The Ban Islands stretched across warm and treacherous waters, where the sun beat mercilessly on red sand deserts. The vegetation was sparse, made up of dry bushes and dwarf palms that barely gave any shade. On the cliffs, nests of dangerous worms – creatures with shiny shells that bit at night and caused delirious fevers. Only one island stood out: the volcanic one, at the edge of the archipelago, from which smoke rose and, they said, the best steel of Ban.
Magnus Troydís hated the heat.
Sitting in his dark stone manor, the Duke of Ban leafed through King Zayan's letters with ring-covered fingers. His brow was furrowed. His eagle eyes ran over the lines once, twice, three times.
"The king orders you to go to Decatry?" asked his wife, Melinda, who was embroidering by the window.
"He orders it." Magnus put down the letter. "And I will go. But first, I send my knights."
"How many?"
"Three. I have no more."
Melinda looked up from her embroidery. Her dark eyes met her husband's.
"Three knights for a war against a demon lord? That's an offering, not an army."
"It's what I have. And I'm not going to war. I'm going to watch."
"Watch whom?"
"The Decatrys. The Aryster." Magnus stood and walked to the window. Outside, the desert gleamed in the setting sun. "The king trusts them. I don't. Andy is Agrís's son. And Agrís was a snake."
"And the Aryster?"
"Worse. They meddle where they aren't called. And now the king wants to stay in Decatry, planning the war against Trussum, while our crops rot."
Melinda did not answer. She knew he was speaking of the Barreiser-umar – the magical potato that traded water for time, that allowed the Ban islands to survive the droughts. In recent seasons, the harvests had failed more than they had prospered. The people were starving. And Magnus was sending his few warriors to a foreign land.
"I tried to dissuade him," said Magnus, as if reading his wife's thoughts. "He didn't listen. King Zayan is loyal. Too loyal."
"And you?" asked Melinda. "Are you loyal?"
Magnus took his time answering.
"Up to a point."
---
The three knights left at dawn.
They wore light armour of hardened leather, suitable for the heat. They rode short, resistant horses, bred in the sands of Ban. They wore no helmets – they trusted speed and surprise.
Magnus said goodbye with a dry handshake. There were no speeches. No promises of glory.
"Watch," he said. "Do not let yourselves be fooled by the salamanders of Endomyar."
"And if they ask us to fight?" asked the eldest, a grey-bearded man named Torvin.
"You fight only if your life or the king's is in danger. The rest... you watch."
The knights mounted. Dust rose. Magnus watched them leave, feeling the weight of scarcity on his shoulders.
*Three knights*, he thought. *And the day after tomorrow, I leave.*
*And the king will stay there, making friends with snakes.*
---
Miles away, at the port of Dennis Decatry, a fishing boat docked.
The fisherman was a thin man with an unkempt beard and bulging eyes. He got off the boat staggering, clinging to the ropes as if the ground might escape him. The ducal guards approached.
"What's wrong with you, man?" asked the sergeant, his blue armour gleaming.
"I saw..." The fisherman swallowed hard. "I saw flowers. On the island of the second strand."
"Flowers?" The sergeant frowned. "There are no flowers on that island. Only stone and corruption."
"There aren't. But now there are." The fisherman spread his arms, hands trembling. "Black flowers. They glowed in the dark. I've never seen anything like them. They smelled of sulfur and..."
"Of what?"
The fisherman lowered his voice.
"Of death."
The sergeant paled. He knew the stories. All sailors knew them.
"Trásserius," he murmured.
"That's what I thought."
---
Andy Decatry's office was in the north tower of the castle, overlooking the sea. It was an austere room: maps on the walls, strategy books on the shelves, a cold fireplace. The duke sat at his desk, writing orders for the detachments that would hunt Krakeriar's young.
Gustavo entered without knocking. The butler's face was pale, paler than his twisted leg warranted.
"Duke. A fisherman saw Trásserius on the island of the second strand."
Andy raised his head. The quill stopped. His eyes – always calm, always calculating – dilated for a second.
"Trussum."
"There's no proof yet, but..."
"There is." Andy put down the quill. "The flowers are the proof. He's out."
Gustavo said nothing. He waited.
"Summon the kings. And Dizius. Everyone still in the castle."
"And the fisherman?"
"Give him a room. And a pouch of coins. I don't want him speaking to anyone else."
"Yes, my duke."
Gustavo left. Andy was alone.
---
The office seemed darker after the door closed. Andy stood and walked to the window. The sea outside was calm, dark blue, without a single sail on the horizon.
He looked at his hands.
Strong hands. Hands that had wielded the sword that killed Triti. Hands that had once shone with the power of Decatry, god of luck. Hands that were now only flesh and bone.
'I am no longer a chosen one', he thought. 'Divine luck has withdrawn. What remains?'
He remembered the day the power left. It was abrupt, like a snuffed breath. One morning, he could still feel divine energy coursing through his veins. The next morning, nothing. Only his body, strong, trained, but human.
He told no one. Not his daughters. Not Gustavo. In the world of nobles, there are no true friendships. There are alliances. And alliances crumble when weakness appears.
'Trussum is in Endomyar', he continued. 'I don't know where. I don't know in what disguise. But he is.'
'And my daughters are at the academy.'
For the first time in his life, Andy Decatry felt fear.
Not the paralyzing fear of battlefields. The worst kind: the fear that keeps you awake at night. The fear that makes your hand tremble as you write a letter. The fear that has no face, because if it did, Andy would know how to kill it.
---
The meeting was called for that same night.
Only those still in the castle: King Dizius Remadís, King Arésyu of Aryster, a few advisors. Zayan Ban had not yet arrived – his fleet would take another day.
Andy waited for everyone to sit. Then he spoke.
"Trussum is in Endomyar. Trásserius flowers are blooming on the island of the second strand. It is the sign that a demon lord has left the portal."
Murmurs. Dizius leaned forward, his small dark eyes gleaming.
"Proof?"
"My word and that of a fisherman who saw the flowers with his own eyes."
"A fisherman." Dizius laughed, a dry sound. "We're going to move armies because of a fisherman?"
"We're going to move armies because Trussum is the great liar. And if he is already among us, we won't have another chance."
Arésyu interrupted.
"What does the duke propose?"
Andy looked at him.
"Alert the academy. Reinforce the port's defences. And find Trussum before he finds our children."
"Your children are at the academy?" asked Dizius, with a poisonous smile. "Ah, yes. The chosen of Anorys. And Macano's chosen. Two heavyweights. They'd be quite a prize for a demon."
Andy's eyes hardened.
"Precisely."
---
The meeting ended without consensus. Dizius demanded more proof. Arésyu offered soldiers. Andy merely listened.
When the kings left, he returned to his office.
He sat at the desk. Picked up the quill. Began to write.
Not to his daughters. To the academy's director. Irina Graylor.
The letter was short:
*"Trussum is in Endomyar. Protect the chosen ones."*
He signed. Sealed. Called a messenger.
"Deliver this in person to Director Irina. No one else."
The messenger left. Andy looked back at the sea.
---
Miles to the south, on the boat taking him to Decatry, Magnus Troydís looked at the same starry sky. The night's heat was more bearable, but the thought weighed heavily.
'Three knights. Rotten crops. A king who doesn't listen.'
'And now Trussum.'
He looked at the prow. The moon reflected on the dark water.
'The great liar was loose. And no letter would arrive in time.'
The boat sailed north.
The wind blew cold.