The tavern stilled when Aven walked in. The Rusted Spear remained a haven for the legionnaires, unsullied by the presence of former prisoners or foreigner barbarians, save for a brave knot of the Hellfrost Legion sitting in the corner, separate from all the others.

  Aven gave them a nod, but didn’t take a seat at that table. Instead, he marched right up to the table where Captain Breton and his sergeants were seated, playing some sort of dice game. Not a pastime Aven typically favored - the Battle Mind made playing with dice too easy to manipulate. No fun in a game so easy to rig.

  If winning wasn’t the goal, on the other hand, it could be an interesting exercise.

  “Room for one more?” Aven gave Breton a smile and asked.

  The sergeants tensed, eyes wary. Among them the sergeant formerly under Frostclaw’s command who’d spat on Aelia, apparently now freed and returned to duty. With Frostclaw dead, all the traditional soldiers had reorganized under Breton’s command. Some still held grudges, then.

  Breton returned the smile and gestured for the others to stand down, “Sure. No tricks, though.”

  “Tricks?” Aven kept the smile, “I save those for enemies. We’re all friends here.”

  Multiple scoffs didn’t deter Aven.

  “I’ll be back after I get a drink,” Aven moved to the bar and laid down ten silver decim. “That enough to cover everyone’s drinks for the evening?”

  The tavernkeeper chuckled, “The way these bastards drink? Double that.”

  Aven shared the laugh and slopped down another ten coins. Nearly a week’s wages, but what else did Aven have to spend money on? Even the few months since claiming the position left Aven with more money than he knew what to do with. Paying the bathhouse ladies for information couldn’t absorb the pay fast enough. What better use than buying a bit of good will?

  Once the tavernkeeper scooped up the coins and clanged a small bell behind the bar, the tavern erupted in cheers. “Open bar, courtesy of Captain Arvanius!”

  Aven returned to the table, drink in hand - the barley wine that this tavern specialized in. A thick, sour, and foul concoction. He took a sip anyway.

  The dice were tossed. And Aven lost another three decim, much to the sergeants’ glee. There was the challenge: giving enough effort and timing to engineer believable losses. Without, of course, going so overboard that he lost respect. A couple small wins too.

  By the time the drink finished flowing and the dice games ceased, half the sergeants were slapping Aven on the back while they left. Not all, certainly. But some was better than none.

  “What was all that?” Breton asked when he finished chasing the rest of the soldiers out the door under threat of extra morning drills.

  “Taking your advice,” Aven replied. “You said the men don’t trust me because I create distance, right? Here’s me putting myself out there.”

  Breton barked a laugh, “Pretending to be shit at dice is your way of endearing yourself?”

  “Is it working?”

  Breton raised a last mug of barley wine, “Keep buying the lads drinks, and it might.”

  Aven clinked mugs with his fellow captain and took a last sip. Awful stuff. But no one in Hellfrost drank for the taste. It was to feel warm for a few hours before the chill took you again. “This can’t be about soldiers and prisoners. Or imperial and Vulgares. Or anything else. It has to be us against the spawn. Not each other.”

  “Easy to say,” Breton said. “Harder to believe. Men need more than words. They need to see you bleed for them. They’ve seen that, I’ll grant you. This goes a long way too. But even so...they’ll still fear you. Voidtouched. Now a third circle. Last third circle in Hellfrost was Erdrak. Before that, apparently, it was Sergrud. Before him, Vestra Nightblood. So you’ll forgive us all if we’re nervous about someone else of that power. Even if he’s buying us drinks.”

  Aven sighed, “Fair enough.”

  “Still,” Breton leaned back in the chair and gave an approving nod, “It’s a good start.”

  Sometimes a good start was the best to hope for. Trust wasn’t earned in a day. Nor was an empire reshaped in that time. They had to keep moving Hellfrost forward, step by step. And hope it was enough to outpace the coming void.

  * * *

  Governor Skal Iraias was midway through a lunch meeting when the window burst open and Vestra swung through the empty space.

  Seeing a fourth-circle vis was apparently a shock to the officer of Northstar’s shipping guild, because the corpulent man screamed and fell back in his chair.

  “Vestra,” Governor Iraias gave his, unfortunately, best vis agent a reproving look as a violent gust of winter wind accompanied her arrival. “You’re letting in a draft.”

