Can we return to the tents outside? Hiero grumbled in his mind as he squinted his eyes. The rainbow shimmers gave him a headache, and his blurry left sight wasn’t helping. Could the braids be straining his scalp?

Hiero had fixed his messy hair in the style of Mesbeth Core monks—a thick ladder braid over the middle of his head like a rooster’s comb. Unpracticed for long, it took him some time to tie it correctly. He figured he should look more presentable for a war council than his signature sloppiness. This time, he would join instead of silently listening from the sides.

Aderenthyn Citadel should hold—he needed more time.

Hiero ran his hand over his hair. The braiding wasn’t tight. It was the grakking shimmers causing his headaches. He was certain.

The opal-like crystals were beautiful and extravagant, refracting light from the enormous golden orbs dangling above like a cluster of giant grapes. The crystalline material likely had special significance to Gaolyan royalty. But did they need to coat the entire throne hall with it?

Not only the ceiling, floor, and walls. Rows of alternating pillars and statues on pedestals dividing the great hall into five, a path for each throne on a separate dais at the end, were likewise covered in the same bothersome sparkles.

If not careful, one might walk into camouflaged statues of Gaolyan kings and extinct creatures. Twice, Hiero nearly did, pacing while preoccupied with his plans.

Dust-blasted Gaolyans builders! Was this supposed to be the peak of architecture? Though Hiero conceded he might be too uncultured to appreciate ancient art.

Of everything in the great hall, only the five thrones were different in color—pure black.

The blackest black Hiero had ever seen, with no hint of shine or sheen. It was as if they gobbled the radiance of the light orbs, making it impossible to discern their intricate carvings and runic etchings without closer scrutiny.

No one had sat on those thrones since the Gaolyans disappeared four thousand years ago. Dragons made Aderenthyn their new home after. A dragon’s scaly ass wouldn’t fit on the thrones, and no sane or even insane individual would dare trespass on a dragon’s abode for any chair.

Hiero focused on the thrones as an escape for his weary eyes.

He wasn’t the only one looking at them.

Several stole gazes at the thrones while distractedly listening to ongoing arguments. They weren’t resting their eyes, Hiero was certain. An intensity and longing in their stares gave away their thoughts. Easy to discern the desires of important people and people who thought they were important.

Tables lined the middle lane of the hall in a single file, plain chairs of equal height on either side. High King Grammaton had ordered them brought in. The message was clear—no one touch the ancient seats.

Simple wooden furniture, accented with rotting cracks, gave another message—everyone in this hall was fighting for survival. This wasn’t a place for spectacle or luxury, even if the Gaolyan throne room was several times grander than anything made by lesser beings, as Tiskas would say.

The high king of Grammus fit his creaky bones and much-deflated muscles into ceremonial royal armor, presenting a striking visage. Gleaming red metal with gold and silverwork in the likeness of griffins dared compete with the sparkling crystals of the hall. He was ten years past the age when the healthiest of men could hold a weapon and do battle, but appearances had to be kept and prestige maintained.

Hiero couldn’t help but grin. This old man with one hand shaking Death’s still has fire in him.

Grammaton sat at the head of the long table; the middle dais where the grandest Gaolyan throne stood was twenty paces behind him.

He could’ve held council in any other place, any other hall in this vast fortress, or back outside in the overgrown gardens and be met with fewer problems. But everyone came under his arrow of war, so he had to establish his position. A necessity in leading a disjointed force that grew every passing day as more and more reinforcements arrived.

All were equal in this time of peril—supposedly—but everyone knew the implication of the sitting arrangement. People scrambled to position themselves close to Grammaton.

The very scenario Grammaton maneuvered to avoid doubled back to ambush his richly armored behind.

Hiero thought it inevitable. If a round table wide enough to fit the three dozen or so attendees were made, it wouldn’t assuage inflated egos. Wherever Grammaton sat would be considered the head of the table, and others would jostle to be near him.

