God Within Us

A westerling wind filled the sail of the Gray Wolf, pulling the high-decked river cog into the port of Belnopyl the Great.

The Gray Wolf was second only to the personal ship of the boyars of Teplodarsk, but it still dwarfed the rest of the vessels docked in the city. Two wide sails bore the dual sigils of Teplodarsk and Gatchisk - the bow and fish, and the griffon. Beneath the sails the deck bristled with pointed iron helmets of the Teplodarsk longbowmen, polished to a blinding shine in the morning light. Goran stood at the helm, and as the walls of the city rose before them, he heard Yasaman scoff at his back.

“Fah, I’ve seen better.”

Heller coughed and sniffed as he took in the sight of the city, spitting over the side of the deck. “Seems your princess is rallying for a war of her own.”

Many banners hung from the gatehouses and the towers that stood sentry over the port - the Gorkiy wolf, Ruryev boar…and above them all, the white bear of Belnopyl which had once roared at his back, roaring him into exile. Only now the colors were faded, and the city less magnificent, less stately and intimidating than he had remembered it - and that was not counting the obvious scars of disaster.

The well-ordered streets of the past were in disarray, piled high with debris and stained black with filth. Swarms of peasants crowded large kitchens and ramshackle bakeries, begging and fighting for loaves of bread, chunks of meat and fish, and baskets of half-rotted vegetables. And everywhere, soldiers of all stripes, druzhinniks of the noble houses, militiamen and freeriders, all listless and idle - leaderless.

The Gray Wolf slowly drifted into place at the end of the packed pier in the harbor, and only then did they seem to rouse the alarm from within the city. Trumpets blared from the sentry towers of the port, and soon they were surrounded by a mixed flock of peasants, and druzhinniks from a dozen different noble houses that seemed to have been cobbled together into some fashion of port guards. The leader of the druzhinniks seemed to have been raised to his position by virtue of being the biggest and the ugliest among his lot, and bearing the biggest sword. He called up to the ship, shouting, “State your business, or feel the prick of our arrows, you mangy lot! Which house be your men from?”

“The House of Gatchisk,” called back Goran. “And you speak with its rightful prince, soldier.”

“Heh, which one?” sneered back the druzhinnik. “You’re not ancient or crippled enough to be Gvozden - a pretender, then?”

“Gvozden’s son.”

A few murmurs from the crowd, but hardly the reaction Goran had expected. Had they forgotten him so soon? “I thought he was in exile,” said the druzhinnik.

“And I thought I was speaking with someone who has more than empty space between his ears!” Goran shot back. The trip along the Cherech, and through the Gravemarsh, had sapped away much of his strength. He was finding little left to deal with sword wielding, upjumped peasants.

His eyes narrowed at the sight of the druzhinnik and his men as they laughed and jeered up at the warship. The leader of the armed band stood with only a handful of real warriors at his back - the rest of the mob were armed peasants, most of them clutching makeshift weapons of old hunting bows, pitchforks, clubs, and the odd rusted blade which hadn’t seen a whetstone in years.

“Demons take this whole farce,” he muttered, turning back to the captain of the Gray Wolf. “Lower the gangplank.”

Yasaman leaned closer to his side, his brows furrowed with concern. “Do I bid the men to get ready for blood?”

“Not yet,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

The lead druzhinnik shifted uneasily as the heavy gangplank of the vessel thudded against the dock, but his bravado remained. He brought his notched two-handed sword to bear, and roared, “I don’t care of you’re Gvozden’s son, his ghost, or fucking Raegnald himself. No one disembarks ‘til we get word from the Great Hall!”

“And what will you do, shout me to death?” Goran called as he stepped onto the gangplank, one hand on the hilt of his sword. “Or maybe you’ll find your balls and stop me yourself?”

The druzhinnik’s jaw tightened, and he stepped forward, raising his greatsword to his shoulder. “This city’s already tasted the blood ‘o princelings, southron boy. The Grand Princess rules from this city, and we’ve enough of your lot coming and going as they please, taking whatever they feel.”

“And I’ve enough of you wasting my time,” Goran said as he reached the end of the gangplank. He brought up his commander’s voice, calling out over the crowd, “Do you think the Grand Princess will shed tears for a few filthy peasants with dull swords? I am here to offer your princess something far more valuable than your miserable hides - an alliance - and I seek an audience with her, not you lot. So clear out, all of you, and send a runner to her Majesty Vasilisa to announce our presence.”

