“Faith may move mountains, but gold buys the shovel.”


    — Mercantis saying.


    <hr>


    The carriage rolled past the last watchtower before Wolof, a red-brick silhouette rising from the hills like a finger to the heavens. Three stories of elegance and menace pierced the sky, crowned with an open rooftop for spellcasting. Functional. Ruthless. A fitting monument to the glories of Praesi ambition.


    Magnificence is a thin veil over the graves beneath, but you already see that, don’t you?


    The many spectacles of Wolof lay nestled in the lands below us. I hated how much I admired it.


    “What do you think,” I asked, gesturing towards the scar on my face, “intimidating or just tragic?”


    I didn’t actually care. Vanity wasn’t my sin. Well, not my only sin. But the cut William had given me hadn’t faded away. It slashed down my cheek in a way that screamed aspiring cackling Tyrant, and I needed to know if it screamed weakness as well.


    “A mark worthy of the title you’re chasing,” Akua reassured. “Tell me, how fares your scheming against the Squire?”


    I hadn’t plotted anything against William. Yet. Preparing for his inevitable self-righteous tantrum didn’t count. The Squire still thought of himself as Callowan. Funny, if hypocritical. The broody idiot had dared to call me a traitor at court when he was the one serving the Black Knight. I’d try to talk sense into him again. Better to focus on building alliances in this pit than to poke the sleeping tigers with a stick. I had enough of those after me already.


    “He’s predictable enough to plan around,” I evaded. “That’s a rare kind of useful.”


    Akua’s face lit up with a feline smile, her lashes lowering in mockery as her fingers traced the hem of her sleeve. Twin suns held my gaze. I tore my eyes away, but I doubted she didn’t notice me staring.


    “If you’re seeking inspiration,” she suggested, “the Seventy-Eighth Hell offers a concoction that devours the body from the inside out over a week.”


    More horrors from Akua’s collection. She had an uncanny knack for solutions that involved devils and long-term suffering. If I complained about rats in the granary, she’d suggest summoning a demon to salt the earth.


    “I’m thinking of something with distilled Elfsbane,” I lied.


    “Hawulti laced her rival’s meal with a toxin extracted from a Redtailed-Nightclaw,” Akua mused. “A bold choice, wouldn’t you say?”


    “That was my idea,” I admitted.


    “Truly?” the pretty girl feigned interest as she asked. “I had no idea you were involved.”


    “It was practical,” I explained. “An uncommon poison. Having no antidote means no escape.”


    “Of course,” she agreed. “The fact that the first symptom of the poison is a swelling around the groin is irrelevant.”


    “Exactly,” I lied.


    Warmth bloomed in my chest as she smiled, and I hated myself for it.


    “Every legacy worth remembering was built on a foundation of broken rules,” she encouraged. “New Evils are the mark of those who dare.”


    Ahead, Wolof unfurled like a tapestry: pale red bricks and sunlit stone sprawling upward in impossible grandeur. Palaces perched on hills like vultures watching over veins of aqueducts, which spilled water into rooftop cisterns and crowded streets below. Houses clung together with arches and pillars thick as tree trunks, as if the city itself was attempting to climb into the sky.


    Colours bled through it all: banners of every hue strung between buildings, rooftop gardens green with ivy, and bricks that glowed like embers in the setting sun.


    It was beautiful.


    It was alive.


    And my fingers twitched with the urge to tear it apart.


    The worst part? Not even the palaces in Laure came close. Nothing in Callow compared to this.


    I couldn’t help but notice how the city wards caught the light as we neared the gates. Intricate carvings shimmered in the sunlight, like the city displaying itself for an audience. The bazaar buzzed with life beyond, stands thrown together from wood and cloth in a chaotic patchwork. Spices, jewellery, copper, silver, gold — all displayed like they were baubles at some village fair. The only thing conspicuously absent?


    Food.


    That was rationed elsewhere.