A distracted ally is more dangerous than a dedicated enemy. Those were the words of Monk Mah-mon for Hiero before he left the monastery. Hiero wagered the Core monk didn’t have fighting over seats in mind for his parting advice.

The bickering became louder. The squeeze on Hiero’s temples increased. This won’t do. He needed everyone to protect Aderenthyn Citadel and buy him time, not fight over chairs.

Hiero took it upon himself to defuse the situation—he didn’t take a seat.

Instead, Hiero strolled behind the head of the table, stomping on the glassy floor. He walked back and forth between Grammaton’s chair and the central dais, weaving through statues of beasts long gone bordering the middle path while whistling a tune.

The din drowned his notes, but it didn’t matter. He succeeded in drawing attention to himself.  

Lucas Cairon, the Hamitite, realized what Hiero was doing. The willowy man gathered the elaborately embroidered cloth around his body and stood up. He dragged the chair’s legs before pushing it beneath the table.

Hiero nodded a wordless thanks to the pompous gorf for playing along. Lucas stuck his pointed chin in the air, purposely not facing Hiero’s way.

Another Draecontyr joined in.

The statuesque Rebecca Ravenstone left her chair and glided over the floor; the flowing azure robes she wore over a delicate skintight moss suit trailed behind her like a puddle of water. She raised a jewel-adorned brow at Hiero as if to ask if she was doing it correctly.

Hiero smiled in return. Her slender foxy face was distraction enough.

A fresh spate of mutters bubbled at the other side of the hall.

The Ashilvan twins—Draecontyrs defending the Vestnord Realms past the Iron Maw mountains—left their chairs at the table’s far end. To them, Hiero gave another nod. He only heard rumors of their feats before they came to Aderenthyn.

They kept their faces behind low hoods and spoke but a few words of the northern tongue. Unexpected that they came at all, for tendrils of the Blighted Multitude knocked on the Iron Gate, the last Hiero heard. The Vestnord elinars preparing for war could ill-afford lacking their Draecontyrs.

The brooding twins mostly kept to their assigned section of the walls. Hiero had witnessed their dragon Melding one time, their Cores supposedly from the last ironclad drakes of the north. Only now did they join the council of war.

By now, everyone had caught on to what Hiero had started.

The Draecontyrs were powerful. Five of the eight present stood.

At odds over mere seats?

The powerful should be above that.

Gobdruk of Linderale, a distinguished Core monk famous for his beast of a physique, inheriting the dominant traits of his Delve father and Romo mother, thought simply standing too subtle. Hiero had fought with him a few times and knew his roguish personality well. Gobdruk offered his chair—too small for his size, anyway—to a noble of Escrimatur, a lesser lord from his geometric face paint. If this were a different situation, the lord would’ve been honored.

But the cognizant lord stood straighter as he denied the offer, suggesting someone else take it. The next man refused, passing the offer to another. Then it went on.

Others followed. Half the chairs were vacated.

People milled about the grand hall, the seriousness of war and the threat of the Blight forgotten. Some stood close to the Draecontyrs as if that’d make them equal in perceived rank. High King Grammaton pounced on the opening Hiero made, calling for wine and meat. Those with full mouths couldn’t speak.

A semblance of order was restored.

And then tipped over the other side.

Those at each other’s throats moments ago now laughed together like long-time friends. Chatters in different languages. Wine loosened the knots of tension, and the splendor of shimmering lights added to the festive feeling. After all, they were yet to celebrate winning the recent battle.

Celebrate surviving so far to be more apt.

Hiero scanned the faces in the hall. Many new ones. A few he had seen days ago were no longer present.

“Let us begin!” The high king’s voice boomed strong, radiating authority, yet sunken eyes betrayed fatigue. Everyone fell silent and turned to listen. Some were stunned by the high king speaking low Grammus. “We discuss matters in an orderly manner,” Grammaton smoothly said in the most widespread tongue as if he regularly spoke it. “First, those Dust-clogged grakking ramps!”

