Viitor continued to push his armasar, though the animal was barely able to remain standing on its own, let alone with a grown male on his back. But the clan was only a single mile out from the gates of the city. They had walked nearly half the length of the continent in an effort to escape the militia at their last encampment. Viitor had not wanted to stop in that region at all but his clan had marched past their limits and needed rest. They had planned to stay only long enough to eat and get a few hours of sleep then continue, because Viitor had known that the area was not friendly to magic users. In the middle of the night the local militia had come to investigate the smoke from their fires and gave the clan of 1500 members one hour to pack and get over the province's border before they began to take prisoners. The clan had hurried but did not manage to cross the border before five of their members were taken. A wife of one of the males had charged the soldiers in an attempt to save her husband and had been greeted with an arrow through her right eye. Most of the clan had screamed and retreated but Viitor, in a rage, had turned his armasar, Caine, around and charged toward the soldiers. Several arrows flew past him and a swordsman rode towards him on his horse, but Viitor only had to thrust out his hand and the swordsman fell off of his horse, fast asleep. The other three men had been archers, on foot. Viitor directed Caine towards the man who had shot the female and Caine penned the man to the ground. The other men had run away at the sight of the giant hound. Viitor slipped down from Caine's back and bent down to look at the man. As he removed the man's helmet he saw that the man was paying him no attention, for he was completely focused on Caine's bared teeth. Viitor placed his long, green thumb and forefinger on the man's forehead and temple and closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids he saw visions of a woman stirring a pot, smiling at him, the same woman kissing him passionately as he left home, then he saw a little boy with a small, toy bow and arrow acting like his father. Viitor took these visions and manipulated them. The woman was now covered in bloody, painful pox, she lay in bed dying of a fever. The boy was starving in an orphanage, bruised from being beaten. Viitor opened his eyes and looked down at the horrified, miserable face of the man as tears ran down the sides of his face. "Now you see.", Viitor said to the man. "You have stolen a mother away from her child, and attempted to take his father as well. You see the pain that it brings to watch the one you love die. You see the suffering of an orphan child." The man was now looking at Viitor through his tears, no longer caring what Caine could do to him. "I hope that from this point on, when you raise your bow, you think on these visions." Viitor raised his hand and the man fell into a fitful sleep. Viitor mounted Caine once more and led his people across the border before the reinforcements, that he knew would be coming, arrived. Three days later, with very little food or water, and no sleep, they now approached a safe haven. Viitor was sad that he had needed to use his power in that way. He felt that it was a senseless act that would only intensify the man's fear of the magical arts. But, as he rode through the gates of the friendly city, Viitor felt relieved knowing that his clan would be safe. His relief was tainted, however, with the knowledge that he had only been able to protect most of his clan.

Ira had left her side of the bed cold and bare as the King awoke from his sleep.

It was not an unusual occurrence, for the Queen to rise far before him. Not only was she nearly twelve years his elder, but she was also very dedicated to ensuring that their keep was in working order. She had little trust for the work of aides and their subservients.

King Alvar Thrayne III was a long title for a man little more than a boy, but it was his own. And while the long illustrious history of great works all file under the work of the name Thrayne, Alvar had little use for it.

Ira concerned herself far more with the business of Dyraen than Alvar even cared to. Had it not been for rights of secession, Alvar would’ve rather she handle the business of the lands he ruled than he. For this was a position he did not enjoy.

The Thrayne Family hailed from Delta—the city-turned-military base that made it easier to brief former and future royalty on the inner workings of the Dyraenian Force that the King held under him. It was there that Alvar grew in age, and there that Alvar longed for the most. Where most saw a stronghold of power, Alvar simply saw home.

It wasn’t very long ago at all.

But his father grew ill and passed in a fortnight, and the next day Alvar had left Delta for their nation’s capital of Highcove, and he had been present in these lands ever since.