  The dezar rolled her eyes, and her bony wings unfurled to pull the shutters back into position. She stomped over to the table and snatched up the flagon of wine, making a face as she took a swig, “Don’t you have anything warmer? Freezing my tits off flying in this wind. Almost as cold as your company.”

  “Vestra, I am in a meeting,” Iraias said with what he felt was admirable patience.

  “You’re having a meeting with a man who’s cheating you on the grain shipments,” Vestra said, jabbing a thumb at the whimpering shipping guild master. “What was it? Five percent cut going to the inspectors for under-reporting ten percent of shipments for tax forms?”

  “Yes, I am aware,” Governor Iraias sighed. So Vestra did listen to the morning reports, despite feigning sleep during half the council meetings. She only chose to act on it when most inconvenient for him. The wine would have made coaxing out a confession of the man easier if it were not half splattered over his coat and half now in Vestra’s throat. “We were...approaching that point of conversation.”

  The shipping master wailed, “Please, lord Governor! I swear, I have done no such thing! I-”

  “Want me to turn the fat pig upside down and shake him?” one of Vestra’s wings curled out to hook the back of his collar, bony spine tickling the side of his doubled chin. “Maybe if we rattle him enough the coins will fall out.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Governor Iraias gestured her to back off. Which she did after only a second delay. A barking, stubborn dog she may be, but she did obey orders. At her own pace. “I’m sure our honorable guild representative will check the accounts directly and ensure that any... discrepancies are fully made up directly, won’t he?”

  The guild officer’s eyes bulged. He gulped. “Of course, my lord governor! All...all discrepancies shall be accounted for! In full.”

  “Good,” Iraias nodded. “Then we are done here. I will expect this issue resolved by the time my inspector visits the guild hall tomorrow morning. Thank you for your time.”

  The shipping master nearly knocked over the table in his haste to bow and make his escape.

  “Dunno why you waste time wining and dining lumps like that,” Vestra’s wing picked the chair up and she flopped down into it, boots resting on the table.

  “As I have tried to impress upon you many times before,” Iraias gestured for a waiting servant to replace the empty flagon, “one need not use a hammer when a scalpel will suffice. Brute force and fear alone breed resentment, Vestra. Resentment breeds rebellion. But a bit of pressure, applied carefully to a man’s self-interest can turn a greedy fool into a useful tool.”

  Vestra grunted, taking another swig of the wine. “Hammer’s faster. Hellfrost could use a good hammer. It’s a damn mess out there. But it’s an intact mess. Sergrud is dead, Vulgares defeated. Esha’s safe, and Veni’s third circle now. Also Aeli’s boy-toy now, apparently.”

  Iraias paused, with a bite of roasted trout halfway to his mouth, “By ‘Veni’, you are referring to Aven Arvanius? The voidtouched?” He carefully set the fish back down. “Third circle, you say?”

  “And bedding Aeli,” Vestra repeated, apparently stuck on that trivial (albeit surprising) detail.

  “Etrani’s updated letter arrived shortly after you left,” Iraias absorbed the new information. “It mentioned the outcome of the Vulgares conflict. She did not mention Arvanius’ ascension.” Now, that was an important detail. A third-circle vis was a valuable asset. One that was, unfortunately, in far lower supply in Septentrion than other provinces. Where the larger provinces had more than a thousand vis of that power, Septentrion lacked even a hundred. Erdrak’s death was a blow. To gain a third circle voidtouched...that was a net positive. The investment in Arvanius may yet be turning a profit.

  Iraias rose and walked over to the map hanging on the chamber wall. All of Septentrion spread out, the better to visualize the board upon which they played their games. Thirty counties, each marked as an area of stability, concern, or liability. Hellfrost was a vexing problem. His predecessor, Governor Malian had written glowingly of the discovery of that ancient fortress. A prime opportunity for expansion, she’d claimed. A new bulwark of the imperial frontier. The blackstone quarries themselves were an even greater discovery. Stone that could either repel or conduct vis had myriad applications, most of which still had not been adequately explored. But maintaining such a fortress in such hostile land, with the constant threats of voidspawn...

  Malian’s optimism had soured into frustration, a frustration Iraias now shared. Using the fortress as prison had been a good experiment, one that Iraias had been proud of until the successive mismanagements of each executor and warden created more problems than they solved.

  “Executor Etrani has signed a treaty with the surviving forces,” Vestra reported, quoting Etrani’s title with a faint air of mockery. “Surrender terms. Seems Aeli’s grown a spine. Got a copy in my bag for you to approve. Thinks she can make the rebels into good productive citizens. You know how that always turns out.”