Another murmur rippled through the crowd. And whether it was because his words had found purchase, or simply boredom, small packs of peasants began to slump away from the gathered mob. The druzhinnik held his ground. “Get back on the ship, and wait. We don’t take orders from Gatchisk.”

Goran pulled his sword free in a flash of steel, the blade glowing white by the light of the morning sun. “Then I will cut my way through, and I’ll bring your head along so you can complain to the Grand Princess yourself.”

His words hung in the brisk morning air, drawn light like a bowstring. From the corner of his vision he saw the men of Teplodarsk and his own guards at the ready, their swords and bows on hand. The other druzhinniks shuffled nervously, suddenly aware just how many men were aboard the Gray Wolf. Finally, the lead druzhinnik faltered. He lowered his sword slightly, spitting into the dark waters of the port.

“The Grand Princess had better know who’s knocking on her door,” he nodded to one of the other druzhinniks, who stormed off with a handful of men trailing behind him. “Don’t think this will be forgotten, southron.”

“Do what you must,” Goran replied. “I don’t concern myself with the memories of vermin.”

The druzhinnik signaled for his men to part, and the crowd grudgingly made way as the rest of the Gray Wolf’s crew began to disembark.

Once the cog was tied down and firmly at port, Goran hastened back to the cabins and sent out six men - one for each district of the old city - to hear what they might hear. Soon, from repaired winesinks and kitchens, refugee camps and guard posts, the talk of the city told much. One man spoke of how the commoners sang the lady of Belnopyl’s praises, calling her the “Hand of God”, whilst priests and religious folk talked of devilry and debauchery in the Great Hall, and a devil-woman of a princess above it all. The guardsmen told of coming war against Svetopolk, the marshaling of the great houses, and the sorry state of the army that was eating the city’s granaries into ruin. And hunger, hunger above all else was on the entire realm’s mind - the terrible disasters of flood and ash had ruined much of the harvest, and soon it seemed the entire realm would go hungry.

Hunger, that great killer of all men. Vasilisa’s people were starving - and no matter how much power the “Hand of God” has, she could not fill the bellies of her folk.

Opportunity at every step, he thought to himself as he studied his courtly dress in the mirror of the captain's cabin. Over his doublet he wore his Grand Captain’s cloak, shining sapphire blue on snow white - and Gatchisk through and through, an exile no more. If the gods are watching, then they certainly must bear me some love.

“They are watching,” spoke the corpse in the corner of the room, sitting in the shadows. “Always. But love is something they hold for none, for they know it not.”

“Be a sight more cheerful,” Goran sighed as he adjusted the circlet upon his brow. “I've done what you asked, and your precious daughter could not have wished for a greater boon than the one I bring.”

He turned to the dead mistress of Belnopyl, averting his eyes from her scarred face. “I sense her. There is a great power here - I can feel it in the water, the ground, the air itself. They speak of her as the Hand of God - is it so, truly?”

Cirina did not reply for a long while. By now Goran knew much of the spirit’s magic - her meditations, her distant sight which had guided them well along the Cherech. She was reaching out, feeling the soul of the city, and that same strength whose heart lay in the Great Hall. “No, not yet. She is still young to her own strength.”

“She has you to advise her now, doesn't she?”

“I can only teach her so much before she eclipses me,” sighed Cirina, though the breath was driven more by some habit of expression than the need for air. “Even now…I am afraid.”

“Afraid of your own daughter?” He scoffed.

“Afraid of what she will become.” Cirina clenched her pallid hands into fists, and he sensed her terror, her sorrow through the magic between them. “Afraid of what she has already become. The paths are unclear to me, the futures yet unlived. But this strength…this faith that I feel taking root in this place…a blessing, and a curse.”

Cirina’s voice trailed off, and then she stood up from her chair, crossing the chambers towards the door as quiet as a shadow. “It is plain - there is much work to be done. Do what you must, Prince of Gatchisk. But tread softly - the serpent lurks everywhere.”

***

From her window overlooking the courtyard, Vasilisa saw the dead men swaying in the wind. There were fifty, she knew - and hanging over the gates to the citadel was the greatest of them all, Dragomir of Rylsk, his blue face facing east in the direction of the land whose ruler he had been for only twelve days. His fellow lordlings were already hurrying back to their lands under arms, much to the disappointment of their peers of the realm. Once their fates were decided, and the first day of the duma begun, she had learned that many of the boyars who attended did so solely in anticipation of all the rebels’ lands being divided and handed out to new masters. Instead, she had given them life - and while the common folk called it mercy, the boyars called it weakness.

