Madame Sho’s was bustling. When the trio stepped into the dusky haze of smoke, Zu and Ulula rushed off to say hello to their favorites, their friends, the madame herself. And Yechvan, as usual, slid deep into their booth and motioned to the bar for a drink.

  On a busy night, the crush of bodies in the cramped space might be stifling, were the ceilings not so high. In a corner of the main room, a nude harpist plucked and strummed the strings of her instrument, the effect mesmerizing as she straddled the wood and swayed, her cream-colored skin shimmering with oil and sweat. She was from west of the Terythalans, if memory served, a rarity in these parts. Music was a pleasant distraction Madame Sho employed from time to time. Though crowded as it was, the notes were swallowed up by the patrons’ bellowing laughs and boisterous chatting.

  The human woman who’d piqued Yechvan’s curiosity on his last visit brought a tray filled with drinks and snacks to his table. She sat across from him, her long lashes glistening in the firelight. She was the handsomest woman he’d ever laid eyes on, truth be sure. Her dark skin rich as coffee, elegant neck straight and poised, high cheekbones and alert visage all worked in tandem to create the look of a predator. And he was in her sights.

  “You’re Zu’s friend. Yechvan, isn’t that right?” she asked.

  “So I am,” he replied.

  The girl was eager but still learning the ropes. That was easy enough to spot in the way she squirmed to work out her nerves and nibbled her lip to keep from saying something she’d rather not and fidgeted to occupy her restless hands. What could a stunning woman like her—one who had the confidence to walk around the place nude as the day she was born—be nervous about?

  While most in Madame Sho’s employ would have already taken the seat beside him, offered him their services, perhaps even begun in earnest, this woman sat at arm’s length, softly clearing her throat and dodging his eyes. The leonine confidence that had brought her to the table withered under his admiring gaze.

  Yechvan wanted to know more about this young woman. She was different, a breath of fresh air. There was an innocence to her, which was a rare thing in a brothel. “Since you know me, it’s only fair you tell me your name,” he said. And when she told him, he listened.

  “Ysla,” she said. Her tongue held on to the s for an instant longer than was customary.

  “You’re from Parallax?” he guessed.

  “My family is, yes,” she said. “What I mean to say is I was born there. But I don’t feel like I’m from there.”

  Yechvan smiled as she fumbled with her words. He liked her very much.

  “Ah, I see you’ve met Ysla,” Zu said, returning from his rounds. He gobbled up a handful of grapes, spit the seeds into a cup and downed a horn of mead as only Zu could do with such swiftness.

  Zu turned his attention to Ysla, showering her with praise, and she wilted further in his radiant presence as a flower might beneath Solonia’s rays in the height of Fryndon. She excused herself and scurried back to the kitchens. Her reticence around Zu made Yechvan like her all the more, for he, too, often felt small in the shadow cast by the magnetic Zu, searched for similar escape.

  “Shall I get us another round?” Zu asked, half listening for a response. His attention was pulled to the door each time the hinges creaked open.

  “It is my turn to pay,” Yechvan reminded him.

  “Is it? I thought you paid last time.”

  Ulula leapt over the back of the booth to cram in beside Yechvan, a bit breathless and a bit disheveled. “Well, whoever wins this argument can pay for me.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Been at it already?” Yechvan asked with a laugh.

  Ulula focused her steely gaze on him. “We are at Madame Sho’s, are we not?” She pointed at Zu with an accusing finger. “Now sit your big butt down and tell me exactly what happened on that mountain pass, as you promised.”

  As Zu sat, the door to Madame Sho’s banged open. His half-brother stood in the frame, backlit by a dusky twilight, his glare leveled at Zu. He stalked toward the trio. “I am supposed to protect the qince,” Gara yelled, slamming his fist into the table and sloshing mead onto the tray of fruits. All motion and talk ceased in the establishment.

  “Then what are you doing here, brother?” Zu asked, unruffled by Gara’s antics.