  “No, I do not,” Iraias said. “Integration has at times been successful. At others, disastrous.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Vestra barked a laugh, “Our Aeli just can’t stop herself from making things complicated, can she? Killing all the Vulgares would have been so much simpler.”

  One of the world’s eternal paradoxes. Aelia Etrani was perhaps the most earnest devotee to the imperial Ideals Iraias had ever met. Yet everywhere she went, she couldn’t help herself from examining, dissecting, and overturning the structures and practices of the Empire itself. Perhaps thinking Hellfrost would be a safe quarantine for those impulses was Iraias’ own naivety.

  “What happens in Hellfrost need not be a liability,” Iraias decided anew. “The situation has been...resolved. In its own fashion. We shall leave Etrani to continue her efforts. If they are successful, Hellfrost will continue to function as an economic and defensive asset. If not, they shall fail on their own merits.”

  “Defensive asset,” Vestra said, a bit of smugness in her voice, “You didn’t hear the rest yet.”

  Iraias turned, “The rest?”

  “Voidspawn threat’s growing,” Vestra’s eyes were distinctly excited. “Another wave coming in fifteen months. Next winter’s end. Supposedly a big one.” She licked her lips, “Possibly bigger than any we’ve seen yet.”

  Iraias took a deep breath, calming himself. One thing after another. “The evidence?”

  Vestra tossed a scroll onto the table, “Read it yourself. Bunch of numbers and other scribbles beyond me.”

  He carefully unfurled the scroll. Two scrolls, actually. First in Etrani’s ever-scrupulous handwriting. The second a list of numbers. Recorded dates and sightings of voidspawn activity, a glance gathered. Etrani’s letter contained the important part: the conclusion estimating a larger wave in the timeframe reported.

  The figures themselves were not of interest; Iraias had no means of verifying them, and thus had to discard or accept them on trust. The name on that scroll did, however, catch his eye.

  “Elesmara Genthus,” he said aloud. A tug at his memory that took a minute locate. “I...met that woman. Three...no, four years ago in Primus. A scholar of Lavinia Veris’ patronage.”

  Like many of the princess consort’s followers, Elesmara Genthus was a decidedly heterodox scholar. At the meeting, they’d spoken only briefly, but she had questioned him about voidspawn activity in Septentrion, claiming it was a research interest. It had struck him as unusual but harmless. Now, it seemed less harmless.

  “Can we believe the reports?” Vestra sounded far too eager for them to be true.

  “Not without further explanation,” Iraias said. Numbers alone might be enough to convince Etrani (the girl practically lived in a world of numbers), but in Iraias’ experience, numbers could be used to weave any story one wished. The question was what story Elesmara Genthus wished to weave with these. And for whom. “We will send for this scholar to hear what she has to say for herself.”

  If this woman was communicating with Etrani...Iraias hesitated to use the term “conspiracy” lightly, but there was a hint of conspiring there. Irias had carefully cultivated Septentrion’s independence, a status bolstered by the simple lack of interest most of the empire held for the empire’s most distant frontier. A governor was not a king, a fact Iraias was acutely aware, but for all practical purposes, the province was his to rule. He was not eager to have agents of the princess consort, or any court factions, meddling in his affairs.

  Still...he would have to see if it was meddling, or if this Elesmara was simply the herald of a truth he needed to know.

  “We will send for Etrani and the voidtouched as well,” Iraias decided. “To...honor the leaders who protected Hellfrost from the threat of rebels. And to discuss this treaty further.”

  Etrani and Arvanius both remained potentially useful tools. It was the task of a governor to manage such tools. To ensure they worked for the empire’s good. The same instruments that built a fortress could be used to tear it down. At times, an artisan needed to evaluate his tools, decide which to repair, reshape, or discard.

  But reshaping these particular tools would not use a hammer.

  * * *

  Priscilla Voleton struggled to remember to breathe as she prepared to meet the woman who would one day be Empress.

  Despite Lady Elesmara’s assurance that nothing in particular was expected of her, Priscilla still felt the tension close in on her throat even tighter than the infuriatingly high collar that had become fashionable in Primus - a fashion trend that itself could be blamed on future princess-consort Lavinia Veris. The crowd did not help. Every seat in the chamber (the drawing room of Lady Lavinia’s guest residence in Thallakar) was packed with those waiting to receive her favor. Poets. Scribes. Clergy. Artists. Philosophers. All waiting like jackals starved for a scrap of attention. Priscilla felt far more at home in a library, surrounded by dust and silence, not in this perfumed den of ambition.

