Occasionally people going towards the canyon would bypass them, carrying small offerings for the Eight, but there were so few in comparison to an ordinary day that the soldiers had no need to make space for the procession. Ren’i gritted his teeth at his own stupidity. On any typical day there might be a flood of visitors on the road. How few of them there were out now pointed unpleasantly to the fact that he’d once again lost his sense of time, and that the festival was about to begin.

The red brick walls of Menushe, the loveliest of old Hol Saro’s districts, basked in pale spring sunlight below them. The path was one of the few places one could properly grasp the city’s true size. The old town with its artesans’ and workers’ districts seemed to stretch on from horizon to horizon and all the way to the harbour sleeping in the Northern Sea’s embrace. Up in the towers and on rooftops of the tallest houses red pennants waved in the wind, embroideries of silver and gold thread gleaming in the sun. The Guards reassembled to a protective formation around Ren’i as they reached the stone bridge that connected the road to the waterfall with the gates of the old town.

”His highness, crown prince Ren’i mar Oereinen!” captain Harm roared in a voice that probably carried all the way to the harbour.

Citizens milling about the bridge hastened to make way and backed against the edges, letting the procession pass them without trouble. Hamr had to repeat his announcement several times as they rushed through the streets of Menushe towards the palace quarters.

Ren’i was only vaguely aware of citizens bowing as he passed them; his attention was on the sudden choir of a hundred horns that muffled all other sounds momentarily. He could almost imagine the ground beneath his feet quaking, though he knew they were too far away to truly feel it.

”The procession’s about to depart from the old market square in Galase, your highness,” said Sava, one of the oldest soldiers in the Guard, behind Ren’i’s right shoulder.

”Let us speed up,” Ren’i replied. ”Captain!”

Hamr waved his hand to signal he’d heard them. After three intersections he suddenly took a right turn instead of taking the shortest route towards the market area waiting just ahead.

”Where are you taking us, captain?” Ren’i asked and instinctively started taking longer strides to keep up with him. Ren’i was tall even for a taivashi, but he still had to make an effort to match the captain’s pace when the man really decided to go fast.

”There’s no way we’re making it in time through the square in this crowd. We’ll use the old servants’ entrance instead.”

Ren’i felt his citizens’ stares at the back of his neck, and was silently thankful for the captain’s choice. He did not need people gossipping, on top of everything else, that the crown prince had gone shopping on the day of the Spring Parade and disrespected everyone by not participating in the celebrations with the rest of the imperial retinue. He kept his eyes firmly on the road and forced his posture to remain straight, pushing useless thoughts off his mind.

He did not recognise the alley nor the gate the captain lead them through, but he had something of an idea about their whereabouts in relation to the palace. The eastern wing that the servants inhabited merged almost seamlessly with the walls encircling the northern-most parts of the city, within which goods used to be transported from the harbour directly to the palace in ages past, safe from robbers and curious eyes. The same corridors were still partially in use, at least from the old town to the kitchen staff’s housing quarters. The air in the corridor was stale and damp, and the walls and the ceiling were stained by a century’s worth of soot. The smoking lanterns and torches cast their bleak light on the passersby and left Ren’i’s throat feeling unpleasantly rough.

Their steps left a hollow echo along the corridor for what felt like an eternity. The sounds of the streets had vanished entirely as the gates had closed behind them, and Ren’i could not make out the music emanating from the festival, nor the stomping of a thousand marching feet.

It was a relief when Hamr threw open the doors at last, and they stepped out into a wide corridor whose tall, stony walls were covered in tapestries woven with familiar patterns. Judging by the smells preparations for the supper were already underway, and further ahead servants dashed from one open doorway to another in a steady stream without paying any attention to the newcomers.

Captain Hamr stopped a terrified-looking housekeeper – a merjil, judging by their ears and turquoise-tinted skin – and ordered them to arrange a message to Ruan that his highness required her services in his rooms at her earliest convenience.

Hamr turned to look at Ren’i.

”Let’s get going, then, highness. And do hurry.”

