The bells drag Gai out of sleep like a hook through gristle. He jerks upright, fist clenched around nothing, and for a second the ceiling above him is the deck of a ship, the pale stripe of morning light a blade across his throat. The sound is all wrong—too close, too urgent, crowding every stone corridor in the palace. Not ceremony, not timekeeping. Alarm.

  He fumbles the blanket off, stubs a toe on his cot’s leg, and nearly brains himself on the low beam above. On the other side of the room, Raimondis is already up, immaculately dressed, boots laced to the knee and gloves snugged so tight the leather creaks with every movement. Hair perfect. Of course. Gai tastes envy, bitter as old blood.

  "The General has started early," Raimondis says, voice dry as sand. "Get moving, Gai, or you’ll be mopped up with the rest of the kitchen ash."

  Gai yanks on his uniform, every muscle stiff and slow. Fingers fumble the buckles but muscle memory patches up the rest. He washes his face with water so cold it burns, then stumbles through the connecting door, his boots loud on the private corridor's stone. The short passage between their quarters feels endless, each step weighted with dread.

  He bursts into Elle's suite to find Sheh'zar at her post, arms folded and jaw locked. The Drow jerks her chin: "On the balcony." Gai crosses the familiar carpet in three strides, and the first thing he sees through the glass doors is the sweep of the harbour, black with ships.

  Every dock is jammed: troop carriers, river sloops, even a few battered Vegulumese longboats. Men and women in Bodubanian blue file onto the decks, ranks broken only by the harried crews lashing crates and barrels with frantic intensity. Above it all, the flag—gold daggers on blue fire—flaps and snaps in the wind. Below, on the stone piers, the next wave of soldiers waits, a living tide, each shivering in the morning cold.

  Elle stands at the railing, both hands white-knuckled on the wet stone, hair loose and streaming down her back. She wears a robe, dark and heavy, cinched at the waist with a belt that looks more like a noose than an accessory. The salt air pushes past her, swirling the hem around her ankles.

  She doesn’t look at him. "First bell went at six," she says. "They started boarding an hour later."

  Gai moves beside her, close enough to see how the wind has chapped her lips, how her fingers tremble just a little before she tames them. Raimondis joins on the far side, keeping dignified space but not so much it looks like a snub.

  They stand there, all three, until the cold gnaws into Gai’s knuckles and the sound of the wind is drowned beneath the harbour’s chaos. Time fractures into ship-shapes: the first troop carrier pulls away, thick with men who crowd the rails, helmets catching the early sun. Another slides in to replace it, and the cycle continues. The city is eating its young. Gai’s hands find the rough edge of the balustrade. Somewhere in the mass of uniforms below, he wonders if his friends are among them—Mack, Louis, maybe even Sorren, already queuing to board. The thought pitches his stomach sideways.

  Raimondis breaks the silence. “They’ll be at Claymond by nightfall,” he says, still not looking at anyone. “If they move fast, maybe they’ll have the walls bricked before the next fleet lands.” His voice has the texture of pity, but none of the substance.

  “They won’t have time for bricks,” Elle says, and Gai can hear the old storm tension under her words. “There’s only walls, and bodies to pile behind them.”

  The second ship is halfway loaded when the first rain of the day hits, a fine, needling mist that blurs the outlines of the world. Gai stares until his eyes ache, then wipes his face on the sleeve of his tunic. He wants to say something—anything—but the only words he can find are useless, so he just stands there, waiting for the morning to finish gnawing at itself.

  It does. The ships keep moving, each staying barely an hour before vanishing into the bay’s mouth, and by the time the bells ring again, the harbour is picked clean except for a few sculls and the empty barrels bobbing on the tide. Elle hasn’t moved except to re-cinch her robe tighter when the wind howled up. Gai’s legs are numb, but he doesn’t dare leave first.

  Sheh’zar appears in the door at last, voice clipped and business-like: “Message from the palace,” she says, but her eyes land on Elle. “It’s for your guard.”

  Gai blinks. “Me?”

  Sheh’zar holds out a folded slip, the paper sealed in black wax with the city’s signet. Gai wipes his fingers on his shirt and cracks it open, half-expecting the contents to be a summons to the dungeons or a polite note telling him to report for execution.

  Instead: Council of Magistrates, in consultation with the Master of Tourneys, requests the immediate presence of Guard Gai at the south quarter. Do not delay.

  He reads it twice to be sure. Then a third time.

  “What is it?” Elle asks, voice low. She doesn’t turn from the harbour, but Gai catches the way her shoulders pull back.

  He hesitates. “I’m being called to the tourney grounds. It’s today. Changed from next week.” He glances at the page again. “Poste haste.”

  Raimondis snorts. “Could it be they want a demonstration for the troops? Or perhaps you’re just the warm-up act before the real match.”

  Gai ignores the jab. “I have to go now.”

  He isn’t sure who’s more surprised—him, or Elle. The words float for a breath, almost like the sound of the rain, then Elle straightens, finally letting go of the railing. Her fingers leave little wet prints on the stone. She turns, her face unreadable in that way she’s perfected, and looks at Gai. “Then we’ll use my carriage,” she says, simple as reciting the morning’s weather. “If the council wants you to dance, you’ll do it with a roof over your head until you’re on the field.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Raimondis makes a face, but Elle’s not taking input. “Both of you—get ready. We leave in ten. I’ll meet you by the east entrance.” She stalks past them, moving so fast her braid whips a trail of rain across Gai’s sleeve, and is gone into the suite.

  Sheh’zar, left in the wake, gives Gai a look that’s all subtext. “You heard her, Guard.” Then she’s gone too.

  Gai and Raimondis walk the corridor together, but not together; the distance between their shoulders might as well be a wall. Gai tries to convince himself the nerves in his stomach are just anticipation, not the slow, cold dread of being made a spectacle. It doesn’t stick. At his quarters, he puts on the full parade kit—pauldrons, gorget, even the stupid sash that is pure hindrances. He checks himself in the narrow mirror, and for the first time, sees not Gai, but a man who might actually be noticed by a council.

  Raimondis is already waiting in the hall, posture more rigid than ever, gloves so polished they reflect the torches. “Try to avoid embarrassing the household,” Raimondis says, his voice pitched low and private. “You’re not just a guardsman today. You carry her name.”

  Gai almost says something sharp back, but the words fade. Instead, he just nods, and together they head for the entry landing, where Elle waits with Sheh’zar and two junior aides. They stand in a tight circle, the air around them tense as a bowstring. Sheh’zar examines every detail of Gai’s uniform with a look that could flay paint off a wall, then jerks her chin toward the stairs. “Carriage is ready. Take the servant’s route—main halls are jammed with logistics.”

  They descend in a procession, boots echoing off the cold stone. The lower corridors are deserted, the usual current of staff vanished. Even the lanterns burn lower, as if rationing oil for the coming siege. Where Gai expects noise—potboys, errand runners, the buzz of day-staff resetting after a royal departure—there’s only the hollow slap of footfalls and the distant clamour of soldiers mustering in the outer wards.

  Past the laundry turn, a new stench hits: unwashed bodies, smoke, a sharp metallic tang that brings up the memory of blood. The next landing opens onto the inner bailey, and through a break in the glass Gai catches a glimpse of the main muster field. The parade yard is a churn of blue and gold, boots and armour and standard-bearers. The main gates are flung wide; beyond, a snaking column of infantry chews its way toward the river road—heavy with full packs, heads down, shoulders already hunched against the cold.

  At the base of the stairs, Sheh’zar steers them hard left, down a corridor flanked by the empty eyes of unlit sconces. Each window gives a snapshot of what’s happened overnight: the stables half-emptied, with only a handful of grooms lashing together spare tack; the kitchens, stripped to bare benches, not a crumb or cook in sight; the scribe’s gallery, stacks of blank parchment heaped in the centre, waiting for hands that have already been pressed into service elsewhere. It’s as if the palace has been gutted from the inside out, all that remains a ghost crew to keep the lights on.

  At last they spill out onto the carriageway. The rain has slackened to a mist but everything is still slick, the cobbles treacherous underfoot. The carriage itself is a monster—triple-axled, lacquered black and blazoned with the sigils of Elle’s house. The driver sits rigid on the box, four horses champing and stamping in the traces. Sheh’zar all but shoves Gai and Raimondis into the cabin, then slides in herself to take the jump seat opposite. Elle follows last, and the moment the door is shut, the driver whips the reins and they lurch into motion.

  The ride is violence. The carriage eats every pothole and rut in the ancient road, the inside a cage of elbows and knees as the four of them brace against each new shock. A few times, the jolt is so hard Gai’s teeth knock together, and he half expects the wheels to come off. Through the windows, the city blurs past columns of soldiers, blue and gold, trudge west in lockstep, faces gaunt and empty. Against them, a river of townsfolk sweeps toward the opposite side of the city—merchants, children, old men on crutches, all in their worst and best, clutching umbrellas or oilskin capes. The crowd thickens the closer they drive to the coliseum; the scent of fried dough and wet wool seeps through the carriage glass, clashing with the undertow of cordite and horse sweat from the departing army.

  Elle’s gaze never leaves the window, but her mouth curls in disgust. “They’ll fill the stands for this,” she says, almost to herself. “Nothing like games to keep the mind off what’s coming.”

  Sheh’zar grunts. “If half as many volunteers showed at the mustering yard, the war would be over in a week.” She keeps one hand braced against the ceiling, body loose and ready for anything. Gai can’t tell if she’s more guard or chaperone, only that she’s watching every block like a hawk.

  The carriage wheels grind as they edge through the plaza in front of the coliseum. The crowd is thickest here—vendors barking, children darting between the legs of city watch, the rumble of anticipation louder even than the bells. Gai feels the press of eyes on the carriage: some curious, some hungry, some purely hateful. He wonders if any of them can even see past the lacquered sides, or if they’re only reacting to the idea of privilege rolling past, unscathed.

  They lurch to a stop at the main gate, where a ring of palace guards blocks the flow of traffic. Two square-jawed officers close in on the steps before the driver can shout a word.

  “Papers,” one demands, not bothering to look in the window.

  Sheh’zar passes the summons through the slit in the door, her tone as dry as the wax seal: “Summoned by Council.” She gestures at Gai with a flick of her chin. “The competitor is expected.”

  The officer reads the slip, mouth moving wordlessly, then glances up at Gai as though seeing him for the first time. His eyes linger a half second too long on the sash, then flick to Elle, and he stutters out a bow that nearly topples his helmet. “Of course, your Highness. Apologies.”

  Elle ignores him entirely, instead opening the door herself and stepping out into the mist. The guard flinches and steps back, nearly trampling his partner, and Gai feels something like satisfaction in the way Elle doesn’t even acknowledge the awkwardness. She stands on the stone, already soaked through at the hem of her robe, and waits for the others to gather.

  Sheh’zar pulls a second badge from her satchel and pins it to her lapel—suddenly, she’s not just a Drow, but a palace official. Raimondis slides from the carriage next, face set to stone, barely blinking at the guards. Gai follows, boots squelching on the wet flags, and the instant he’s out, the crowd’s noise hits like a tidal roar. He’s never felt smaller; the crowd seems to press in on his bones, eager to see blood or glory or maybe just a man slip in the mud.

  A palace attendant is waiting under the awning, a woman with a severe collar and a pen already flicking between her fingers. “This way, please,” she says, voice pitched for command. Elle doesn’t wait for the rest; she follows the attendant into the narrow vestibule, rain trailing after her in a string of droplets. Raimondis falls in at her flank, barely a beat behind. Gai hurries to keep pace, boots skidding once on the slick entry before he catches himself.

  Sheh’zar lingers at the curb, conferring with the driver in a rapid-fire half-whisper, hands slicing the air. The Drow spares only a single glance after the trio before she pivots back to logistics, already orchestrating the next three moves before the carriage wheels have cooled. Gai can’t decide if she’s staying behind to guard their exit or to guard against it.

  Inside, the coliseum’s underbelly is a labyrinth of noise and stench. The first corridor is packed with people: not dignitaries, but porters and guards, minor functionaries in ill-fitting tunics. The marble here is stained and pitted, and the overheads drip with water that smells of mould and rot. Gai’s never been in this part of the coliseum; the only light comes from dirty globes hanging at wrist-height, and the shadows crowd close, alive with motion.

  The attendant leads them down a spiral of side halls, each turn tighter and emptier than the last, until even the distant crowd noise is cut off by the thickness of the walls. A quick left, then a right, then a sudden stop at an unlabelled door. The woman in the severe collar raps twice—hard, like she’s trying to wake the dead—then swings the door open.

  “Temporary quarters,” she says, tone bored enough to make Gai want to slam the door on her hand. She gestures them through, then steps back, folding into the wall like she’s part of the masonry.

  Inside: a stone box, barely wide enough for the three of them to stand without touching. A plank bed, a pitcher of water, a heap of the world’s least inviting blankets. The only other feature is a slit window that frames a stretch of muddy practice yard and a slice of the main coliseum arch, black against the slate sky. The air carries a chill of rain and something older, a filthy tang that clings to the walls and hovers in Gai’s sinuses.

  Raimondis lingers on the threshold, hands clasped behind his back like he’s about to inspect a prisoner. “You have about an hour,” he says, the words directed at Elle, not Gai. “They’ll summon him at second bell.” His face is shadowed, washed out by the cold light.

  Elle stands in the centre of the room, motionless. Her robe drips onto the packed dirt floor, a spreading pool that darkens the dust.