    Enchanted goods were treated with the same casual disregard as lives around here. Ever-sharp kitchen knives, stone cold-boxes carved with intricate runes, prettily sculpted magelights, alchemical brews, remedies for colds — all of it bartered over with the enthusiasm of people arguing about cabbage. Actually, the cabbage might garner a larger audience in Wolof. None of them were sorcerers, yet magic was woven into their lives as seamlessly as the thread in their robes.


    I wondered how long it’d all hold up in the face of a plague. Magic might slow it down, alchemy might buy them a week or two, but no priesthood would ride to the rescue. They’d end up trading each other to devils before it was over.


    Charming, isn’t it? Or perhaps it’s only a distraction from what truly matters.


    I frowned, tuning out the voice.


    The bazaar felt quieter than usual.


    “Is there a famine?” I asked. “Did somebody suggest holding ballots for ritual sacrifice?”


    “An oddity, to be sure,” Akua agreed.


    “Any guesses?” I inquired.


    “No word was sent,” she replied, “which suggests this is likely trivial.”


    She said that, but I noticed the way her gaze swept the crowd. It also didn’t hold much weight. A large gathering near the administration buildings caught my eye. It wasn’t long before they craned their necks and pointed in our direction. My stomach churned as they smiled and cheered. That… somehow made it worse.


    None of them looked hungry or desperate. They never did. The Sahelians took care of their own people, and — despite their many sins — the loyalty that bought felt almost unshakable. It was heady in a way that put acid on my tongue.


    Power. Not the messy kind, but distilled and clean.


    And I felt it all the more keenly with Heiress beside me.


    Power tempts when others bow, doesn’t it? William felt the same.


    The words landed harder than I wanted to admit.


    Wolof had become too familiar. Evil lay buried beneath the pretty coat. And yet there was something undeniably alluring to me about it regardless. I almost laughed. Bitter, dry, unpleasant. I detested it because I could feel it pulling me in. How long before I looked in a mirror and started to like the person looking back?


    The road’s always there. It just gets narrower with every step, the voice offered.


    I’ve burned a few too many bridges for that, I argued.


    What binds you here, truly? Is it duty, or something else? The voice asked.


    You’re as useful as tits on a bull, I snapped.


    I know little of silk and poison, it countered.


    Seems like you don’t know much at all, I pressed.


    My mental parasite paused.


    Swinging swords or being a hero, it replied.


    Well, finally something useful. It only took it five months to come up with that gem. And even “useful” was a stretch. I’d have been better served with a sheep for company. At least a sheep wouldn’t waste its time begging me to leave for Procer. I also doubted it held any truth. It’d given me plenty of commentary on both philosophy and politics.


    Got any useful ideas on how to wade through this snake pit without coming out fanged myself? I challenged.


    The voice was quiet for a while.


    Remember what keeps this place standing, it said, fading away.


    As if I could forget.


    The stories about demons were never far from my mind. They were the worst kind of Praesi horror, the kind that kept me awake at night. Yet they were the foundation this city stood on. They kept the streets clean. They kept the people alive.


    Smiling faces passed by, blissfully unaware of what kept their peace intact. Or worse, aware but indifferent. It was hard to reconcile the immaculate streets with the secrets I’d learned. The people of Wolof were free of the madness that plagued the rest of Calernia. Free of the madness the Aspirant unleashed. They didn’t even seem to know — or care — what it had taken to make that freedom possible.


    My fingers clenched.


    This city lived up to its reputation in every way.


    “You look like someone just suggested you visit the House of Light, Catherine,” Akua pretended concern. “What’s on your mind?”


    Her voice was like velvet wrapped around a blade.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    “The folly of heroes,” I lied.


    Our carriage clattered past the kufuna, turning onto a broader avenue. Outside, students traded black stones with grim efficiency. It wasn’t just teaching betrayal; it was elevating it to an art form. No, more than that. A tool to determine whose blood would wet the altar when the famine struck.


    I brushed aside the unease in my thoughts.


    The system was revolting, but it worked. Efficient. Ruthless. I’d known hunger before. I knew what it was like to be desperate. Would Callow have embraced something like this to keep its people fed?


    Probably.


    I loathed that I couldn’t fault them for it.


    The carriage halted before the Empyrean Palace, an absurd name that somehow felt earned. The architecture was every bit as grandiose as its title promised, towering marble and gilded trim almost enough to make me forget the Evil within. Almost.


    We passed through the main doors into the greeting halls and flashed our tokens to the ever-present guards. A waste of time, if Praes wasn’t brimming with assassins and spies. Then came half a mile of white and pink marble. The Grand Gallery. Was the pink natural? Or bloodstained? Either would fit this den of snakes.


    It suits you, the voice in my head commented wryly.


    Choke on it, why don’t you? I retorted.


    Why? You’ve shaped yourself to survive here, though survival has its price.


    I ignored it, stepping past the threshold gates into Issa’s Garden. Servants bowed low as we passed, eyes glued to the floor. Soon enough, we reached the parlour where High Lady Tasia was supposed to meet us.


    Or so I thought.


    “Lady Akua, Novice,” a familiar voice greeted. “May the Gods turn a blind eye to your schemes.”


    Sargon Sahelian. He leaned against the hickory door frame, all awkward angles and unfortunate proportions. Most Sahelians were strikingly beautiful. He wasn’t, which made him all the more dangerous. I suspected that many tombstones dismissed him too easily.


    “Sargon,” I said, matching Akua’s polite venom. “Always a pleasure.”


    “I’m afraid you’ll have to return later,” he commiserated. “Mother is engaged in negotiations with the other High Seats.”


    “Is there any particular reason for this delay?” Akua asked, arching a perfect eyebrow.


    “The Empire’s unravelling, and the provinces are starting to eat each other,” he explained.


    “Surely you jest,” Akua said, amused.


    “But no less true,” he declared. “The Tyrant of Helike has resurfaced after his extended absence and taken Liesse. Furthermore, the Ravel Bank’s coin has all disappeared.”


    Liesse, conquered? When? How? Helike? Why?


    It was difficult to appreciate the sheer level of absurdity contained within that one small sentence.


    “How did this state of affairs come to pass?” Akua inquired.


    “The Tyrant of Helike marched his army through the Waning Woods,” Sargon explained.


    “Did he really?” someone blurted out.


    My cheeks reddenned when I realized the someone was me. Akua’s brief flicker of surprise was the only solace I had. At least I wasn’t the only one caught off guard.


    “We are certain,” Sargon replied, sounding amused. “It’s been confirmed by over a dozen agents.”


    “Well,” Akua said slowly. “The provinces burn while Wolof remains steady,” her mask returned, “this is an opportunity, wouldn’t you agree?”


    Hasn''t Callow suffered enough under one Tyrant?


    I bit down on my anger and frowned. Wolof had been distancing itself from the Ravel Bank for months, trading away fae coin for anything more stable. Callow hadn’t been so lucky. The Reluctant Strategist’s “gift” had flooded our economy. The High Seats might get ideas if Callow’s economy collapsed. And, well, without their funding the Legions of Terror would fall apart. The Black Knight’s soldiers were loyal, but loyalty didn’t fill empty stomachs.


    “The worthy will rise,” I parroted.


    I’ll eat the rubies on my heels If the Empress missed this.


    “I’ll dig into it,” she declared. “We’ll speak again once I’ve gathered more. The servants will alert you.”


    The dismissal didn’t surprise me. Trust had no place within the Empyrean Palace. There were many secrets I had to discover on my own. It was even expected of me. She swept off without a backward glance and headed towards the parts of the palace I wasn’t allowed to see.


    You’d think her world was falling apart, the way she rushed off.


    I snorted. It wasn’t wrong. This was Wolof. Excessive curiosity didn’t just kill here, it eviscerated and left only silence as a warning. Alive sounded smarter than dead, so I turned back to the Western Wing. Time to visit my friend while I dwelled on our next move.


    A quick knock at her door. No answer. Another knock. Still nothing.


    A sinking feeling twisted in my gut. Shadows writhed in the gap beneath the door and tore through half a dozen trigger mechanisms. I turned the handle and stepped inside. Abigail lay on the bed, shivering, her sunburned face pale as bleached bone. My gut twisted into knots, panic scratching at the edges of my resolve.


    There were days when impassive Catherine believed she’d surpassed the capacity to panic.


    Then there were days like this.


    “Abby, you still with me?” I whispered.


    Her eyes fluttered open—barely. Glazed, distant. She shuddered, her body jerking like a string was pulled too tight and about to snap. Fever. No, not fever. This was the Empyrean Palace. A wizard would’ve helped with fever. It could only be poison. My palm pressed to her forehead, and the heat radiating off her skin could’ve boiled water.


    “You’re burning up,” I muttered. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it. I always do, right?”


    I glanced around the room, hoping for something—anything—that would give me a hint as to the source. A half-eaten dish, incense burning too faintly to notice at first, maybe even an empty glass. Nothing. Just a bare room, Abigail trembling under thin blankets, and me.


    “Stupid,” I hissed. “So very, very stupid.”


    Why did I bring her here? Why had I thought this would be fine? Praes chewed people up and spat them out, and I’d dragged my only friend into it like she was just another tool. Sure, she’d asked to come. She’d been lost, broken, clutching my arm like it was the only thing keeping her afloat. But still.


    Her body jerked again, cutting through my thoughts. Sweat rolled down her too-pale face. My stomach twisted into knots. Not a simple toxin. Something more insidious. Slower.


    Her arm was limp as I lifted it, pulling back her sleeve. Nothing. No rash, no swelling. That ruled out Melasax and Grinth’s Cord. Paralysis wasn’t setting in, either. Thryssine? No, the fever didn’t match.


    I let out a string of muttered curses as my mind raced through the catalogue of fascinating ways to kill people I’d learned about during my stay. Mirithene? That could fit. It was a fruity poison often added to drinks. I quite liked the taste. Subtle, slow-acting—meant for a long, drawn-out death. I forced her mouth open to check her tongue. Not swollen. Damn it. Not Mirithene either.


    “Shit,” I exclaimed.


    Think, Cat. Think.


    Praesi games. There’s always a reason. Whoever did this wanted something from me. Sure, they might’ve poisoned Abigail just for fun, but they wouldn’t have used something I didn’t recognize unless they wanted to twist the knife.


    I started tearing the room apart. Drawers, cupboards, the underside of the bed. It wasn’t pretty or quiet, but I didn’t care. Something had to be here. Some kind of clue. I found it under her pillow. A crumpled piece of parchment marred by the stench of sweat.


    The note was terse, while still dripping with condescension in the way only my hosts could achieve. A list of names, some crossed out, and a brief reminder of Abigail’s “failing health.” The letter made no threats or demands. It didn’t need to. The message was implied. Kill these people. Then, maybe, they’d consider an antidote.


    My fingers clenched around the paper. Shadows began curling at my heels.


    “Ma… Da… are you alive?…” Abigail whispered deliriously. “Why… won’t you answer me? Cat… are they there?”


    Her words hit like a knife between my ribs. Fever dreams. Her family’s screams had echoed in the siege’s final moments. The flames had consumed them while I dragged her away.


    “I… I followed you…” she said as she shivered, “but what if it was wrong? What if I should’ve stayed…? It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t… I don’t want to… I don’t want to die like them.”


    Her voice cracked, and the sob that followed shredded what little composure I had left.


    “You’re not dying on me, Abby,” I protested. “I’ll drag you back myself if I have to.”


    The room was too small, too stifling. I needed to move. To think. To do something.


    Whoever did this thought they had leverage. That I’d roll over and play their little game. They’d get nothing from me but regret.


    What else did I know?


    Anyone who tried this was important enough that they believed they could get away with it. Interrogating the servants would lead nowhere. They''d remain loyal to whoever was pulling the strings, even if I used some of the more creative tricks I’d learned.


    No, that couldn’t be it.


    I wasn’t going to let my only friend die. Abigail was the last shred of decency left in my life, and I’d be damned before I let this place take her from me.


    The surrounding shadows thickened as I paced. The names on the list might have a pattern, but that felt like a waste of time. Whoever was behind this would’ve thrown in a few unfortunate souls to keep me off the trail. It’s what I would’ve done in their place.


    There was no guarantee they’d provide an antidote. The Praesi nobility had a fondness for cruelty. I doubted this one would be any different. They wouldn’t honour the other side of the deal.


    No. There was no trust here. And that suited me just fine.


    The real clue was the poison itself. Abigail dying meant they’d lose all their leverage. It wasn’t a quick poison. No, it was a slow death. The kind designed to make me watch and despair. Days, maybe longer. That gave me time. Time to dig, to hunt, to tear through whatever miserable plot they’d spun and gouge out their eyes for daring.


    The knot in my stomach tightened as I stalked out her room. The first servant I ran into quivered as I addressed them.


    “Make sure she’s taken care of,” I ordered.


    “It will be done,” she stammered, “esteemed guest.”


    The halls felt stifling as I continued. Too many servants, too many nobles skulking about. I walked quickly, searching faces for anything suspicious. The pit in my stomach only grew as I returned to my quarters.


    Someone had left tea on my desk. A delicate silver tray with steaming cups.


    “Not now,” I muttered, ignoring the sickly sweet smell and brushing past it.


    The bookshelves loomed ahead. Ars Tactica and volumes on military strategy caught my eye. My study material for my “future” as the Black Knight. I’d even received a small army of mercenaries from Mercantis to go along with it. Not that strategy or soldiers would help me purge poisons.


    I reached for a tome on toxins instead. High Lady Tesia Sahelian had practically preened when I’d asked to learn about them, calling my interest in poisons “proof that the provinces can be civilized.” One day, I’d show her exactly how civilized I was when she choked on her own fingers.


    The first book was a dead end. I scowled and tossed it aside before grabbing another. Then another. My fingers flicked through pages faster and faster. The books were old, their pages yellowed and crumbling under my touch. I didn’t care. The knot in my stomach grew tighter with every empty answer.


    Nothing.


    I slammed the last tome shut and laughed bitterly. It wasn’t funny, but I needed to make some sound, or I was going to start screaming. The tea tray rattled as I shoved the book aside. Dust and desperation coated the back of my throat.


    Fine. The unrestricted sections of the library were next. Maybe I’d find something there. Or maybe I’d hurt the librarian until they told me what I needed. A knock at the door interrupted that thought. A servant shuffled in, trembling like I was about to bite his head off.


    “Esteemed Novice,”  he stammered, bowing low enough that I could have balanced a teacup on his back. “There’s an invitation for you. Lady Akua has invited you to a theatre performance after the meeting with High Lady Tasia.”


    Akua.


    The name hit me like a punch to the gut. I took the note with a trembling hand. It was perfumed. Of course it was. I read the words, though I already knew what they’d say.


    She’d know what poison it was. She wouldn’t tell me — otherwise the lesson on protecting that which is precious to me wouldn’t stick — but she’d know. And the worst part? I couldn’t even bring myself to hate her the way I should.


    Not the way I hated all the other nobles in this cursed city.


    My jaw tightened.


    Still, this presented an opportunity. She might be untouchable, but others weren’t. My hands moved without thought, filling a small pouch with a few carefully chosen poisons. I’d track down master herbalists and see how far their loyalty extended — or how easily it could be twisted.


    If that failed… well. I’d give Akua a theatre performance worthy of her curated tastes. All I needed was the right audience — a deserving target with the skills necessary to make my problem theirs.


    And in Praes, there was never a shortage of deserving targets.