---

The tall oaken doors of the imperial heir’s bedchamber slammed shut behind Ren’i’s back. Despite the tapestries and the thick velvet curtains the room was just as gloomy as the rest of the citadel, because that’s what it really was; a citadel. It was only called a palace out of respect, or perhaps the desire to show off.

The stone delved from the Mountains of the Highest for the construction of the city was the deep gray hue of the sky above Hol Saro during its winter months, and the citadel had been built from thick, sturdy blocks to withstand anything from sieges to wars to the unforgiving, unyielding march of centuries.

Ruan Galasean, Ren’i’s personal valet since his childhood years, was already formally waiting on her knees on the floor, both hands crossed over her chest. Her head dipped into a deep bow before Ren’i could take a single step, skillfully braided hair almost brushing against the floor.

”Your highness called for me,” Ruan said formally.

Ren’i let out an impatient noise, fingers already undoing the buttons of his collar. ”Let’s forget about formalities, we don’t have much time. Get up, please.”

Ruan did not like leaving things to the last minute, and was clearly prepared to make up for the lost time as much as possible even now. On the wide bed a change of clothes had been arranged, and polished pauldrons were resting next to the breastplate. Ruan averted her eyes tactfully while Ren’i undressed, picking up the clothes he dropped on the floor one by one, folding them carefully in the laundry basket waiting by the door. Ren’i sat down to wait in front of the vanity in nothing but his underthings, despite the cool air giving him goosebumps.

At once Ruan produced her tray, upon which she had laid down combs, various kinds of hair clips adorned with gold and silver, and an entire army of makeup products. She eyed his face critically, lips thinning as she noticed the makeup she’d worked so hard on that very morning had smudged around the eyes.

”Good grief, I only just did your makeup this morning. What on earth have you already been up to?” Ruan sighed. ”Never mind, I don’t want an answer. I’ll fix what I can, but I don’t have the time to redo it entirely.”

Ren’i forced his expression to remain neutral, knowing full well he had earned the scolding.

Ruan wiped off most of the smudged eyeliner from Ren’i’s lids and cheeks, then painted a new smoky eyeshadow to cover up the remaining mess. Ren’i closed his eyes and sat still. He felt the brush’s familiar cool touch as Ruan re-painted the kohl on his upper lids. When Ruan told him to open his eyes, the well-groomed face that greeted him in the mirror showed no sign that he’d done anything all morning besides prepare for the festival. Thin black lines highlighted his green eyes, curving upwards at the corners, and the well-blended eyeshadow gave the whole look the appearance of careful consideration.

Ruan grabbed a thick brush and added a touch of additional colour to Ren’i’s high cheekbones with bronzer. It accentuated the olive hue of his pale skin and the freckles on his face just so, adding a natural touch on the finished look.

A new blaring of horns shook the air. It was followed by the hollow thrum of the grand-drums two heartbeats later, echoing through the palace quarters like the peal of thunder. The procession was approaching the square in front of the palace through Mire.

Ruan met Ren’i’s gaze in the mirror. She looked pale and tense underneath her blonde wig, but her hands did not rush as she undid Ren’i’s messy ponytail and brushed his hair with ease, negotiating strands rowdy from the dampness back to behaving.

”I would’ve preferred something more festive for you today,” Ruan said as she collected Ren’i’s fire-red hair into a long, tight ponytail, leaving his pointed ears exposed.

”This is the empress’s party, not mine.”

Ruan worried her lower lip with her teeth. ”But the Spring Festival is the highlight of the entire year, highness.”

”Something simple will do, Ruan,” Ren’i said, recognising the worry in her expression. ”Spring will come next year, too. I give you my word that you’ll get to come up with something flashy then.”

Ruan shook her head, sighing, but Ren’i could tell she was smiling. Ruan separated a single thick strand from the ponytail and left it hanging loose at his temple to frame his face. ”Something simple it is, then, highness, to bring out your features.”

Ren’i grinned. ”Thanks, Ruan.”