Here, he was no longer Alvar, but King Thrayne III, boy ruler of Dyraen and surrounding lands. A position he thought he would assume in his later years. He was married off quickly to a woman nearly as old as his mother, in order to affirm the power in the Thrayne name. The elders in his family had held royal power for over a hundred years, and did not plan to let anyone take this away them. Even if it meant marrying a child to a grown woman.

Ira was nice to him, no doubt, but seemed happier in meetings with military leaders than at dinner with him. And he supposed he could not blame her. At these meetings she would tell him what others said, and he would either agree or disagree with their will. Mainly, agreeing seemed easier for him.

Lately, a new topic of discussion has come up—Ira wants to see to the end of prostitution on a national scale. She claims the immorality is damaging the reputation of Dyraen and causing the food shortages. Alvar feels like it’s unimportant, but only wants to appease her. His aides tell him such a ruling would be damaging to Pare and other cities reliant on the industry, but Ira claims otherwise.

Today would be the day he needed to decide.

So Alvar climbed out of bed, and prepared for another day of sitting and listening. Best to let the others decide Dyraen’s fate. He hadn’t lived in it for very long anyways.



Emara leaned her small frame up against a post near the back of the theater.

In front of her, rows upon rows of travelers and locals alike would soon fill the space, all gathered and ready to see what sort of tricks and magic would be performed on the stage.

Currently, each entertainer had been running through their typical routines. Men with their rowdy and sexual stories. Dwarves would come and make men livid as they performed party tricks with their women. A traveling Tigan would soon follow, with light forms of magic—something hard to find in Dyraen, but not so much in Pare.

Pare was the town each person in the Known World would visit at some point or another, but few would dwell longer than a weekend. It was the kind of town known for it’s crude nature and simple pleasures. All walks of life traveled here, either human from the east and west, or supernatural from the south. The only safe path for the nonhuman to travel to Pare was through another magic-friendly city to the south and east by the name of Lyrran, and even then, it was a dangerous path.

Once here, however, things grew much happier. There was no need to fear magic when it was celebrated all around you for cheap tricks and more gold. So the other races would come and go as they could, all venturing out the Yulerd Wood at some point or another, where all magic in Dyraen lie.

Satisfied with the practice performance, Emara slipped out from the theater and traveled quickly to her work.

It was dreary out this particular day—the sun was blotted out by grey, and the dirt floors became caked onto Emara’s boots and dress as mud. By the time she found her way to the staircase to work, she looked dreadful.

“I wouldn’t want that ‘one” Emara heard a voice to her left call out. She turned her head to see a burly, massive man pointing to her. His friend, another brute, laughed as they locked eyes.

“You said they’d be a cleaner lot,” the friend said. Emara paid their perversion no mind, ascending the steps and opening the door inside.

“If only they knew who they’d spoken to,” Emara muttered to herself.

In here, many of her employees milled about, cleaning the last of their bodies and dressing themselves accordingly. One of them, a wench that had grown rather fond of Emara, made her way over to her.

“Heavens, you’re filthy,” she said, kind as she could. “Is it that bad out?”

The wench approached Emara, but she pushed her away. “You’ve already prepared for the evening,” Emara said, “No need to make yourself filthy again. But yes, it’s miserable out.”

The patter of raindrops could be heard on the ceiling as Emara called attention to her workers. Her co-owner, Alren, was nowhere to be found, so Emara would need to start the evening of work herself.

“Take care of yourselves tonight, girls,” Emara said. “I’ve seen more cruelty on our streets as of late. Be sure to keep a mindful eye.”

“Yes, Emara,” the girls said in unison. Over years of work, Emara and Alren had built up enough blind trust into these women to ensure both their security and their income.

Owning a brothel in Pare was hard and dangerous work. But, in Emara’s mind, if she did not fight for the place she had built, she’d soon be forced to work within it.

Better to be the pimp than the whore.

At that moment, Alren finally showed his face, and Emara took her leave.

“I leave you with Alren,” she said to the girls, “I’ll be back once I’ve cleaned up.”

“Yes, Emara,” came the unified response, and Emara made her way into her private room, taking the time to bathe the filth away.

Sometimes she wondered how she had become the co-owner of one of Pare’s finest brothels. Perhaps it had been her resilience to prove her worth, or possibly a matter of luck.

Either way, the past did not matter now. All that mattered was the gold she could bring in to finally retire from this dreadful place.

“Emara,” a voice came, gently. She turned to see Alren at her door. Her co-worker, as well as her lover, he was truly a partner in crime. That is, if Dyraen even got around to banning prostitution. “A customer has a complaint. I wanted to ask what you thought I should do.”

“What is it?” Emara asked, sitting up in the bathtub.

“He’s upset that the girl he is with has slept with a Lleylian. He claims he wants his money back to go to a brothel with honor.”

Emara thought for a moment, frustrated. This is Pare, she thought. Not Irianson. Did he expect me to turn down customers due to their race?

“Tell him he is free to choose another girl,” Emara said, “but there will not be a refund.”

Alren nodded, dropping his ceremonious conversation, and talking to Emara as she was—his wife.

“I wanted to give the bastard a refund,” he admitted. “Just to get him to leave.”

“We can’t afford to be rash anymore, Alren,” Emara said. “Not when business has been slowing so much. Not when Thrayne III weighs our livelihoods in his mind. If he bans prostitution, we need to be ready. And that means saving all that we can.”

Alren nodded, and left Emara in peace. She feared the power a young boy hundreds of miles away from her had. And it was not only fear, but anger.

Anger that the King has yet to visit their town when it brings so much gold into their country. And anger at his new wife from Irianson—a town known for it’s strict bans on prostitution and magic.

Only time would tell what would become of Emara and Alren’s way of life.

An arrow swiped through the air, cutting through the air like an eagle. A bright green wisp followed it, stopping at it's target: a light brown pheasant. Dinner with friends.

"Wonderful sir, splendid! Simply incredible! You've still got it, Your Highness!" I hope that I can be just as spry..."

Merys tried to drown out his servant's compliments. In old age, it was as if simply rising from the bed each morning was a miracle, and the neverending commendations and endorsements only grew larger and more lengthy from anyone that wasn't close to him. Except for Jopilia, his personal butler/maid/guard. Although they had known each other for decades, Jopilia seemed to think that Merys' very existence was a marvel.

Standing at just over five feet tall, Merys was just a tad shorter than the rest of his people. He was agile, sharp, and limber for being somewhat elderly, just over 50 years old. One might have even mistaken him for lanky, but they would have been quickly proved wrong by his haste. He wore simple hunting clothes, with a crown atop his head made from woven twigs and brush. He dressed practically and comfortably, as anyone should.

The green wisp examined the corpse. An arrow straight to the chest. Dead on impact. Is was quite a good shot, in fact, and the wisp flew around the body in excitement as Merys and Jopilia climbed down, examining the catch. As they approached, the wisp retreated, and flew inside of Merys through his torso.

"Not too bad." spoke Merys. "This should be enough. Let's head back."

Merys retrieved his arrow and cleaned the outside a bit before tossing it into his knapsack. Inside lay two other pheasants and some gonkri fruit, which were the soft, orange, and somewhat large spawn of the Gonkri tree itself. The nutritional value of the Gonkri fruit itself would be enough for a meal, but the pheasant would be a nice addition to a fine meal. Then the two began their journey back.

This was a dense part of the forest, just between Acrofti, a small military encampment, and Yelipi, the capital of Kuliria, and where Merys lived. The two older Lleylian men swung from tree to tree, dodging branches, thick brush, and even other animals. Their movement was almost melodic. It was as if they knew exactly where to grab the branches before even arriving. A bright green light glowed from within Merys as he made his trek alongside Jopilia. Dark greens and browns blurred in the wind past Merys' vision, ostensibly blowing back the graying fur on his body. They had arrived before ten minutes had passed, barely breaking a sweat.

Yelipi laid before them in a very dense part of the forest, with more trees and assembled wooden bridges making up the "wall" surrounding the city. The entire place was packed together, covering only roughly four square miles of territory. Most of the constructions were built upon the treetops, just below and inside of the canopies. Several buildings lay upon the forest floor, connecting to the treetops by crank elevators and climbing nets. Members of the royal guard recognized Merys immediately, letting him and his manservant through. They stopped in a poorer district of the marketplace, and Merys turned to Jopilia.

"Leave me for now." demanded Merys. "I have personal matters to attend to. Thank you for-"

Of course, Jopilia interrupted.

"No, sir, are you sure? You still have several meetings to attend to this evening! I know how you are, and you'll forget, and before... Sir?"

Before the servant had time to finish, Merys quickly departed from Jopilia, understanding that he would get nowhere with that conversation. At least the thanks had been given, as well as counsel received. Jopilia returned to the wooden castle, chores ever on his mind.

---

Merys made his way through the weaving bridges and stalls of the marketplace, an exceedingly unorganized mess where vendors could attempt to sell anything they could get their hands on, so long as it was within the bounds of law. It was also a very filthy place, where vagrants and the ill took residence. It was a place that Merys visited often.

He spotted a Swantiri family of three huddled together by a fire for warmth. It wasn't much; just a few limbs and sprigs circled in a pile. Merys approached them in humility, bowing and introducing himself. He asked to sit and eat with them.

That night, Merys dined on a hearty meal with an unfortunate family.

These are the people that Merys fought for.

The chambers of High Keep were sparse and empty.

Thrayne I filled these halls with great feasts and sculptures from around all the known world, and Thrayne II would occasionally hold a great feast with the Lords of Dyraen, filling the halls with the beautiful music of Pare and of Central Valley.

Thrayne III was much less inclined for the matters of music and feasts. After the sudden death of his father, he ordered much of the Keep’s treasures either sold or returned to his homestead of Delta. As such, when Kiran roamed these halls in thought, his footfalls could be heard from hundreds of feet away.

Kiran was much more introspective now, more than ever.

He was, among many other things, a servant. For Kiran was a Stout, and the Stouts served the Thraynes for nearly a hundred years.

He remembered a time when Thrayne III was much younger than before; back when he was simply known as little Alvar, during a visit to Delta:

—

”Lord Stout?” Alvar had asked one day, as Kiran explained to the boy the lands under his father’s rule. “You said you were from Yulden Rise.”

“Yes, my child,” Kiran had answered simply.

“Why did you leave your home for Highcove?”

Kiran pursed his lips, unsure of how to explain such bloody history to a young child. After a moment, he came with his response: “Remember, child, how I told you that Dyraen was many countries in one, once?”

“Yes, my Lord.” Alvar responded.

“Many years ago, my grandfather was the ruler of one of those countries. That was Yulden Rise. He was good friends with your own grandfather, Thrayne I. And our grandfathers knew, that separate we were a weak people. The magical creatures of the land knew this. From the Tigan and Kulerians, to even the ancient Bachazar, they would soon sense our weakness. So we decided to join together, and unite the nations under our own.”

“So why must you live in Highcove?” Alvar asked again.

“Because of the unity,” Kiran explained, “Our families were joined together. The Thraynes are a family of strength and power, so they were the family that would rule the new nation. And the Stouts were powerful in material, industry, and wisdom, so they remained in Yulden Rise, and sent their firstborn to aide the king.”

“Do you want to aide my father?” Alvar asked. “Or was it because you had to?”

“It is a great honor to serve the King,” Kiran said. “I don’t take it lightly. I was bred for this position, just as you were bred to serve as King after your father.”

“I don’t want to be King,” Alvar had said. “I want to stay here, in Delta.”

“We do not get to choose our circumstances, dear Alvar,” Kiran explained. “Only what we do which the life we are given.”

—

That was years ago. Now, Thrayne II was dead, and Alvar was now Thrayne III, King of Highcove and all Dyraen, sovereign Lord over All Men. And Kiran would serve him, as he served his father before him, and as his father served him before, and on it would go.

Perhaps one day Thrayne III would be ready for the full truth of the matter. How has grandfather and Kiran’s had actually not united the great nations, but crushed them and beat them into submission. Why it was dangerous for Ira of Irianson to be his wife.

For Ira was of Irianson, and how rebellious Irianson grew by the day.

There was much to fear and much to do, yet little work being done.

A sad time indeed. It was times like these that Kiran felt his age, his waning years approaching him. He would need to retire soon, and his son Ian would reign. The new generation learning from the past, crafting a better future.

Hopefully Kiran would leave behind a world worth living in.



Morning had come to Pare, and yet the storms over Pare remained.

A few leaks had sprung about in the brothel; causing Emara and Alren to loose sleep, placing buckets to catch the water before it rotted their wooden floor.

Once the last of their patrons had left their work and home, Emara and Alren emerged, taking stock, claiming their shares of the prostitute’s wages, and helping them clean up after the men who had laid with them the night before.

One of the wenches, Harlen, approached Emara, asking to speak with her alone. Typically, issues concerning patrons were sorted through Alren, but Emara agreed, and the two women closed the door to Harlen’s room, and sat on her working bed.

“The man I was servicing last night,” Harlen started, “he grew into a furious rage when he learned I had slept with a Lleylian.” Her red locks of hair shook in front of her face, and she seemed very near crying. A spot upon her face was still stained a crimson red. “He struck me hard across the face, and demanded a refund.”

“Alren told me,” Emara admitted. “I’m very sorry you had to experience that.”

“He went to another brothel without a refund, or so he told me,” Harlen admitted. “But he told me I would pay for having touch him with unclean hands. He threatened to bring his whole party back to beat me.”

Harlen let a tear fall down her face, and Emara held the young woman to her. Many of her prostitutes were experienced, hard women; still young in face but old in wisdom. But Harlen was a new recruit; her doe-like eyes and deep, red hair set her apart as a beauty, no doubt, but she had never spoken of her origins or her past.

“We’ll have the other girls buy your goods for you,” Emara said. “You don’t have to leave until you feel comfortable. And I’ll get Alren to find out who this man is for you. We’ll tell you when he leaves.”

“Thank you, Emara,” Harlen said, now more solemnly. She held Emara in a tight embrace, which worried her. Growing close relations to these girls was a dangerous game. Playing favorites could lead to accusations, or worse.

“Do not be ashamed to admit your fear,” Emara said. “You must embrace your fear if you wish to overcome it.”

Harlen nodded into Emara’s shoulder, letting out a shudder. She seemed little more than a girl.

“Is it true,” Emara asked. Her curiosity had gotten to the best of her. “You have been with a Lleylian.”

Harlen composed herself, sitting up and wiping her face clean. “It’s true,” she admitted. “I am from Lyrran, where the Yulerd Forest envelops our lands and the magic of the forest may sometimes escape. I was good friends with a Lleylian as a child. He was my best friend, and, in time, a lover of mine.”

“What came of this Lleylian?” Emara asked.

Harlen looked to her mistress with pained eyes. “He was killed by a man of Irianson. Over a matter of thirty gold.”



Ira tended not to be physical with Alvar, but that standard was easily broken when she seemed to want something.

She had ambushed Alvar easily in his chambers, as his servants helped dress him for his meeting with aides and Lords. It would be here he would decide what would be done with prostitution in their lands.

“Your grace!” She had exclaimed, shooing away his servants with no more than a motion of her hand. “It feels like it’s been so long long since I’ve seen you.”

Ira approached Alvar, and stroked the stubble upon his face. “You could grow a respectable beard if you wished, your grace. Like your fathers.”

Alvar winced at her words, but couldn’t deny her fully. Ira was a older woman, sure; her age showing in gentle wrinkles along her eyes and face. But she remained as sharp and beautiful and the Wretched Peaks. And just as scary, too.

“Perhaps when I’m older,” Alvar dismissed.

“You are nearly twenty, Thrayne III,” Ira announced. “You are rightfully of age to do as you please. Do not be swayed by those far older than you.”

It was an ironic statement, coming from her.

Alvar looked up to Ira, giving a gentle grin. “You think me as naive, my wife. I know you want my ruling to be in your favor.”

“Oh, let us not talk of rulings now,” Ira said, pulling her husband to her breast. “When is the last time we simply enjoyed each other?”

Alvar frowned, although he doubted Ira could see it. The number of times the two had made love since their marriage less than a year ago, Alvar was unsure of. But he was sure it seemed to coincide with various rulings, demands, and favors. Still…it was hard not to take advantage of the situation.

“Can we discuss this later?” Ira breathed out, her body motioning for the bed. Alvar sighed, but moved with her to the bed. Dressing himself would need to come later.

—

An hour has passed, and now Alvar found himself surrounded by many men with many titles. This was the Regency Room - a place where Alvar would decide matters of the nation.

He sat to the left of his wife, Ira, and Lord Stout, High Chancellor of Highcove and personal aide to the King. Two very different people to him, both far elder, and of highly different minds.

Ira, his wife, was of Irianson—stronghold of the east. Few ventured into the high walls of the castle city, and even fewer ventured out. She had been married to him in an effort to make amends for Thrayne II and his distaste for the Irianite people.

Lord Stout was another elder man, this one given to him by his late father. As a Stout has always served a Thrayne, Alvar took him on ceremoniously, but was growing to like his ideals. However, dealing with both of them took some dealing, and usually Alvar took to conceding to whoever seems the more arguable.

Also present in the room was the Chief Officer of the Dyraenian force, as well as the Heartspeaker— a representative of the “heart” of their nation, and specifically of Pare and of Lyrran. His position was creative to quell a strike on timber and textiles years prior.

“I urge you, your grace,” Ira continued from her earlier digression, “prostitution causes nothing but suffering for our people. It is a spreader of disease and of low class lust. Irianson has done long and prosperously without condoning such acts.”

“We’re well aware of Irianson’s laws, Queen Ira,” the Heartspeaker interjected. He knew Ira on a personal level, and loved to drop the ceremonious “your grace” in order to prove it. “You bring up such matters each time we convene here, in the Regency Room.”

“Your grace” Ira muttered under her breath, cut off by the Chief Officer’s statement.

“You see,” the Chief Officer spoke, “Your grace’s military force is mostly unaffected by these matters. If crime moves from the brothels to the taverns, it will take the same prudent vigilance to remove it. However, I must concede it improves morale for our men.”

“Is that how you want to be remembered?” Queen Ira said, grasping at Alvar’s shoulder. “As the man who let his army lay with whores?” 

“The removal of prostitution does not come freely,” Kiran finally spoke. His weathered tone rang fresh in the king’s ears. “Our cities such as Lyrran hold wealth in the matter. And Pare depends on it’s traveling guests. It will be of great cost to them to impose such a law.”

“Lord Stout is right, your grace,” the Heartspeaker said. “Our people need the money these travelers bring in, and slavery is not tolerated in our lands. Each worker is of their own free mind to do so. To bring prostitution to an end would spell doom for Pare.”

“Then let Pare suffer,” Ira said, her intonation taking her into the realm of screaming. “It is of no use to us. That center for sin and indulgence has been allowed free reign far too long. Not only does it harbor sin, but those against our own kind as well.”

“Might I remind you, my Queen,” Kiran spoke, “that those of all races are freely permitted in all cities. Even those who wish to enter Irianson.”

A deep silence entered the room, for it was common knowledge that only suffering would ever come to a nonhuman creature that entered Irianson—law or no law.

But again Ira spoke: “I speak not of other races but of deceitful creatures in other races. They nearly brought an end to Irianson. Let them not bring an end to the center of our country.”

“So now you fight for Pare?” the Heartspeaker asked. “I understand the history of Irianson is long and bloody. So is that of many of our cities that were once their own country. But we are united now, and we must remain so. The law must be uniform throughout all Dyraen. There must be no exception. If anything, Irianson’s ban on magic should be further discussed—not this talk of prostitution. Our draconian laws on magic are half the reason the people starve in the streets.”

Ira ventured to speak, but was silenced by Alvar’s hand, which raised quickly and demanded silence. The other hand ventured to his face, grasping the bridge of his nose.

He had heard enough.

“I must sleep on these matters,” he spoke. “I do not take these matters lightly. We reconvene here in the morning. You are all dismissed.”

Nodding, each member of this meeting rose, bowed, and exited. All except for Ira, who remained.

“Your grace, I—“

“You are dismissed, Ira,” Alvar cut off. “I do not wish to discuss this further.”

Ira froze at first, than delivered a cut nod, before excusing herself from the room. She might have been an Irianite at heart, but she new decorum, and she knew when Alvar as not pleased.

Alvar had once thought the crown meant bringing hope to his people. Yet he sat in a Regency Room, listening to the quarrels of elders, while his childhood friends fought in his army and indulged themselves in his city.

Above all, he felt rather wasted here. If the elders wanted to bicker about their future, perhaps he should simply give them what they wanted.

That was, if they could ever agree on anything.

Sunlight pushed its way through the thick, blue glass and gently nudged Grozav awake. He rose slowly and stretched.

He was immediately ill at ease...his throat was sore. Grozav was a special case in that his powers of foresight usually manifested themselves physically rather than mentally. For instance, when it was about to rain, instead of simply having a dream about rain, his knees would ache, or when he was expecting a visitor, his nose itched. But today his throat was sore, and that meant bad news was on the way.

Grozav quickly put on his yellow, silk council robes and headed to the council chamber. Grozav was the only member of the council in the city at present but the chamber still functioned as his primary work space.

The other members of the council were not here because they were out leading their respective clans.

You see, when the island of Teren de Tijan had been pulled from the ocean as a refuge for the Tijan, the council had been formed. Each clan would send a representative to sit on the council, usually a close friend or family member of the chief, if not the chiefs themselves. However, when the council was formed, it was decided that a fifth member must be appointed, to avoid ties, and also to assure that the city was never without a leader. The Tijan were reluctant to give up their nomadic lifestyle in favor of living in a giant, glass palace on a tiny island. But in the end it was decided that a member of the Divinatie would be the best choice. With their ability to both see the future, and sense the thoughts and feelings of others, they were the clear choice to lead. So a male was chosen from their ranks and he remained in the city.

Grozav was descended from that very man. His family had held Teren de Tijan for 500 years and were well respected for it.

Grozav didn’t mind his position. He loved the city and was proud to do his part for his people. On the odd occasion that he did feel a pull to his nomadic roots, he peered into basin of water and used his powers to take glimpses into the lives of his people.

He watched as men tended their flocks, as women watched after the children, and as they all traveled the continent as they had done for thousands of years.

As he approached the door to the council chamber, two guards opened them wide for Grozav to pass. He sat in his seat at the large, round wooden table in the center of the room.

There he waited as attendants came in and out of the room placing food and drink before him. Once they had dispersed, Grozav began his breakfast.

Laid before him were three strips of thoroughly cooked bacon, a piece of bread, and a glass of water.

He drank the water first, in hopes that it would sooth his throat, unfortunately it did not. Which only confirmed his belief that terrible news was coming for him. He tried to be at peace with this. The first lesson that all those blessed with foresight must learn is: the future will do as must, you are just lucky enough to have some advance warning.

He finished,the table was cleared, and he sat in silence for some time before an attendant came to him with a message from the chief of the Divinatie, Viitor.

While stopping to make camp for the night they had been attacked. A female had been killed, but they had managed to escape to a friendly city. It was Viitor’s advice that the area in which his people had been attacked be restricted from any of the clans.

Grozav was conflicted. The Tijan were barred from very few places. He did not take this lightly.

He handed the message back to the attendant.

“Summon the council.”