“Women's hearts are weak,” Vissarion was heard to say once the first day of the duma was concluded with little talk beyond who would receive control of the hostages from Denev and Korlen. “Had good prince Igor been alive, that traitorous blood would have been dealt with the proper way.” And some of us would be all the richer for it, was the sentiment that remained unspoken.

Other boyars worried in private over the growing number of faithful that were flocking beneath her banner. Several of the usurpers’ druzhinniks were the first, led by one they called Valerian, that first man to prostrate himself before her and call her his new god. But there were others - landless druzhinniks from the noble houses, footmen who had fought by her side at the walls of Belnopyl, and no small number of commoners who had hailed her for their savior when Vasilisa the Fair came bearing food and swords at the city’s darkest hour. They were a dangerous group, and their ranks were growing every day - and their fervor with it.

What is a god, to a boyar? She wondered. Were she only so above it all. Instead, she found herself crammed into the suffocating role of Vasilisa the Grand Princess - torn between a hundred tiny interests and little factions of little boyars. And with Ilya and Stavr gone to seek for hostages, and Pyotr swallowed up by the task of preventing her city from spiraling into complete anarchy, she had never felt more alone in the crowd of boyars.

Only Yesugei remained, but even he was drifting away. He had come to fear her too, she knew, and that was the worst agony of them all.

She looked away from the dead bodies hanging listlessly over the gates. No, that is all in the past now, she thought to herself. Look to the present, and those who are still alive. Those who still need me.

The numbers of the latter were vast. From her window over the city, she saw the line of petitioners had grown to a half-mile long, forming a twisting line of folk down the approach to the citadel. She saw poor peasants and wealthy merchants, old and young, man and woman - the people of the city, her city, and each one of them with their own grievances, their own worries. In the times of her father's rule, it was custom for the Great Hall to be opened once a week to hear the concerns of the common folk - those whose voices would otherwise be left unheard. She intended to do the same.

By the time a servant came to announce that the doors were soon to open, she was already dressed for court. In the absence of Ilya and Stavr, the ones that flanked her throne as she entered were the next two heroes of the city - Demyan, her last sworn swords from Rovetshi, and the warrior named Kargasha, who held some close bond with Yesugei. The nomad princeling himself stood upon the dais and by her side as well - not as an equal, nor the Great Khan of the Khormchak Horde, but perhaps as a seneschal, or a high-ranking courtier. Such was the only thing the boyars could accept - else it was an abomination, such fondness did the boyars have for the word.

Abominations all round - and I, the greatest of them all. And I, their Grand Princess.

She took her place at the high throne, seated beneath the intricate mural of her ancestors, among them giants such as Igor the Wise, who had brought a dozen of the most stubborn forest tribes into the royal fold with words where swords had failed, and others with blacker names as Volodimir the Cursed, who expanded the appanage of Belnopyl as never before, and was said to have murdered his brother for the crown.

And the greatest of them all, bound to her through an unbroken line, three hundred years of war and deceit, love and hatred: Raegnald, the first king, the one whose ship was first among the fleet of a thousand to run against the shores of the land beyond the Shivering Sea. Their painted eyes were all fixed upon her. And yet, I am alone, she thought again, though the hall was full of figures watching her every move.

Demyan announced her presence before the teeming crowd of petitioners with his booming commander's voice.

"All kneel for Vasilisa the Fair, Lady of Belnopyl, and Grand Princess of Klyazma."

The gathered crowd dipped and rose unevenly, filling the great hall with the shuffling of cloth on stone and murmuring. Then, they began to come forward one by one - and the business of ruling began.

Many of the petitioners that came forward complained of the hunger that still gripped the city - some had come to voice their concerns, others came to beg, asking for scraps of bread, or to be given work at the citadel in exchange for a warm meal. Most came away sobbing or bitter-faced, or clutching a small fistful of coins - though even those who went away with coin would find little reprieve, for the price of bread, oil, and fish had tripled compared to the days of the father's reign.

Other petitioners came seeking justice, for the influx of returning citizens from the hinterlands had brought with it to Belnopyl rampant crime of all nature. One man, a merchant from the city's guild of weavers, came forward to complain of how his warehouse of cloths had been looted, leaving him and his workers on the verge of ruin. He begged for more guards to be sent to the merchant's district, and to track down and hang those who had looted his and many other warehouses.