He got dressed in record time under Ruan’s watchful eye. She offered him each piece of clothing one by one, careful not to let their hands brush against one another’s even on accident, and helped him tighten the straps of his breastplate and pauldrons with practised ease. When he was ready, he got down on one knee and let Ruan place a tiara adorned with a single ruby on his head.

Fabric rustled as Ren’i got back to his feet. The long, reddish-black tunic reached nearly halfway down his thigh, and its cross-stitch decorations in golden thread glittered in sunlight with his every move. The artfully tailored tunic left both the left side of his upper back, as well as his left arm exposed so that his tattoos were clearly visible. He had several of them. The imperial lilac emblem next to Quan’s face on his upper back, the insignia of the imperial army – the eight swords of the eight gods forming a circle – carved on his shoulder, the commander-in-chief’s eight-pointed star pierced by a sword, and his father’s emblem, two crossed rowan branches as a sign of his bloodline. He was meant to carry them with pride in front of his celebrating people.

Someone knocked on the door twice. Ruan bowed deeply and went down on her knees again.

”Go, your highness, celebrate with your people,” she spoke with official tones.

Ren’i bowed back, though not quite as deeply as Ruan. His lips moved soundlessly, forming a silent ’thank you’ just as someone knocked on the bedroom door again. Sava and Yurau stood waiting on both sides of the door and beckoned to him restlessly. Ren’i took a deep breath and marched out of the room, head held high and back straight as an arrow. The soldiers bowed to him, Sava and Yurau in the lead, and assumed their places in the formation behind him. They matched their steps perfectly to mirror his pace, which was collected, unhurried.

The journey through the ascetic entrance hall to the imperial pavilion did not take long from his private quarters. The heir was always meant to be near the throne room, at the empress’s disposal, as well as the tall balcony from which one had a view of the square in front of the palace. The palace had been defended on the square during numerous wars in Hol Saro’s long history, and traditionally the heir acted also as the commander-in-chief of the imperial army and the right hand of the reigning emperor or empress.

The windows along the corridors leading to the balcony stood open, and the sounds of music and song grew louder with each step until he could almost make out the words. The high whistling of flutes blended in with the rhytmic sounds of drums and hunting horns in a way that made his heart beat faster out of habit.

”Highness,” the captain said suddenly and pointed to their right.

”And here I thought I was the only latecomer,” Ren’i mused. He stopped and signalled for his Guards to do the same.

Along a side corridor approached another procession from the direction of the imperial family’s private apartments, and it was not fronted by his father, as Ren’i had thought for one wild moment. He felt his face breaking into a genuine smile as he recognised the new arrivals, for he had not seen them in the palace for a long time.

Chuja, his uncle, was his usual, effortlessly handsome self with his pale, mid-length hair flying loose. He’d donned a long, black tunic, its material shimmering in the light. The tunic was adorned with a flame pattern that resembled the top-most tattoo on his arm. The effect was impressive: the pattern seemed to flow seamlessly from skin to fabric.

Next to Chuja was Nahere, decked out in her best in Karanese style: a fur-collared tunic of a similar, shimmering black material as her husband’s, buttoned almost all the way to her chin. On her shoulders she carried a fur muff almost as pale as her hair, which was piled on top of her head with a complex arrangement of pins and decorative pearls. She didn’t look like herself at all, but instead a more official version of the regular Nahere that Ren’i knew so well, and he thought he could read discomfort into her demeanor.

”Your highness, your grace,” Hamr greeted them both. He and the other soldiers of the Guard bowed.

Ren’i embraced his uncle warmly and bowed to Nahere, both hands formally crossed over his chest.

”I wasn’t expecting you two to come at all,” Ren’i said, one hand amiably on Chuja’s shoulder. ”How did you even make the journey at this time of the year? I thought Kara was still snowed in.”

Chuja returned Ren’i’s smile, but Ren’i saw at once that the expression was strained. ”Well, the weather favoured us this time. We did our best to make it. Wouldn’t dare to miss my sister’s party for all the world.” He pointed towards the doors. ”Well then, after you.”