Murmuring buzzed, the silence short-lived.

“We came to Aderenthyn,” Grammaton continued, “relying on its mighty walls to keep the Blighted at length, for it is impossible to stand and fight the accursed creatures in an open field. Our fortifications are but a momentary nuisance to them. Hails of arrows, bullets, and spells could hold the tide of the light-forsaken… until they cannot.”

He paused to let his weighty pronouncement sink in.

Majority of the people in the council hadn’t fought, much less seen, the Blighted before coming to Aderenthyn. They had experienced repelling mere splintered waves. They might not fully comprehend how overwhelming the Blighted Multitude was when the entire mass marched.

Hiero had witnessed it thrice.

Thrice, he had fled from it.

“Our ways of fighting are ineffective against an enemy that doesn’t know pain, that doesn’t care about losses.” Grammaton slammed the table with his gauntleted hand to punctuate his following words. “That. Does. Not. Grakking. Stop!”

Hiero chewed his tongue, every battle lost to the Blighted Multitude replaying in his mind.

The world began to move away from Flesh Molders, warrior Core monks, and aileh­-sculpting magi as centerpieces of war, shifting to Dust-forged weaponry, affording ordinary men the tools to kill Flesh Molders and Core monks alike and rival the destructive powers of the magi. As warfare changed, great castles gave way to low bastions with complex wall systems supported by Core shields, runic formations, and webs of earthworks.

But those fortifications were mere bumps to the rush of accursed shadows.

“We hide behind lofty Gaolyan walls for a chance to fight back,” said Grammaton, repeating Hiero’s arguments when he convinced the high king to come to Aderenthyn. “However, the Blighted scale the walls like grakking thieves, circumventing our defenses. What say you?”

“Double lines of Dustgunners and crossbowmen on cycle reload!” someone yelled down the table as soon as the high king finished speaking. The man mixed low Grammus and its Teklet dialect. “Mow down the blasted light-forsaken before they touch the walls!”

“The enemy assails us from all sides,” another unfamiliar voice said with a choppy Basadhin accent. “We severely lack the men to cover the full span of the outer walls. Only one direction if we—”

“Then retreat to the inner walls to shorten the lines,” interjected someone.

“If that’s not the most foolish—”

“Core’s Fury! How dare you say—!”

“It is foolish!”

A cacophony of nonsense erupted. People yelled each other down as if placing bets in the arenas. The beast arenas might be a quieter place. Protocol had taken a vacation.

If this were a standard council of war, these people would’ve been thrown out for speaking out of turn—imprisonment for those raising their voices in the presence of the high king. Lashings for the commoners addressing nobles like equals.

Hiero chuckled at the outraged faces of the Grammanian war princes, offended on behalf of their high king but unable to act.

Grammaton gestured at the war princes to still themselves.

In contrast, he was patience personified. He was the ruler of less than a fourth of those present and the historical enemy of almost half—diplomacy had to be stretched to its utmost limits and beyond. The disunity in every dragging step was another pillar supporting Hiero’s resolve to decide for everyone.

“Install the magnicannons atop the outer towers,” came the proposal of Bellighost, a general of a city-state bordering Grammanus. “Blast the amassing Blighted before they form the ramps!”

“How many do we have?” asked the high king.

“Fourteen bombards, including the two that had just arrived with Germaine, your Majesty,” replied war prince Gail, Grammaton’s grandnephew, evident from the strong jawline and wild blonde hair that the high king now wore only in paintings. “Around three dozen of the smaller varieties.”

Astonished hums followed. Many didn’t expect a high number of Dust artillery already within the walls.

Hopeful faces, sentiments of victory increased.

Sorely mistaken sentiments.

“I believe only the bombard-type magnicannons could decimate the rising mounds before they latch onto the walls,” Gail said. “We need three times the current number for coverage if we will spread them across the entire outer wall.”

