Despite winning over the councilmen, she wasn’t about to push them for more money. Schemel held a meeting at the House of Sentry, involving her staff in how she could obtain funding for the war. She sat at the head of a long table. All her Seconders were present.

  “I know you are tired of hearing me say this, but this campaign is going to be different. Calimer is as vulnerable as we are. The one who will win the Midder-Lands is the one who garners the most support in the shortest amount of time. I need ideas.”

  A hand shot up and waved. “Renna,” a young woman said. “I have an ordered list of wealthy individuals in the city who are likely to invest in our new campaign.”

  “Who are you?”

  The girl dragged her chair back and saluted. “Marissa Spearhead, Renna.”

  “Yes?”

  “Renna Savage refused to attend the meeting, so I stepped in,” she said. “She is my boss, Renna.”

  “Renna Savage.” Schemel tasted the name on her tongue. “Ren Savage has a wife?”

  “Yes, Renna,” the girl said. “She is your Chief of Operations. I am her assistant!”

  “No, no, you are my Chief of Operations.”

  “Renna, are you sure about this?” a Seconder asked. “Perhaps you would like to discuss this elsewhere.”

  “Marissa was not expecting this,” another said. “She is too young.”

  “You’re right,” said Schemel. “Marissa can’t be my Chief of Operations, because I’m making her my Firstman.”

  If the room had a jaw, it would’ve dropped. Marissa was disturbed, but only for the first minute. She embraced her new role and passed a folder to Schemel. A list of names, some of which she recognised. “I ordered them according to how likely they are to invest, Renna.”

  “Well done. That is impressive.”

  “Ren Wiseman is having a party this weekend,” said Marissa. “You are invited.”

  “Exemplary,” Schemel said, pointing to Marissa. “Marissa is not too young. It is you who are too old.” The Seconders laughed it off, though there was pain there.

  “It is settled, then,” a Seconder at the far end of the table said. “Now we can move on to more pressing matters.”

  “Blackwood is not a priority,” Schemel insisted. “As long as the threat does not expand, we are going to leave it alone. I lost a Gaverian to whatever is down there. I will not lose another, especially when I need every hand I can find to fight in the war.” She brought about an air of finality only she could carry. They had been bothering her with Blackwood for weeks, and she finally said it to their faces. In a way, it vexed her that such a small town would cost her the Tardis negotiations. She would not spare a soldier to save the villagers. She stood to leave. “Marissa, come with me.”

  “Yes, Renna,” said her new Firstman, following the High Commander out the door.

  On the stairs, they discussed the party she was attending in detail. Wiseman owned not only one but three astaphite refineries on the Third. He was one of the earliest war supporters.

  “I’ve been reading through his social media posts. There is an underlying factor, Renna,” said Marissa. “Wiseman adores the Se Fina students. He often asks when they will be in action in the Midder-Lands.”

  Schemel stopped short on the stairs. She had an idea bright as daylight. “Of course,” she said. “Jenne. He might make all the difference.”

  “Wiseman is more interested in Ashamel,” Marissa said begrudgingly. “He believes she has the potential to surpass you. He talks about your daughter twice as often as he talks about others.”

  “Proving sanity is not a requirement to be wealthy.”

  When she arrived at the mansion, every heart beat twice as fast. She was used to people staring at her. What she was not used to, however, was waiting for others. Wiseman was in the room but chose to engage in extended conversations with anyone who was not Schemel.

  “What does he gain from avoiding me?”

  “Ren Wiseman did not invite you, Renna,” Marissa confessed. “In fact, he stated the opposite. He said he would not be caught in two countries near you. You have become unpopular with those who once traded with the West.”

  Wiseman clasped his decorated hands over his large belly and bellowed with laughter—the laughter of a fearful man. Schemel exhaled sharply through her nostrils. Taking a deep breath, she picked up a smell she did not expect here. Looking across the room, she spotted a door leading to a private chamber. Making her way forward, her sheer authority forced guests to move aside. Wiseman choked on his laughter. As she passed him, his heart pounded and his breath grew short. Schemel ignored him, opened the door, and stepped into the private room.