The soldiers pulled back the heavy velvet curtains and Ren’i stepped out on the balcony and into the pavilion standing on it before Chuja and Nahere. Below them stood the Square of Three Swords, packed to the bursting with celebrating citizens holding pennants and banners that rose and fell in the air like waves in the ocean. The huge gates had been thrown open for the celebration, and between them came a procession comprised of hundreds of dancers, all in neat rows following the beat of the same military rhythm in perfect coordination. Their steps thrummed to the same beat as the drums, blending in with the beating of Ren’i’s own heart. On the edges of the square viewers were clapping along, some waving flags. The view was hypnotising, even thought he’d seen it all a countless times before.

There was an audible murmur from the crowd when Chuja, Nahere and Ren’i stepped into view. Ren’i lifted his left hand in the air and the imperial battalions on the square waved red flags to return the greeting. On them he saw his own emblem – a gauntleted hand balled into a fist – in the sea of a thousand flags, flying along the lilac emblem of the empress and the empire.

On a pedestal at the other end of the pavilion sat empress Ellerram the Fourth, his aunt, the long train of her dress cascading over the arm rest of her seat in a wave of gold. The empress’s red hair had been pulled into an artful bun on top of her head, and from it two long tails flowed freely over her shoulders. The numerous amethyst and diamond lilac blossoms dangling from her hair pins flew in the breeze. She did not acknowledge their arrival with a single gesture, but three empty seats stood waiting on the pedestal.

The man sitting on the empress’s right side stood up as they approached. Ren’i had felt the presence of his father, prince Oerei, already at a distance. He could see the quizzical look in his father’s eyes, but Ren’i directed his first words at the empress instead.

”Your majesty,” Ren’i said and bowed so deep that the loose strand of hair nearly brushed against the floor tiles. Ellerram gestured with her hand – her arms had been painted red all the way to the elbows and fingers festively dipped into gold paint, which had left dried rivulets on the backs of her hands – and Ren’i straightened. Behind him Chuja and Nahere did the same.

”Do sit,” the empress said. Her voice was soft, but it carried effortlessly over the tumult.

Ren’i took his place on the empress’s left side, as was his custom. Chuja and Nahere sat next to Oerei, who clapped his brother’s knee and smiled in relief.

”Ren’i.” The empress brushed against his hand with her own. ”It is unbecoming for the crown prince to be late to official celebrations.”

Ren’i felt heat rising to his face and was thankful that it would hardly show under the bronzer. He lowered his gaze and nodded. ”You are quite correct, your majesty. I am sorry to have made you and the citizens wait.”

Ellerram glanced at him from the corner of her eye. ”Did you have an appropriate reason for your lateness?”

Ren’i decided that honesty was his best option. ”I paid my respects at the Falls of the Eight.”

”Very good.” The empress’s lips curved into a small smile. ”We shall speak more after supper. We have a certain suggestion that we want to discuss with you in private.”

Before Ren’i could answer Ellerram turned to face her brothers, long, golden earrings chiming quietly as she moved. ”Prince Chuja. Lady Nahere,” Ellerram said. ”We felt your presence already upon your arrival to the city. We’re delighted that you could join us on this important day.”

Chuja had the same sharp features and round eyes as his sister, but where Ellerram was winter-pale and red-headed, Chuja’s skin had a noticeable olive hue to it, just like Oerei’s and Ren’i’s. He smiled at his sister, but his hands had balled into fists.

”We wouldn’t dare leave you alone in your grief, your majesty,” he said. For a moment his eyes lingered on the red stripe painted across the empress’s eyes, the Kishan sign of mourning. ”We are here to support you, should you ever need it.”

Ellerram’s gaze flitted to Nahere and she extended a painted hand towards her. ”Lady Nahere.”

Nahere started, but after a moment’s hesitation she grasped the empress’s extended hand. Golden fingers wrapped around Nahere’s.

”We are touched by your presence, beloved sister,” Ellerram said. ”It is a great injustice that our mourning period has prevented us from getting the chance to get to know each other properly. We hope to remedy this mistake over the course of your visit. We are family nowadays, after all.”