All she could do was turn the guildmaster away with money in recompense for his lost stock - for the city's militia was now too few to even fully man the walls, and every man wasted guarding merchants' warehouses was one man fewer to prevent ever worse crimes in other areas. Rapes, murders, and random violence were the complaints from other petitioners - some at the hands of brigands and criminals, but many others at the hands of her own bannermen.

A militiaman from Oposk was accused of stealing a sack of apples from a family. A minor boyar's druzhinnik had caused a brawl in an inn. And worst of all, an archer from Ruryev, one of the Clutchpurse's own, had forced himself upon a woman and killed her husband - it was the woman’s brother who spoke on her behalf, crying for the raper's head. Those atrocities she at the very least was able to transform into justice - promises of removal of a hand for theft, flogging for brawls, hangings for rapes and murders - though whether she could bring such justice to her own boyars' men, she was uncertain.

The morning went on in such fashion. Giving promises of help she could, soft words to where she could not. The business of rule went on - and her throne had never seemed so damnably uncomfortable. All the cushions of the world would not be enough, she thought to herself as she crossed and uncrossed her legs, sat this way and that, but nothing maddeningly, nothing brought relief. And the wheel of her rule kept turning.

Then, just as her attention began to drift to other matters, seven figures approached, parting the crowd like a prow through water. Clad in white tunics adorned with the sacred symbols of the Klyazmite faith, seven priests strode toward the dais. Their leader, a tall man with stern features, bore the mark of Perun upon his chest - the same six-spoked wheel of lightning that marked Demyan's face. Behind him came the priests of Mokosh, Simargl, Xors, and the other gods.

Vasilisa sat straighter, her eyes narrowing as the priests stopped before her. Some of them had evidently come from afar - the holy grounds of Simargl and the sun fields of Xors were many miles away from the city, hidden away in isolated parts of the country that were left wild and untouched.

"Grand Princess," the priest of Perun began, his voice deep and laden with reproach. “We come to you not as petitioners, but as the stewards of the gods' will.”

The man let his voice echo through the Great Hall, and let the court briefly fill with whispers before he spoke. "These are black times for our orders. The temples of land have become overrun - the holy woods are trampled by the feet of refugees."

The priestess of Mokosh stepped forward, her voice sharp. "Peasants turned out of the countryside have brought ruin to the sacred waters, my lady, defiling them with their waste. The pure rivers now reek of filth-"

"And the offerings of wheat and milk to Simargl have been stolen by ruffians," the priest of Simargl added, his tone indignant. "What the gods demand, the people defile. How can we hope for the gods to bless us with harvest, when the common folk eat even that which we send to heaven?”

The priest of Perun continued, his gaze hard. "Grand Princess, we beseech you to act. The gods’ favor is already tenuous in these troubled times. Your reign, and all of Klyazma, depend on their blessing. You must send men, righteous men, to drive these wretches from the sacred places, the holy groves, the Elder Trees. Now, more than ever, when the realm tears at itself, you must have heaven's will on your side."

Vasilisa listened, her face an unreadable mask, though a flicker of irritation stirred within her. The priests stood before her in pristine robes, their faces untouched by hunger or hardship, their bellies full, while the city starved. And now they came with threats disguised as demands, poorly disguised, at that.

“Even Stribor’s men are a godlier lot than them,” she heard Yesugei murmur, his voice low but bitter.

She took a breath, then spoke, her voice cold. "The gods have seen far worse than famine even in my time," she began, meeting the leader's gaze. "And the people of this land have always been generous in sacrifices to the gods in times of peace - they give as much as they take. Should not their holy men do the same?"

The priest of Perun blinked. Good, that’s thrown him off balance. Vasilisa pressed on. "If the gods’ sacred places are overrun with the hungry and desperate, then perhaps that is a sign. Perhaps it is time for you to open your larders, to offer shelter to those who seek refuge, as the gods themselves have done in ages past. Let your temples feed the starving, and your rivers cool the weary. Their children and children's children will remember such generosity, and they will honor the gods with thrice their parents' faith."

Several of the priests exchanged glances, their faces tight with disapproval.

The priest of Simargl bristled. "You would ask the keepers of the Elder Trees to house beggars and thieves? To sully the sacred grounds with their filth?"

“Is your faith so fragile that it cannot withstand the suffering of those you claim to protect?" Yesugei shot back, to the sharp gazes of the priests. “If your people cannot find solace in your gods, your sacred grounds, then perhaps they will find others - and who will be left to give sacrifices and tend your sacred woods then?”

“Enough,” Vasilisa gently cautioned Yesugei. She turned back to the priests, and spoke with a softer tone. "I ask you to serve the people, as you serve the gods. Is that not a righteous path for holy men?”

