Tyrosh, The Purple Palace, The Secret Garden
Awoooo—!
The dawn sun had barely begun to burn through the morning mist when the heavy, rhythmic blasts of the war-horns signaled the end.
Inside the Purple Palace, the "Peacocks of Tyrosh"—the Magisters and high nobles—were no longer preening. The screams of dying men and the thunder of magical explosions echoed through the marble halls. These men and women, who had spent their lives draped in Myrish lace and Tyroshi silks, were now reduced to a frantic, stumbling mob.
Wealthy Magisters, their fingers trembling with greed and terror, shoved handfuls of gold coins and loose gemstones into silk pockets that were never meant to hold such weight. They screamed at their slaves to pack crates of Yi Ti porcelain and Summer Isles spices, only to shove the slaves aside and do it themselves when the servants weren't fast enough.
The noblewomen had lost their poise. They clutched their children with one hand and hiked up their heavy, jewel-encrusted skirts with the other, stumbling over the very finery that once defined their status. Their pearls were scattered across the floor like discarded teeth; their elaborate coiffures were nests of tangled silk and sweat.
Crash!
A slave, trembling under the weight of a heavy vase, let it slip. The porcelain shattered against the mosaic floor.
"You bitch! You worthless piece of filth!" His master, a minor Magister, shrieked in a voice cracked with hysteria. "That was a Ming-era relic! You aren't worth the dust it gathered!"
He fell upon the slave, beating the man with a heavy cane until the dark skin of the Summer Islander was slick with crimson. The other slaves stopped. They didn't cower. They stood perfectly still, watching their master with eyes that had shifted from a dull, rhythmic numbness to something sharp, yellow, and predatory.
"What are you looking at?" the noble demanded, his lip trembling. "Get back to work or I'll—"
He stopped. The "hatred" in their eyes was a physical weight. For the first time in his life, he realized that a man with nothing left to lose is more dangerous than a man with everything to gain.
The Betrayal of the Watchers
"The secret passage is—gurgle."
The noble at the front of the line stopped. A Golden Eagle Guard—one of the legendary "Watchers" of the Palace—withdrew a thin, curved blade from the man's throat.
"Golden Eagle Guard? You... you are the Watchers! What are you doing?"
The nobles realized with a jolt of horror that they were surrounded. The very men they paid to be their silent, invisible shields had turned their spears inward.
"Let me answer that for you, Father."
A soft, melodic voice drifted from the shadows of the garden's hedge-maze. Mia Moses stepped onto the path. She wore a gown of exquisite lace, but in her hand, she gripped a scepter that pulsed with a faint, otherworldly light. Her green hair caught the morning light, making her look less like a socialite and more like a queen from the Age of Heroes.
"The threads of fate have been rewoven, Father," Mia said, her voice devoid of its usual stutter. "Tyrosh's future does not belong to you. It belongs to the Prince."
Adolf Moses, stripped of his office and his dignity, stepped forward. "Mia? What is this madness? You... you are my daughter! I gave you life!"
"You gave me a cage," she corrected him coldly.
Beside her, a giant of a man stepped forward. He wore silver-gold plate armor and a golden cloak embossed with the sigil of the Fate-Weaver. His helmet was shaped like a predatory eagle.
"Commander Kamen!" Adolf gasped. "They said you died in the pit riots a year ago!"
The man didn't speak. He simply leveled a massive golden greatsword at the huddle of nobles. Kamen was the "Strongest Watcher," a man who had once single-handedly slaughtered a hundred rioting pit-fighters. Seeing him alive—and serving Mia—shattered the last of the nobles' resolve.
"Aegon will appreciate the gift I have prepared for him," Mia continued, looking over the shivering Magisters. "Without you, the armies in the Disputed Lands will have no reason to fight. You are the currency with which I will buy my place at his side."
"Mia... please," Adolf whimpered. "I am your father. I did everything for the family."
"You did everything for yourself," Mia snapped. "You used my mother. You used my sisters. You were ready to sell me to the highest bidder just yesterday. You don't understand loyalty, Father. You only understand leverage."
Mia raised her scepter. The light within it flared, reaching out toward a discarded suit of decorative plate armor that had fallen from a nearby display.
"Go, my Undead Warrior."
Clack. Clang.
The empty suit of armor stood up. Wisps of blue, ghostly flame flickered beneath the visor. It gripped a heavy battle-axe and began to march toward Adolf with a rhythmic, metallic stomp.
"No! No, stay back! Mia, stop this!"
Adolf Moses scrambled backward, tripping over his own robes. He begged, he pleaded, he offered gold—but the Undead Warrior had no ears for mercy. The axe swung in a clean, brutal arc.
Thwack.
Adolf's head rolled across the garden tiles, his eyes still wide with the shock of his own irrelevance.
Mia Moses walked forward, her lace skirt brushing against the blood. She reached down, picked up her father's head by its thinning hair, and looked into its dead eyes.
"Finally," she whispered. "You're silent."
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