  Smoke and dim lights. Sad people lounged inside. Some she recognised from past encounters. Like the Sodenites, they drank alcohol. But there was another smell here, similar yet more potent. It was ascension, reeking out from Sirios Deus. No one embarrassed her more than this man.

  He sat with his head buried on a small round table. A glass of orange-coloured liquid rested in front of him. She tasted his vexation and shame. Yes, shame. She would make him feel it.

  “Renna,” Marissa whispered from behind. “Wiseman would not be pleased that you’re intruding on his guests’ privacy.”

  Most of the drinkers were beginning to realise who had walked in. A few parted their glossy lips and mumbled nonsense. Some fell to their knees. What right had she to punish them? Sirios was one of them, after all.

  “You sleep around with earthens and now this,” she said. “I almost invited your son here today. What would Hamis say, seeing you like this?”

  Neither he nor anyone else responded. Sirios’ face grew heavy. He was like a younger brother to her, and she did not wish to harass him further.

  “This is no way to grieve Firios,” she said. “Go to church. Pray. And don’t come back here.”

  She set the glass aside and helped him to his feet. Sirios looked as though he wanted to punch her, but thought better of it. Instead, he thumped his shoulder against hers.

  Drunk as they were, the others had the sense to rise and leave their drinks behind. Soon, only Schemel and her Firstman remained in the haze, waiting for Wiseman to appear and try to throw them out. She could hear his other guests whispering, questioning why he had invited her at all.

  The door creaked open, and the fat man shuffled in to find Schemel and Marissa settled on his sofa. He approached like a schoolboy, hands clasped before him.

  “High Commander, I am honoured to have you here, but my other guests are uncomfortable. I must ask you to leave.”

  “That is no way to treat an old friend,” said Schemel.

  “What do you want, Renna?”

  Marissa pulled a paper from her folder. “Your support in the upcoming campaign,” she said. “The High Commander assures you many benefits for yourself and your businesses once she claims the Midder-Lands.”

  Wiseman took the paper but did not read it. “I am flattered that you chose me to invest in another campaign. But I am not as fluid as I once was. The Yunnish are snapping at my heels. They threaten to close my factories unless I establish a health scheme for the workers. My money will be spent elsewhere this year.”

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  “What business do the Yunnish have on our farms?”

  “Everyone’s business is Yunnish business, Renna,” Wiseman replied. “Besides, the more I fund your war, the worse the economy becomes and the less I profit. Tell me, for what good reason must I invest in your campaign?”

  “Let us say you sit out this opportunity. Then another man, who has spent not nearly as much as you, steps in and claims a piece of land for himself. We’re talking about endless riches, my friend. Wiseman, what else would you spend your money on? We’re so, so close. You can smell victory, can’t you?”

  “No. Not this time,” he said. “If that is all you came here for, please leave.”

  He rose first and gestured for Schemel and Marissa to follow. Together they stepped back into the main chamber, where the guests had gathered. Wiseman turned towards Schemel, who fixed him with a look that dared him to reconsider.

  Jenne and Ashey had arrived—one in Se Fina green, the other in a dress. Schemel’s daughter sat on a stool while Jenne waved his hand around her head. Her hair shimmered faintly before, with a final swipe, a golden crown took form. He took her hand, and she stepped gracefully down from the stool. Together they bowed to their audience.

  Wiseman enveloped Ashamel in a warm embrace. “What a surprise.”

  Ashamel grinned, though she had no idea who the man was.

  Wiseman turned to Jenne. “And you must be Aster.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir,” said Jenne. He bowed again and pulled a golden flower from his pocket. He offered it to Wiseman, who melted at once, clutching his chest in adoration.

  “Schemel, you’re cheating,” he said. “You know what magic does to me.” He lingered on the two children with visible delight. Then his smile faltered. He eyed Ashamel. “Why are you not in uniform?”

  Ashamel stammered, glancing toward her mother for rescue.

  “She can’t continue her training at Se Fina,” said Schemel flatly. “It is no longer necessary.”

  “Why not?” Wiseman pressed. “The school is state-funded.”

  “Yes, but there is no point now. Ashamel’s dream was to join me in conquering the Midder-Lands. That dream is dead.”