The priest of Perun stepped back, his lips pressed into a thin line. "We will consider your words, and the words of your…advisor, Grand Princess," he said, though it was clear from his tone that they had not found favor with her response.

Without further argument, the seven priests turned and left the hall, their departure marked by a silence heavier than their arrival.

Eventually the heaviness of the priests’ departure passed - the morning went on, ever busy, ever filled with more concerns and cries for help. But then, there came another oddity - from among the ranks of petitioners that came with concerns of hunger, justice, and taxes, there soon came others. Others who came not to cry and beg for help, but to see her, behold her.

At first, she hadn't noticed the shift. The procession of beggars, merchants, and landless folk had blurred together after the priests - one miserable face after another, their complaints so familiar now they barely registered. But as the line of petitioners stretched on, Vasilisa felt the mood change. Then, one man approached the dais, not with a grievance, but with a handful of silver coins and a necklace. He knelt before her, eyes gleaming with a fervor that unnerved her.

"Grand Princess," he whispered, voice trembling, "I bring you this offering - I was once a merchant, but the Cherech washed away my home, my wealth, my life…and this is all I have left. I beg of you, Hand of God, bless my family, and keep them safe when I am gone."

She blinked, taken aback. "Your family?" she asked, her voice colder than intended. "What is your need? Hunger, injustice? Speak plainly."

The man shook his head. "We have food, Grand Princess. We have work. But my wife - my children - they pray to you now, not the gods, not their priests. You saved us from the usurpers - you saved us from starving and flood. I give all I have left so that you might... might save us now from this hunger and madness. Please, my lady, grant us your favor."

She felt a chill run down her spine. This was faith, once more rearing its dangerous head like a snake from the grass. She glanced at the silver, then to Demyan, who watched the petitioner with a mask of impassivity, though she saw his anger plain within his soul - the old believers such as he, who kept their faith with the gods directly. might tolerate her turning away tittering, fat priests, but such heresy was a different, unacceptable brand of poison. And though the gods were distant and unfeeling, the old believers yet made up the greatest part of her realm. So what to do?

"I watch over all of my subjects, good man," she said, waving the man away. "Use your coin for greater good - feed the hungry with it, help others rebuild their lives - and you will have my favor, and the favor of the gods. That is my decree."

The man's eyes lingered on her - he stared at her in awe, as if trying to commit every bit of her regal image to memory, and then he bowed his head. "It will be done, my lady."

The next petitioner approached, not with a grievance, but with a similar plea. He laid a small gilded charm at her feet, carved in her likeness, whispering for her blessing, and then left. Then another came, bearing a small bundle of coins - a trembling woman asking for her to bless her family so winter's coming bite might spare them. More followed, a procession of faces filled with something more dangerous than desperation - devotion.

Vasilisa watched as they knelt before her, placing trinkets, coins, and handmade idols in her image on the floor before her dais. Her chest tightened with a mix of dread and something else she could not yet name. With each new supplicant, the crowd’s whispers grew louder, their gazes growing more expectant, more hungry for her presence, her touch, her word. They soon outnumbered those who came with real concerns that she could solve.

She glanced toward Demyan, who stood silent but visibly bristling at the growing display of fervor. She knew he saw what she did - the gods were ever unseen, but their Hand was not, and the people would turn where they saw hope.

The gifts continued to pile up at her feet, a mountain of silver, charms, and carved likenesses. And then, from the crowd, a woman pushed forward, cradling a bundle of cloth in her arms. She stumbled toward the dais, her eyes wild with desperation.

"Grand Princess, Vasilisa the Fair," the woman cried, falling to her knees before the pile of offerings. "I beg of you, please, hear me. My daughter... she is all I have left. She is sick - too weak to eat, too weak to walk. I do not ask for food or coin. I beg only for your blessing, so she might live."

The woman lowered the bundle of cloth to the floor, revealing a child—a pale, gaunt little girl with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Her small chest barely rose and fell, each breath a struggle.

"Please, my lady," the mother whispered. "Just one touch. Bless her with your hand, and I know she will live."

Vasilisa’s breath shook as she rose from her seat. The hall fell utterly silent, all eyes locked on her. She approached the dais’ edge and knelt down before the child. The little girl’s eyes flickered open, dull and distant, barely registering her presence.

Vasilisa hesitated, then slowly reached out, her hand trembling as it hovered above the girl’s forehead. With a soft exhale, she placed her hand on the girl’s feverish skin.