”It would be my greatest honour, your majesty,” Nahere managed. She recovered from her bafflement well, Ren’i had to admit as much. She had married to the imperial family less than two years ago, but there was nothing in her manners that suggested anything of her ordinary upbringing.

”Let us discuss more over the banquet. Your talents in poetry are well known in the palace and we’d be pleased to hear a sample or two from your latest collection,” the empress said. She let go of Nahere’s hand when there was a pause in the music and stood up.

An expectant silence fell over the crowd as she stepped down from the pedestal. She made a tiny gesture with her hand, touched her neck, and Ren’i felt her release her ashay. It sounded like the sighing of wind in his mind.

”Our people, Quan’s blood,” the empress spoke formally without raising her voice, but the spell strengthened her voice so that it carried over the square and the surrounding streets effortlessly. A sunbeam fell on her and made her red hair blaze like flames. ”It is time to leave the burdens of the long winter behind us. Though our beloved Mitae is no longer with us, we cannot let grief consume us for all eternity. Spring is to come and the gods are to walk on Melkem’s soil once more, as they have each spring age after age. Do celebrate with us.”

Behind the empress a woman built like the mountain itself wearing a soldier’s half-plate armour stepped closer, bowed, and offered Ellerram a flag attached to a short pole. The empress lifted it with one hand and let wind catch the Kishan red and green flag as the spectators cheered and clapped. Guards standing at both ends of the balcony unsheathed their swords and lifted them in the air in salute.

Ren’i forced himself to smile as the spectators and dancers bowed to the empress. The start of the festival was ceremonial and repeated in the same manner year after year, yet there was still something strangely homely in it that managed to thrill him again and again.

In the very middle of the square in many long rows stood young Kishans who’d only just come of age, all wearing their red ceremonial outfits. Every single one of them had a short knife in a decorated scabbard hanging from the left thigh – the first-knife, one of which every Kishan received upon reaching maturity.

He still recalled what it had felt like to stand on the square with butterflies in his stomach, scrutinised by a thousand pairs of eyes. He’d been so sick with nerves that he’d wanted to throw up. Then the music had started and he’d forgotten everything but the steps and the rhytmn and what it felt like to lose himself in the movement. He’d entered the square as a child, free of responsibilities, but as he danced he’d become an adult with an adult’s duties and freedoms. His left hand had clutched the hilt of the knife like clinging to the thread of life itself, just as tightly as the youths on the square did now. All of them had bared their left arms for the first time. During the late hours of the night they would receive their first tattoos and step officially into adulthood.

He’d stressed over that, too, fearing the coming night and the pain. Now his upper back, shoulder and arm were already adorned with multiple tattoos, with new ones being added each time he reached a milestone in his life and career. The first one had been the biggest, and also the most painful; with the ones that followed he’d already known to anticipate the feeling of a needle on his skin, and the ready image waiting beneath the veil of blood.

As the youths bowed to the empress for the last time and were escorted back in the audience by soldiers, the imperial orchestra and choir entered the square. Ren’i stood up with his family for the concert, and they joined the rest of the viewers to sing the national anthem. Though performed officially in Old Demonic, spoken now by none, he heard the spectators joining the song in various dialects of modern Daqanese. The taivashi of Kisha, the half-bloods and the mortals alike – humans, asari, merjil and akheri – all as one choir.

During the duration of the song dancers had approached the pavilion and assumed their positions. As the orchestra and the choir relocated to the edges of the square, the cannons fired eight times and the orchestra initiated a new melody. The spectators began to clap to the music. Afternoon had slowly turned towards evening, but more and more viewers arrived in a constant stream for the main performance of the day.

The dancers had assumed a frozen position during their wait, one hand extended to the side, one leg bent. As the first notes were played they began to move, following the dance simultaneously in perfect harmony.

The dance had followed the same pattern for centuries, all the way since the First Age after the gods’ passing according to legend. It unfolded like a story: winter left the mountains, the valleys and the Kishan forests, and the dancers left their frozen positions just as surely as the river flowing into the canyon shed its cover of ice. The song, deep, polyphonic and echoing, arose amongst the ranks of dancers. Gaps formed between the rows of metal-adorned fans, and between the dancers came all eight gods to stand beneath the balcony, each followed by a choir of worshippers.