“Magi from Khayo and Fulguren Gardens boast explosive spells,” said someone with broken low Grammus. Hiero couldn’t see who it was from where he stood. “They can fill the gaps.”

“Can they sustain their spells?” another asked.

“We can match your precious magnicannons,” said a young mage standing five paces left of Hiero, not caring to mask the disdain in his voice.

The mage wore the deep red robes adorned by golden chains of the Khayo Garden. An egg-sized ruby gleamed on his forehead, with smaller ones tracing his brow—a Master Gardener at such a young age. But what surprised Hiero was how fluent the Khayo mage spoke low Grammus. Most mages barely understood the commoners’ tongues, like low Grammus and Meghindran.

“We stand atop the largest heart node in Tabithala,” the Khayo mage continued, “from whence all major aileh streams flow. We can refill aileh crystals for centuries. Forever, if need be!”

“It just might work,” war prince Gail said, turning to his granduncle.

“So long the Blighted are kept away from the walls,” High King Grammaton said. “Aderenthyn will stand.”

“And the longer it stands,” Rebecca Ravenstone silkily said as she flitted through the crowd, “the stronger it grows. Let the shadow-borne funnel through Aderenthyn’s mouth and be devoured into oblivion.” She slipped into an archaic language spoken only by the magi of Biosyn Garden.

Hiero vaguely understood her words; he had worked as a servant to an expelled biomagus before discovering an aptitude for Flesh Molding. Rebecca could fluently speak low Grammus and a dozen other languages yet often insisted on the Biosyn’s adopted tongue. It wasn’t for pretension—for Rebecca did not need to impress others—but to prove her point that despite being a high-ranking biomagus and a Draecontyr, many didn’t care for her words because of her youthful beauty.

Men yelled their assent to Rebbeca without an inkling of what she had said.  

Hiero and Rebecca shared knowing smiles.

“Do not haphazardly imperil the fine works of the Forges.” A soft voice pierced the incoherent chorus.

Four seats down Grammatton’s left was a representative of the Dust forges, one of the towering Romo. She sat two heads taller than the Basadhin noble sitting beside her. The seal of an hourglass superimposed on a thirteen-toothed gear was on her gloves, sleeves, and veil covering her whole head, including her face.

She raised her gloved hand and held up a slender finger, her movements graceful and serene as if a coral serpent gliding through water. “Each magnicannon of the bombard type takes a year to manufacture,” she said. Her low Grammus, clipped and monotone, was passable enough. She raised more fingers. “And two months to fine-tune, calibrate, and test. Not to forget the materials for its construction. To have fourteen units aiding the defense of this Citadel is a boon not to be wasted.”

“We are not wasting the works of the Dust forges, Lady Elizalde,” Gail promptly said. “We take utmost care of the magnicannons. They have sufficient guards, each of them. Core-shielders, veteran Flesh Molders, and—”

“And you’ll place them on the frontlines. Magnicannons. Frontlines.” As Lady Elizalde shook her head, the veil covering her face fluttered, revealing stark white lips curved into a condescending smile, her bluish cheeks rising in a smirk.

“We need them on the outer wall!” General Bellighost thundered. “Those accursed creatures form their towers of bodies quite fast.”

“My Lady, if the magnicannons remain in their current positions,” Gail hastily explained, “it’ll take time to communicate the impending threat to their crews, calculate the trajectory, fire, and so on. By then, the mass would’ve moved out of the way, probably already latching onto the walls.”

“The light-forsaken spread out when they charge, only merging when they near the walls,” added another war prince. “The magnicannons will not have the angle to shoot.”

“It seems all are in agreement that the Blighted employ stratagems,” Lady Elizalde said.

“That they do!” barked Bellighost. “And we’ll blast their dirty tricks away.”

“The shadow-borne will be drawn to the magnicannons like feldings to the heat of the hearth.”