  “I am come to ask why he’s returned with cuts and bruises. He won’t leave his room nor will he tell me a lick of what happened on your trip.”

  “It is not my story to share. Perhaps you should ask our father.”

  “I have asked the qish as well, and he’s given me nothing save a scathing rebuke for not doing my job. How in the hells am I supposed to protect the qince if you are constantly abusing him?” Gara growled, red-faced and fuming.

  “I see no occasion to answer your questions if Little Grask and our father won’t give you the time of day.”

  Gara’s hands curled into fists. He looked as though he wanted to punch Zu’s obnoxious smirk off his face. Yechvan couldn’t blame the poor youngling. He was a full-blooded orc, unlike Zu, so his temper flared more easily. But his stature betrayed him. Where Zu towered over everyone, Gara was small for his race, standing level with most of the taller humans and the blooded.

  “Maybe your time would be better served tending to your own training,” Zu said, eyeing his brother’s newly shaved head.

  Gara’s pale-green skin flushed red in the soft firelight, and his golden yellow eyes, inherited from the qish, narrowed to slits. He often wore his thick cinnamon-colored locks pulled up, the ends greased and fanned out behind his head like a peacock to show off its unusual color—a point of pride for the vain young orc. But he’d challenged his brother Halde to a sparring contest in the orcish tradition; the loser would shave his head—assuming he hadn’t lost it in the contest—in a show of deference.

  Yechvan cleared his throat. When Zu tore his gaze away from his brother, the tension lessened a few degrees.

  “The boy will talk in time,” Zu conceded. “But he needs time.”

  “Why? What happened?” Gara asked. Ulula scooted up in her seat, eager to learn the reason.

  “Little Grask killed his uncle in single combat.”

  Gara scoffed. “Fine. If you don’t want to tell me, I’ll wait for Grask to come around. But I won’t forget this insult, Zu.” He stalked off, letting the air and the life back into Madame Sho’s.

  Zu shrugged, but Ulula wouldn’t be so easily appeased. She said, “I’ve never known you to lie. But you aren’t, are you? Out with it.”

  Zu obliged.

  “Well, not exactly single combat,” she mused, when he finished. “Still, good for him, sticking up for himself. I’m impressed, honestly.”

  “The boy acquitted himself admirably,” Yechvan added.

  “Serik wasn’t a brilliant fighter,” Zu said.

  Yechvan snorted. “Any fight for your life is a worthy fight. And let us not forget that the bar you two set is rather high. Grask may never reach your level, but he could learn to handle himself as well as Gara or any of the other grunts in Banx.”

  “But if he is to be qish…” Ulula said.

  In the deep caverns of the Udaro, the orcish tradition of choosing a qish was brutal. All worthy candidates presented themselves. The field was then narrowed to two by a vote. The pair would engage in Lokanu, a duel to the death, with the understanding that everyone would support the victor, no matter the outcome. But the orcs were on the surface now, and their circumstances had changed when they’d made a tenuous alliance with the humans of Banx. Chief among them: adopting a royal line of succession. Grask would be the first qish to inherit the title—rather than earn it.

  On top of that, the boy was sheltered and innocent and happier with a book than a blade. A qish who couldn’t fight was uncommon, but the orcs might easily overlook that shortcoming if he could lead. One who could analyze and adapt as quickly as Grask was less common still. In fact, Yechvan couldn’t recall a single leader in the Senda Clan’s history who’d had the tactical acumen necessary to rise to the level of archmage in Thrice. Grask had improved noticeably over the dozen complete games they’d played before the trip to the Temple of Hlun. But the timid youngling didn’t have Zu’s magnetism, and Yechvan worried that the older orcs would interpret his reserve as weakness.

  “There is time. He will come into his own,” Yechvan said.

  “With the war coming,” Zu countered, “our lessons will end. As will any chance he may have of developing proper technique before he is set in his ways.”

  “He will adapt,” Yechvan argued.

  “Or die,” Ulula chuckled.

  “As is the case for us all.” Yechvan raised his cup to toast his comrades, both the living and the dead.