Tari and Khuus were the first to sing. Around them dancers spun around in an evergrowing spiral as land rose from the seas and the gods tread on their new, fair continent, bringing the first spring into the world. Mashoer’an’s dark voice echoed from the citadel’s walls, mighty and commanding, as the gatekeeper goddess forced the gates in the heavens shut behind them.

The spectators hummed along to the melody as Quan and Merenos came marching in the midst of a horde of dancers, one tall, warrior-strong and red-haired, the other shorter, dark-haired and as willowy as a reed.

”Merenos, confidant mine, closer than my flesh and blood,” the singer in Quan’s role belted with a quivering bass voice.

Merenos, carrying a long, silvery rod, thrust his hand towards Quan in a dramatic gesture, and Quan pressed their palms together. Merenos sung out the undying words, even more famous than his betrayal in every corner of Melkem, and many in the audience joined him.

”Quan, closer than a brother, hearken to me! Do join your hand in mine, your will to my will, to shelter this fair land!”

They sung in harmony as they raised a mountain range as a barrier against the Northern Sea. Ren’i felt his lips moving as though on their own, following the lyrics of the ballad reflexively.

The dancers moved as one like some great, many-headed beast, and spread the veils they carried above their heads until they covered entire columns. The multi-coloured fabrics formed patterns: islands, lakes, forests, cities. The song reached its peak and faded away, all eight gods standing in a large circle holding hands. The silence did not last long before the whistling of rockets filled the air and fireworks started exploding over the cityscape, lighting the twilit sky in a rainbow of colours.

”Will you look at that,” Ren’i heard Chuja say at the other end of the balcony.

”The firework masters have definitely outdone themselves this year,” Oerei said in admiration.

Ren’i agreed. The performance was even longer and lovelier than usual in honour of the empress’s first appearance in public after the passing of her spouse, prince-consort Mitae. The skies filled with red, purple and green patterns, followed by a shower of golden sparks at regular intervals. Ren’i saw the firework masters shouting commands at one another on the lower balconies as they released their explosives according to a carefully perfected choreography. He heard them count to three in unison as the rain of gold dimmed. They lit the fuses and stepped back.

The rockets let out a deafening hiss as they shot off to the sky. Ren’i’s eyes widened as they exploded simultaneously, forming a golden winged horse. It circled above the square on great wings of light, as if the magic moving it had blown life into the apparition, and the viewers were pointing at it excitedly, mouths agape in wonder. Even the empress’s eyes had softened. She didn’t smile, but there was a familiar look of satisfaction in her gaze that Ren’i recognised.

The horse cantered ever lower, its golden glow reflected tenfold from the sea of light that had blossomed on the square. On the very edges spectators were lighting sparklers, and the dancers had exchanged their veils and fans to rods during the firework show, both ends of each rod burning with living flames. They began a swaying, controlled dance, spinning the rods in an arch just as the horse turned and swung around towards the pavilion.

It was the smell of gunpowder that first told Ren’i that something was amiss. Something sweet and pungent that he didn’t recognise mixed in with the reek. He saw the horse’s tail brush against the fire dancers below its belly. One of them raised an unlit staff towards the figure. The sparks set the rod on fire at once and illuminated the dancer for a short moment. There was something unusual in their appearance. Their attire was the red and gold tunic of the dancers, but the face was covered with a strip of pale fabric. There was a crudely drawn pattern on it.

Ren’i was already on his feet before he’d had the time to think.

”Down! Get down, everyone!” he yelled, threw his arms around Ellerram, and pulled her on the ground despite her protests.

At the same moment the dancer shoved their way past the ranks and tossed the burning rod towards the pavilion. Ren’i shielded Ellerram with his body as the entire balcony shook with the force of the explosion. Nahere shouted something; her voice could have been cut off by a knife. The air was thick with smoke and dust until the canopy collapsed on them and hid all else from view. The singing had turned into screaming, and Ren’i heard the clanking of metal and footsteps, heard soldiers barking commands, and even those musicians who hadn’t immediately realised what was happening stopped playing abruptly.