“I assure you—” war prince Gail began to reply, but the Lady of the Dust forges pressed on with her soft but magically permeating voice.

“The Blighted employ their myriads to build bridges, ramps, ladders as ants do,” she said. “They’ll throw thousands or tens of thousands more to reach the magnicannons you’ll dangle in front of them like worm bait for the steel birds. Fourteen magnicannons today, none tomorrow.”

“We wouldn’t let that happen, my lady,” said Gail.

“The same fate will befall the Khayo and Fulguren mages,” Lady Elizalde said. She twirled her fingers as she pointed to the young Khayo mage who had spoken earlier. “I’ve heard we lost several gardeners when the shadow-borne invaded the walls. Magnicannons and the magi… the most expensive bait I’ve ever heard of.”

Heard of, so far, added Hiero in his mind.

The biggest and most expensive bait in known history would be Aderenthyn Citadel and everyone in it.

Bellighost and Gail talked simultaneously, arguing different points. Others who were convinced by Lady Elizalde voiced their concerns. One step forward, one step back—as expected when many were given a voice.

Each wanted their way. A deadlock. Stagnation.

The same as not making any decision. The same as waiting for the Blighted Multitude to assimilate them. The same as waiting for the end.

Now, in all of Tabithala’s history, was the time for its inhabitants to unite. In this great hall, great people had gathered, most worthy of statues, and many of them did have statues.

It would’ve been better if statues stood in their place.

Hiero maintained a passive face, fighting back the urge to sigh and shake his head.

High King Grammaton held up his hand, threatening to slam it on the table. He was distracted when the man beside him began coughing.

To his immediate right sat Lord Sinra-Jul, the older half-brother of the king of Escrimatur and, apparently, someone with a very scratchy throat. Their seats reflected the positions of their mighty nations on the map and their relative military and economic might, with Escrimatur a close second to Grammanus for the past several decades.

Hiero was no historian—he didn’t have a penchant for recalling names—but he knew that long before he was born, these two commanded opposing armies on the battlefield, their swords clashing more than once. Now, they were on the same side, the painted blue lines on Sinra-Jul’s angular face indicating he came as a friend.

Hiero had met Sinra-Jul twice. The first was when Hiero won a beast arena tournament for Sinra-Jul’s birthday. The next was three years ago—a delegation headed by Sinra-Jul tried to convince Hiero to become one of Escrimatur’s Draecontyr. Hiero had declined the warrant of nobility, much to the chagrin of Sinra Jul.

“Lord Sinra-Jul needs water!” Hiero called, holding his voice from breaking into laughter. If Sinra-Jul wanted attention, he would gladly support him. “Hurry, or he might choke.”

All eyes in the hall honed on Lord Sinra-Jul, who now had a cup of water given by an attendant.

Hiero grinned at the Escrimatur high lord, raising an imaginary glass to toast.

Sinra-Jul doled Hiero a furious glare, setting the cup down. It was for but a fleeting moment. An empathetic mask fitted of Sinra-Jul’s face as he stood, his armor secured by leather belts clinking, to address the people in low Grammus with a sprinkling of Escriman words.

“When I left Escrimatur,” he began, “I was accompanied by a third of my personal posambilo, two sanbilos of cavalry, two crossbowmen sanbilos, five squads of Core pavisers, two hundred Dustgunners, and two padils of griffin riders. More than ten thousand soldiers in all. In days past, my ganippala royal brother sent more men to aid our cause—the cause of all of Tabithala—swelling the Escriman fighting force to fifteen thousand, with thousands more to come.  

“Well… we would stand fifteen thousand strong if not for the hundreds of casualties we suffered defending this Citadel. Brave Escrimans, atapan ed u, guarded the western flank where the fighting was heaviest on the second day. On the fourth, half a sannaad, more than fifty men gave their lives as the rearguard when the causeway east was breached. Our griffin riders met the flying abominations when they first appeared the day after …”

Hiero stood behind Sinra-Jul’s chair as the latter continued to enumerate the sacrifices of his soldiers. Hiero didn’t trust himself to keep a neutral face.