  The drawing room’s décor was suffocatingly opulent. Silver filigree on every available surface, tapestries depicting scenes from imperial history. The house itself was owned by some ancient Veriditar nobility, and the art reflected that. Mostly religious art - some even still referring to the figures depicted as “saints” and “gods” rather than Paragons. Over 200 years since Emperor Cassius declared Octarnis an empire of “Ideals, not dogma”, but some of these houses were windows to that distant past.

  “And what are you here for?” a very loud older woman gave Priscilla an unwelcome nudge. Priscilla had been trying to ignore her chatter for the last twenty minutes, even as proximity pressed them right up next to each other.

  Priscilla glanced over to Lady Elesmara, but she was currently in conversation with a man to her right. Something about a new style of poetry popularized by travellers from south of Aivas. How could anyone even pretend to be interested in such inanities when the fate of the world was at stake?

  No rescue forthcoming, Priscilla had to answer the inquisition herself, “Lady Elesmara and I are here to present her research on voidblood.”

  “Oh,” the older woman rolled her eyes, disdain dripping from every word as her eyes flicked over to Lady Elesmara, “you’re with the Doomsayer. So, how long before the void swallows us all up, eh?”

  “Fourteen months,” Priscilla looked the woman dead in the eye and ignored the mocking tone. “...according to the earliest model.”

  Humor drained from the woman’s face, “Bah. Your like have been predicting the end of the world since it began. Every few years, a new apocalypse comes. We’re still here. The Empire stands.”

  “We have public copies of our findings,” Priscilla held up one of the scroll cases they’d brought, ones that she’d slaved over for hours writing. “We invite you to examine our research and draw your own conclusions.”

  The woman harrumphed and turned away, muttering something about having “more important matters” to attend. Lady Elesmara had once remarked that Thallakar, and by extension all of Veriditar province, was too secure. Too safe. Insulated from the dangers of the wider empire by wealth and power. This was why they could afford to be so complacent. To treat the void as a distant curiosity. Not a reality that could swallow them all.

  At last, the doors to the private drawing room opened, and all conversation stilled.

  Lady Lavinia Veris swept into the room. She was...well, it was an uncharitable thought, but what rushed in Priscilla’s mind was a single word: ordinary. Dressed in fine clothes, of course, but not nearly so ostentatious as some of the ladies around them. Hair elaborately styled but not nearly as gaudy as the masses of curls and braids some favored (the older interrogator had a mountain of hair piled so high a bee’s nest could have fit comfortably in the mound). Even that evening, some of the poets in the room had shared compositions comparing Lavinia’s beauty to the sun, the moon, and every other apparently desirable celestial body. In person, she was...well, a person.

  And still the room acted as if a goddess had just descended the grace them with divine presence. Nearly every head in the parlor bowed briefly before rushing forward to try to speak with the future empress. In fact, Priscilla and Lady Elesmara were among the few who remained seated, near the back of the room. At least everyone’s attention focusing on Lady Lavinia gave Priscilla room to breathe.

  “Well?” Lady Elesmara asked, voice barely audible among the chorus of flowery compliments, well-wishes, and pleas for attention from the crowd. “What do you think?”

  “I...think it would be a mistake to prematurely judge a woman just from a glimpse,” Priscilla kept her words circumspect.

  Lady Elesmara chuckled, “Not about Lavinia.” Forgoing any title for the future empress was a discourtesy that would have drawn gasps of shock from the crowd, had they heard it. Lady Elesmara gestured broadly to the throng, “About them.”

  Priscilla pressed her lips together. Talking with Lady Elesmara often felt like a never-ending test. “I...find their priorities...misplaced.” There. A polite way of saying they were all idiots.

  “And yet, what you see before you represents a good fraction of the financial interests in Veriditar,” Lady Elesmara said. “All across the empire, commonfolk work and bleed and starve to produce. Bread, gold, cloth...it all flows to the center, to the beating heart of the Empire before it all flows outward again. Much like blood itself.”

  And these people grew fat off that flow without contributing anything at all to it. Much like leeches. That particular comparison was one Priscilla kept to herself.

  “So, the ones who control the flow control the empire itself,” Priscilla concluded.