”Your majesty!” someone shouted. ”Your highness!”

The canopy was lifted and captain Hamr’s soot-blackened face appeared out of nowhere. Ren’i’s guards did their best to pull the canvas off the imperial family.

Ren’i felt his aunt’s hand grasping his own. ”Are you all right, your majesty?” Ren’i asked in hoarse tones, words catching in his throat.

”Completely. Thank you, Ren’i.” The empress’s hair was messy and there was a thin trickle of blood running down from her scalp, but she got up unassisted, ignoring the captain’s extended hand.

”Summon the court doctor at once,” Ren’i commanded, directing his words at Hamr. ”The empress is wounded.”

”That won’t be necessary,” Ellerram said. She lifted her hand to silence Ren’i when he opened his mouth to protest. ”It’s just a scratch from a pin, nothing more. It’ll stop bleeding on its own.”

The soldiers had managed to move the fallen pillars and the canvas. Chuja got to his feet aided by Nahere, and Oerei’s face was stained with soot, but none of them appeared to be hurt.

The square, on the other hand, was in chaos. A patrol had apprehended the assailant, who was lying face down, hands bound behind their back. The singers in their godly costumes stood some distance away, arms around one another. Some were crying, others stared dead ahead with glazed eyes. The singer dressed as Khuus lay immobile on the ground, his costume stained with blood. The dance troupes were trying to prevent their terrified comrades from escaping while soldiers patrolled the ranks, looking for more assailants.

Hamr cleared his throat. ”Your instructions, highness?”

Ren’i inhaled deeply, trying to force his thoughts back in order, then turned to face the captain.

”No one leaves the square until everyone present has been searched from head to toe. All weapons and explosives are to be confiscated and everyone found in possession of either is to be interrogated,” he said.

Hamr nodded, removed the horn hanging from his belt and blew into it twice as hard as he could. Gatekeepers reacted to his signal and began to crank the main gates shut. The side gates leading to Ghalais-Mire slammed shut right after them, blocking the way from both festival-goers and visitors returning from the burial mounds alike.

”Ren’i, it’s the night of the Spring Festival,” Oerei said soothingly. Despite the feigned calm of his appearance Ren’i could hear from his voice that his father was just as shaken as the rest of them. ”Every other citizen is carrying at least a first-knife. You’d have to speak with thousands of festival-goers—”

”Not now, dad,” Ren’i interrupted him, heart still thundering as though from a run. He snapped his fingers and waved at the empress’s bodyguards who’d only just arrived on the balcony, followed by the clanking of armour. ”Lead the empress to safety and search her rooms carefully.”

”Your father is right, Ren’i,” the empress said. ”Overreacting does nothing to help.”

Ren’i pulled himself to his full height and thrust out his chin. He met the empress’s gaze unflinchingly, matching her stubborn stare with his own. Their kinship was particularly pronounced in their facial expressions; they were near identical in their obstinacy. ”With all due respect, your majesty, but you yourself named me commander-in-chief of your army. It is my job to overreact if your life is being threatened.”

He and Ellerram stared at each other for a long time without either of them uttering another word. Ellerram narrowed her eyes, but nodded finally to Vasaqin, the captain of her bodyguards, to signal her surrender. ”Very well. We’ll continue this discussion at a later time.”

One of the bodyguards carried the train of her dress as she exited, holding Vasaqin’s arm. Ren’i lowered his hand on the handle of his sword.

”I want to speak with the firework masters first. Summon them,” he said, and captain Hamr nodded once more.

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Author’s notes: Hello guys, it’s Aura! Phew, am I excited to finally have this story accessible for English audiences!

From here on out updates will be bimonthly, with one new chapter released every two weeks on Wednesdays. I’ll be posting about new chapters on my active social medias (Tumblr, Pillowfort and Bluesky), but you can also check out the mailing list or add this site to your RSS reader of choice to get notifications about updates faster. See you in two weeks!