When Sinra-Jul invited him to enter the service of Escrimatur, the high lord began his petition with a tale of the hardships of his travels. It was Sinra-Jul’s preface to farm sympathy before reaching his message.

Plain as day on Grammaton’s exasperated face that he had witnessed this too many a time. “Everyone recognizes the bravery of Esrimans,” the old king interrupted. “And honors those who died fighting the Blighted Multitude—Escrimans and all others. Sinra-Jul, we are eager to hear your wisdom on the problem of the monstrous ramps.”

“Position the magnicannons and magi on the towers of the succeeding wall,” Sinra-Jul said, shaping a tower in the air. “If the angle is insufficient, build platforms for greater heights. Firepower needed to be brought to the fore, else the agnat Blighted mounds will rise unabated. The next wall will hold firm and fire upon the lower outer one if needed.”

“The Blighted may not have enough room to form another ramp to assault the subsequent wall,” Grammaton said, slowly nodding, extending his former enemy a silver branch.

“Delaying the inevitable,” Lady Elizalde said, daring to poke holes in Lord Sinra-Jul’s plan. The Romo had nothing to fear, for their patrons were pact bound to come to their aid if ever a belligerent advanced on the Dust forges. “As we learn, so does the adversary. The Blighted Multitude had sent but a minuscule fraction of their host. They have more to spare, more to throw, so much more to bridge the gap between walls and reach the magnicannons. We are not buying time; we aim to win.”

On the contrary, Hiero thought. You are buying time for me. Though not doing a very good job of it.

“In that, you are correct, laama Lady,” eagerly replied Sinra-Jul, not sounding offended in the slightest. He seemingly had anticipated this. “The agnat Blighted will come for these… outposts. Raised batteries? Small strongholds? Call them what you may. The agnat will target the outposts—feldings to the hearth, indeed. But that is gantim.”

“Beneficial for us?” the Romo Lady said. She must’ve picked up a few Escriman words in her business dealings. “In what way, pray tell.”

“Our forces grow each day, yet far from sufficient to completely defend the entire span of the Citadel. This is not a conventional army sieging us. Ten thousand can assault one spot and shift to the next before warriors can draw their blades from the bodies of monsters felled. For that, we need to tolpasi—herd them.  Concentrate our number into small strongholds along the walls, with magnicannons and the magi—the outposts.”

Grammaton nodded. “Herding them? Bait on our own terms, I see.”

“Brilliant idea, your lordship!” Gail exclaimed. “The Blighted have to attack the outposts. If they flood in between, they’ll be caught by overlapping fire. Reserves will sweep the few that stray past.”

“And if the shadow-borne accepts your gambit?” Lady Elizalde asked Sinra-Jul. She softly drummed her fingers on the table as if plucking strings. 

“We strengthen the towers we will choose as outposts,” Sinra-Jul replied matter-factly. “That is my only answer. Unless someone more laama than me suggests otherwise.”

Sinra-Jul stared down the length of the table. Then he turned to the standing crowd with a smug face, daring any to speak up. Hiero gave Sinra-Jul a little wave as he looked over his shoulder. The Escriman high lord’s plan was sound; no others disagreed.

“I have set my men to work reinforcing six towers,” Sinra-Jul said, “constructing hoardings and smaller towers for the Dustgunners and crossbowmen to shoot, warding posts for the Core shields, and so on. The same should be done for the rest of the wall.”

“Is that enough, Lord Sinra-Jul?” said Lady Elizalde.

Sinra-Jul turned aside, shifting his seat sideways as if parting a door to reveal those behind him. Sinra-Jul had a sly glint in his almond-shaped eyes. “Perhaps we can ask the Ravager of Lapanshar Plains? Care to share your thoughts with us less knowledgeable of the Blight, Draecontyr Hiero?”