  “Exactly,” Lady Elesmara kept her eyes on the crowd. “And one must play the game to win it. Even if you find it distasteful. Your passion for research and your talent for numbers will win you no power if no one reads what you write.”

  So it was all a roundabout way of delivering the rebuke. Priscilla sighed. Their research was true. It should have spoken for itself. But truth, it seemed, needed an advocate. And their advocate needed the ear of powerful people. Powerful people who were currently more interested in reciting poetry to the future empress.

  “Must we be like them, then?” Priscilla asked, trying to not let the bitterness seep into her voice. “Scavengers begging for scraps from the table.”

  “No,” Lady Elesmara’s smile broadened. “There are better ways. The best way to play the game...is to win before it starts.”

  The crowd parted, and Lady Lavinia Veris walked right up to Lady Elesmara.

  Priscilla jerked to her feet, just a hair slower than Lady Elesmara’s smooth rise.

  “A pleasure, Lady Genthus,” Lavinia’s voice was...unremarkable. Not deep, not high, just...clear. Calm. now that Priscilla got a closer look, she was struck by how...young Lavinia looked. Still older than Priscilla. But only by a few years. No older than mid-twenties.

  “The pleasure is mine, Lady Lavinia,” Elesmara replied, giving a bow that was just slightly less deferential than most. Familiar, almost. “May I present my apprentice, Priscilla Voleton.”

  “A pleasure,” Lavinia turned her attention to Priscilla. Priscilla’s mind went utterly blank, fumbling for a proper greeting.

  “A great pleasure, Lady Lavinia,” Priscilla choked out, bowing far too deeply. “Your...your presence is an honor.”

  “I understand that the report Lady Genthus included in her last letter was penned by you,” Lavinia said, her gaze direct.

  “It...was my task to collate the data and extrapolate a timeline,” Priscilla stammered out, eyes wide. She knew this. She knew this was a possibility. She’d imagined this conversation for weeks. Yet now that it was happening, her mind was a blank slate. Moreover, Lady Elesmara mentioned that she’d already sent Lady Lavinia the report.

  “My thanks to you for your work,” Lady Lavinia inclined her head just a few degrees. Still a greater honor than Priscilla had ever thought to receive. “The future of the empire must remain our highest priority. All else depends on it. If you need anything else to aid that research, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “I...we...thank you, Lady Lavinia,” Priscilla said, feeling her face flush hot.

  Lavinia gave a last nod, then was swept away by the next wave of fawning well-wishers.

  Priscilla felt stunned for a moment. A few eyes lingered on her even after the princess consort moved on. Envious or curious.

  A breath of air escaped Priscilla’s lungs in a rush. She looked at Lady Elesmara.

  “That...was it?” Priscilla asked.

  Another chuckle, “You now have what all those other vultures desire. The real game is not played at events like this; it’s in the months between. Congratulations, Priscilla, your report has reached the most influential woman in Octarnis.”

  “...is that enough?”

  Lady Lavinia did not control the military. That tool still belonged in the hands of the emperor. Or, more precisely, the emperor’s son, Lady Lavinia’s betrothed, who was currently miles eastward fighting on a front completely separate from the voidspawn incursion. With the empire’s armies stretched thin on a half dozen fronts, who would be left to fight the monsters from the void?

  “No,” Lady Elesmara said. “But it is a step. With Lady Lavinia’s support, we will have all the resources necessary to proceed further. But there is only so much you can do here.” She gestured to the capital. “The void is not in the capital, no matter how many scholars claim its influence can be seen in the art and politics here. To truly understand the enemy...you must see it for yourself.”

  Priscilla blinked. “You mean...go to the frontier?”

  “I’ve received an invitation,” Lady Elesmara continued, “from Governor Skal Iraias of Septentrion.”

  Septentrion. Priscilla had thought the journey from home in Meridar to Veritar, a journey of two hundred miles, was far. Septentrion might as well have been the other side of the world. More than a thousand miles north. Past Lake Agenthus, almost an inland sea in size.

  Priscilla took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. She was a scholar. Her place was in a library, with scrolls and ink. Not on the edge of civilization, where the abyss bled into the world. Yet...if her research was right, then the world had a little over a year before the next peak in the void’s cycle. And the peak that was coming would be greater than anything seen in centuries.

  If the empire fell, all the libraries in the world would be useless. As would her research, her life. Everything. For the first time, Priscilla felt the weight of reality behind the numbers she’d been collating. Not just abstract figures on a page, but a real, tangible threat that could wipe out everything she had built.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *