Heat: a maddening, incandescent roar of heat. This was the only sensation that permeated Turak's consciousness as he clawed his way back from the brink of oblivion.
The air had been stripped of every drop of moisture, leaving behind a vacuum that burned his throat with every ragged breath. Agony surged through his internal organs in rhythmic waves, intensifying until a rasping groan escaped his parched lips. He forced his eyes open, ignoring the sensation of his skin being peeled away by the blistering wind.
Before him lay a landscape of pure hell.
The valley was devoid of life. There were no bodies, only drifts of grey ash swirling in the wind or fused into the cooling earth. The dragonfire from the white drake had been so intense that the limestone walls of the gorge had vitrified into shimmering, obsidian-like glass. The soil beneath him had hardened into a brittle, ceramic shell. From above, it would look as if a titan had drawn a charcoal line across the earth, erasing every spark of life within the pass.
Ten paces away, Turak found a charred, unrecognizable mass of carbon. Only the remains of a half-melted warhammer nearby identified the heap as Soreto. The strongest warrior of the southern Gelmir tribes had fared no better than a common foot soldier against a high-tier drake. He had run, and in his running, he had been reduced to nothing.
Turak knew he should have died with them. Before he lost consciousness, he had heard the rhythmic beat of wings as the dragon circled the pass repeatedly, ensuring that the golden flames kissed every living inch of the valley.
His survival was a fluke of northern craft. His snow-wolf pelt armor, naturally imbued with frost properties, had offered a sliver of protection. When the fire descended, he had dove beneath a heavy supply wagon, unbuckling his breastplate to wrap the treated fur around his vitals. He was horribly burned, and his lungs felt like they were filled with crushed glass, but he was alive.
He moved through the valley with heavy, staggering steps. It took a monumental effort to find a weapon that hadn't been twisted into useless slag; he eventually found a steel sword preserved within the cooling carcass of a warhorse.
Using the blade as a makeshift crutch, Turak began the slow, agonizing trek toward the northern barrens. He had no plan and no destination. Given that the dragons had specifically rescued Clavell, he knew there would be no place for him in Karen or anywhere near the shadow of Gelmir.
Burned and broken, his legendary speed taken from him, Turak reached the edge of the pass as the sun began to dip toward the horizon. He looked back at the blackened scar on the landscape and realized that everything he had done in the past forty-eight hours was a pathetic joke.
The schemes, the calculations, the betrayals, and the soaring ambitions meant nothing in the face of such overwhelming power.
The strong devour the weak; the victor takes the crown. He had learned these lessons as a fledgling mercenary in the frozen gutters of Kaiden. For twenty years, he had clawed his way up, seeking more strength, more authority, and more influence.
When he had decapitated Hektov, he had felt nothing but contempt for the man. He saw the Baron as a sheltered coward who lived in a dream woven of noble pedigree and empty flattery. To a "true" warrior who had looked death in the face, Hektov was just an ant.
But as he lay trembling beneath the dragon's shadow, he realized that in the eyes of the true powers of this world, he was the ant. He was the small, short-sighted fool who mistook his own pond for the ocean.
After a brief rest, he dragged himself upright and chose the most desolate path available, disappearing into the wastes without looking back.
"So that is how it was," Luthier said quietly, letting out a long sigh after listening to Clavell's heavy narrative.
The story of the girl named Monica was not unique. Even in this Golden Age, the most prosperous era the Lands Between had seen in a millennium, the world was still filled with shadows dark enough to break the spirit.
Throughout history, the world had been cruel to all, but it saved its most jagged edges for the weak and the kind-hearted.
"Hektov is dead. Krug is dead, murdered by the very people he tried to lead. Your original arrangement is gone," Luthier said, looking at Clavell. "What do you intend to do now?"
Clavell let out a hollow, self-deprecating laugh. "Why does Your Highness ask? From the moment I realized Captain Agheel was tracking me last night, I ceased to have any real choice, did I?"
He no longer addressed himself as a subordinate official. His time as an officer of the Golden Order was over. Whether he ascended to the governorship, retreated into the mountains, or faced execution for the murder of a Baron, the decision rested entirely in Luthier's hands.
"There is no need for such pessimism," Luthier said, shrugging. "You understand that I want you to hold Karen for me. Therefore, you must know that even if I leave monitors by your side, I cannot truly control the city if you choose to work against me in secret. Karen is a vital border post; its governance cannot be easily disrupted. If we were to become enemies, I would be far away in the Capital. There would be little I could do to stop you, wouldn't you agree?"
Clavell paused, visibly taken aback. He had spent the last day analyzing the young demigod's sharp mind and ruthless efficiency, but he hadn't expected such blunt honesty.
If Luthier recommended Clavell to Queen Marika, he would lose the leverage of the "murdered governor" threat. From that point on, the alliance between the Sky Castle and Karen City would have to rely on something far more fragile than blackmail: mutual trust.
Did the Prince truly believe Clavell would serve him willingly?
"Master Clavell," Luthier said, breaking the silence. "How do you view Soreto, Turak, and the soldiers who cheered for Krug's death? Are such people worth saving?"
Clavell felt a jolt of internal tension. He didn't answer immediately, sinking into a long, contemplative silence before speaking. "Highness, I believe they are."
"Oh?" Luthier looked at him curiously. "Explain."
"I lived in Leyndell for many years. Under my master's tutelage, I saw the world from the gutters to the spires. When I was sent to Karen and saw the misery of the 'polluted' races, I asked myself: why does this golden age, ruled by a God, still have corners abandoned by that same God? Why does the most perfect Law in history produce so many outcasts?"
"And did you find an answer?"
"No."
"But over the years, I have realized one thing. The actions of the common people are rarely their own. This is not to say they are all good at heart; rather, it is that they have never been given the capacity to think or the right to choose."
"The will of the people is like a marble in a child's hand. Place it on a slope, and it will roll downward of its own accord. Put it in a sling, and it will fly wherever it is aimed. When they are swept up by the tides of history, most do not even know why they are standing on the brink of a precipice. The few who do are powerless to stop it."
Clavell stood and bowed deeply toward Luthier. "If Your Highness intends to use me, then my hope is that in Karen—at least for the brief time I am Governor—I can ignore the differences of race and faith. I want to give the people a chance to be less at the mercy of the tide. I want to give them a measure of dignity and freedom."
Luthier gestured for him to rise and called for Olwen, who had been waiting nearby. "I will send a formal explanation of the battle and a letter of recommendation to the Queen tonight. When you return to the city, Olwen will serve as your advisor and assist you in stabilizing the transition."
Clavell nodded solemnly. "I understand."
"Well then. We have been 'hunting' for quite some time. If we don't move soon, we'll fall behind the main column." Luthier rose and walked toward the horses tethered in the distance. Olwen remained with Clavell, prepared to escort him back to Karen.
After riding a short distance, Luthier suddenly pulled his reins and turned back toward the man standing on the ridge. "Master Clavell!" he shouted across the wind.
"My thoughts are much like yours. However, I hope that such a change will not be limited to Karen. And I hope it will not be limited by time."
Luthier swung his whip in a wide arc, as if attempting to encompass the entire horizon between the earth and the sky. He didn't offer a grand speech or a hollow promise; he simply gave a bright, confident laugh.
"Wait and see!"