  “No,” said Wiseman, his voice sharp. “What are you doing now?”

  “I go to regular school,” said Ashey quickly. “I can work in finance like my grandmother.”

  “God forbid,” Wiseman snapped. “You are a soldier, and that dream will come true.”

  “Shall we return to the private room?” Marissa interjected, lifting her folder for Wiseman.

  The would-be investor seized the file and led them back.

  Ren Conquest awaited them, a wealthy old man, once a soldier during the Great Oppression. Now he owned nearly five percent of the First Farm. He had long supported the Assembly with subsidies, not from profit but from conviction. Marissa had gambled in arranging this meeting. Conquest had never spoken publicly about war.

  Their first meeting ended without conclusion. The more Schemel pressed him, the less interested the old man seemed. Still, she decided to play the same trick twice, arranging for Jenne and Ashey to accompany her again.

  Conquest warmed to Jenne at once because of a single innocent question about the First Farm. He found it hilarious that an earthen could be ignorant of it.

  “My father was a clever man,” Conquest said. “While my comrades and I dug our heels in fighting a war we hated, he chose to profit from it. He spent a few thousand kliqs buying up as much property as he could. Everyone called him mad, but he knew exactly what he was doing. The First Farm would not be what it is today if someone hadn’t had faith in it.”

  Schemel drifted away during most of the lecture, her mind elsewhere—until a number jolted her awake.

  “Twelve million Henrikian kliqs every sacred day,” Conquest concluded. “And consider all meals covered. I will provide for a year.”

  “And in return?” asked Schemel.

  “I take a pen and draw a line across the Midder-Lands,” he said simply.

  They shook hands.

  “As long as you’re Henrikian,” she replied.

  Far north—not as far as Sexton but close to the Axenfurt Mines—stood an unfinished stadium. A monument swallowed by dust storms, long forgotten.

  Ren Fortitude, a restless traveller, had once journeyed to Yuna where he discovered a brutal game: Dominus. Ascenders fought in cages like animals while crowds roared. Fortitude returned home inspired, determined to bring the sport with him.

  Culture and religion became his fiercest doubters. In Henrikia, ascenders were revered as holy beings. To make them fight for entertainment was sacrilege.

  Most assumed Fortitude had gone bankrupt. He was, after all, a man who celebrated his birthday despite knowing self-indulgence angered the gods. Yet he thrived elsewhere—by catering to another market. Over the years, he built strong ties with Yunnish investors eager to break culture for entertainment.

  He even changed his name to En Gesa—the Reviver. He spread video games and television shows, buying image rights and licenses from ascenders. Schemel never signed. She despised the notion of video games. Yet she was furious to find herself in one anyway—losing a court case that ruled the likeness depicted wasn’t technically hers but her sister’s.

  As much of a bastard as he was, he was a rich bastard. Her driver moved in circles through the storm, wondering where the man she sought might be. “What on earth would he be doing here?” Schemel asked Marissa.

  “His employees say he comes here a day before a sacred day to perform certain rituals.”

  “What kind?”

  “I can’t tell,” her Firstman said. “It must be something he picked up outside the country.”

  The vehicle stopped when her driver pointed out a hooded figure kneeling in the dust storm. Schemel pointed a finger at Marissa, then at Jenne and Ashey. “Wait for me.”

  The man sat in the dirt, a shovel and vials of colourful liquids beside him. His shirt was tattered and filthy. “I can smell blood,” said Schemel. “What have you buried here?”

  “I thought the Six were above and beyond all other gods; Henrikians are always right and others are wrong. It’s all a lie. Some gods listen to prayer and those gods are not the Six. The gods I now serve work in a way I understand. I give and I receive.”

  “The devil deceives you,” she said. “And I hope you burn in hell.”

  “Ah, Schemel Sorel, our shining beacon of righteousness. And what business does God’s chosen one have with a wretch like En Gesa?”

  “I came to ask for money. Tell me you won’t give me any so I may leave.”

  “That is no way to beg. But I appreciate your forwardness. It makes it easier to ask for what I want in return.”