As her fingers touched the child’s brow, the world around her dimmed. Her vision blurred, and a pulse of warmth flowed through her hand and into the girl. Images flashed before her eyes—faint, fractured visions of the future. She saw the girl as she would be in a year’s time: older, her cheeks fuller, finding love, finding happiness, and life, were it not for the malady. The sickness at the root of the split between life and death - and then suddenly, it came to her.

Vasilisa pulled her hand back, her breath catching in her throat. The girl stirred beneath her touch, and the mother gasped.

"She will live," Vasilisa whispered, her voice low but steady. "But she needs medicine, not a blessing. Demyan."

The druzhinnik stepped forward immediately, his expression unreadable as he bowed his head to her.

"Have someone go into the healer's chambers, and bring this woman sage and horehound. And give them bread and meat from our larders - enough to feed them both."

Demyan nodded and gestured to one of the servants, who quickly moved to obey. The mother, still kneeling, wept openly, clutching her daughter to her chest as if she had just been handed a miracle.

"Thank you, Grand Princess," the woman sobbed, bowing so low her forehead touched the stone floor. "Thank you."

The woman bowed out of the Great Hall, and several petitioners followed after her, whispering in hushed voices as they beheld the child touched by the Hand of God. As Vasilisa returned to her throne, she saw a courtier enter in from one of the wings, his face drawn with concern.

She sensed the message on his lips before he even reached her, whispering into her ear.

“A message from the city,” he said to her. “From the guards at the port…a new ship…one bearing-”

“Griffons,” she interrupted. So at last he comes. “A griffon. I will receive them here the great hall - ensure our guests are given welcome as befits their status.”

She turned to Demyan next. “We have a guest coming. Clear the court”

Demyan roared out his orders, and the guardsmen that stood in the alcoves did the rest. The petitioners were herded out of the hall in short order, though with much grumbling and a few curses. Word of the new arrival to the city spread quickly, for even as the common folk of the city were shuffled out, boyars began to slowly trickle into the court. Though they numbered only a few, she recognized them well - Vissarion, who led a dozen other Solarian boyars; Rogneda, the matron of the western holds; Rostislav, who held sway with the rich boyars of the God-Spine foothills. They gathered in the repaired benches, sitting high above the floor - avoiding the ground walked by the commonfolk as if it were ridden with plague.

“Powerful names,” Yesugei wondered quietly. “This Young Griffon’s reputation precedes him.”

“Not all look upon the Young Griffon as darkly as my father did,” she whispered back. “And the bloodline of Gatchisk’s ruling family is linked to that of Raegnald, through his youngest brother Tryggvar. He would have a claim to the throne, however distant it might be, were he still part of the royal blood.”

“You do not think he has…intentions?”

She remained silent for a moment. “No. But it does not mean his arrival does not concern me.”

“Are you frightened of him?”

Vasilisa remained silent again. Before she could answer, the herald stepped forward, his voice echoing through the hall as he announced the first of the new arrivals.

“Kassa of Sanuria,” the herald proclaimed.

Vasilisa’s gaze sharpened as a tall, imposing figure strode in. His skin was dark as night, a striking contrast to the light blue robes he wore, embroidered with silver thread that caught the morning light like shimmering feathers. His presence was calm, regal, though there was a weight behind his eyes - something far older than his years. She looked into his soul and saw a former lord - mansa was the title he had once held, and he carried himself as though he had never lost it.

“Yasaman, scholar-lord of Huwaq.”

This one was different. His long beard framed a sharp, angular face, and his hooked nose gave him an air of ancient wisdom - though there was something hawkish about his gaze. His robes were of rich crimson, adorned with strange symbols and talismans from the far east, the land of tea, spices, and a great many other wonders. Yasaman’s head was bowed low, though not without a trace of arrogance. He, too, was someone to watch closely.

“Heller, of Solaris.”

As with his lineage, there was nothing remarkable about the man’s appearance - broad-shouldered, wearing the simple garb of a warrior, and a sword at his side. But it was the golden sunburst dangling from his neck that concerned her most - another Solarian, and already she sensed Vissarion’s own excitement.

Finally, the moment came. The herald’s voice lifted one last time.

Suddenly, she felt as though she were fourteen again. And the shadow that fell upon the Great Hall was like the shadow of that dark, bleak night. Wolf-like eyes glinted in the morning light. The iron hinge of the bedroom window screamed.

“Goran of Gatchisk, Grand Captain of the Kororys Band.”