  He did not have to say it. “Whatever you have to say to my children, say it to me.”

  “I wouldn’t want my proposal filtered through your mouth. I will speak to them myself.”

  She gestured, and Jenne and Ashey stepped out of the vehicle with Marissa.

  En Gesa opened his hands, expecting an embrace from the two. Neither gave him the pleasure. He settled for taking their hands and squeezing them in his own. He eyed Jenne with predatory greed. “You’re a walking gold mine, boy,” he told Jenne. “I can make millions off you. Earthen ascenders—remarkable.”

  “Money, Gesa,” said Schemel. “How much are you offering?”

  “My people will meet your people. I’ll give you enough money so you can keep playing soldier while I turn your boy into an icon.”

  “How about me?” asked Ashey. “I don’t mind being an icon.”

  “You,” Gesa laughed, eyes glinting. “Ashamel, there is something else you can give me.”

  “What?” Ashey asked.

  Schemel placed a hand on Ashey’s shoulder, pulling her back. With her boot, she flipped Gesa’s shovel into her hand and struck him hard across the face. He toppled into the dirt, laughing.

  “Why, Schemel, can’t a man make a joke?”

  Schemel drove the spade into his gut. She beat him until he bled, then spat into his wounds.

  Staggering to his feet, Gesa coughed blood. “Do we have a deal? For the Aster boy, of course.”

  “Yes,” she said, tossing the shovel aside. “My people will speak to your people.”

  Car doors slammed and silence fell. Schemel sat closest to Ashamel.

  “Mom…”

  “Jenne is more than enough for what I’m doing. From now on, you’ll stick to school.”

  “Mom—”

  “Don’t talk to me.”

  The next few days brought more of the same. Jenne became the selling point she leaned on. The idea of an earthen ascender was too intriguing to ignore. Marissa and the House of Sentry celebrated every night they raised new funds. Spirits were lifting, hope stirring again in Henrikians’ hearts and minds.

  “Elegance likes to pretend he cares about humanity,” Schemel told Jenne on their way to Henrik City. “I want you to show him your sorrowful eyes and tell him how many Myersian children starve in the Midder-Lands. He’ll eat it up.”

  They arrived at Ren Elegance’s office, her first politically charged investor. Elegance served as deputy to Lady Balancer Mariel.

  “Welcome, welcome,” he said, shaking hands with Schemel and Jenne. “I have to say, you’re making headlines.”

  “You know me. I thrive on attention.”

  “Indeed,” he laughed. “It’s always a pleasure having you.”

  The meeting began, and Jenne performed flawlessly. Elegance skipped another appointment just to linger, soaking up tales of Myersian suffering in Tardis. Schemel raised her brows at Jenne’s delivery. He spoke as though he knew those families personally. Perhaps he did. There was, after all, a caterer at Se Fina he might have heard his stories from.

  Elegance agreed to join the campaign, ending the meeting on a positive note. Schemel praised Jenne endlessly, trying until he smiled again.

  “Now, can you please tell me what has been bothering you?” she asked once they stepped outside. “Are you upset Ashamel couldn’t join us? Or does it have something to do with your classes? I took special permission for you, Jenne. You don’t need to worry about skipping school sometimes.”

  “No, it has nothing to do with that,” said Jenne, eyes averted. “I don’t want to trouble you, Mistress.”

  “Blackwood,” she said. “That’s what worries you.”

  “No,” he murmured, though it was true.

  “Jenne, please look at me.” When he wouldn’t, she placed a hand on his shoulder and held him steady. “When you come across a snake, how do you strike it?”

  “You aim for the head, not the tail.”

  “Good. Blackwood is a Sexite distraction. Calimer wants me there. We’re doing the right thing by facing him head-on. Once we defeat him, Blackwood will be free.”

  “I hate the Sexites,” he said.

  “We all do.”

  “Renna,” said Marissa.

  “What is it?”

  “You have a call,” she said. “From Glen Jacobs.”

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “Where, Renna,” Marissa corrected. “Your daughter goes to school there.”

  “So? What do they want?” asked Schemel.

  “The principal would like to meet with you,” said Marissa. “Ashamel is about to be expelled.”