The Twilight herald

'Go to Quistal; tell him to be ready to welcome our lord.'

'I-' He stopped suddenly.

Salen turned around, slowly. His thin face tightened. 'You have something to add?' One manicured nail tapped at the ivory hilt of his dagger, the other hand played with something in a pocket. Mikiss knew enough of the adepts of Larat to fear what was hidden more.

He couldn't bear those unblinking white eyes. He looked down at the floor and asked, 'Do you wish me to find Lord Kohrad and General Gaur?' He knew the mage wouldn't want his lord's son and most loyal subject alerted, but it was as close to a protest as Mikiss could manage.

Salen didn't bother even showing his contempt. 'They are out of the city with the Third Army. I am quite sure they will join Lord Styrax soon enough.'

'Very good, my Lord.' Mikiss fled, stumbling on the uneven floor of the stonedun's tu

At the ruined remains of the massive main gates, Mikiss saw a party of horsemen, one of the night patrols that kept the curfew, returning with a report for Salen's staff. A soldier stood facing away from him on the high steps below the gate. Mikiss smothered his jangling fears and walked out from the shadows, blinking furiously and tugging at his sleeve, which had snagged on the vambrace on his left arm.

The soldier on the steps gave a start at the sound of footsteps and spun around, reaching for the axe at his belt. Untangling his sleeve, Mikiss revealed the brass vambrace that had his messenger warrant inscribed in deep Menin glyphs.

Something about the soldiers puzzled him. Mikiss squinted until he was able to read the painted glyphs on one man's shoulder-plate: Cheme 3rd Legion. The Cheme legion? Weren't they were part of the Third Army?

'Hold it there, messenger,' growled the man bearing the furled unit ba

The air was dry and light. The soft taste of the southern plains tickled the back of his throat as he brushed past the rough stonedun walls. He noticed the forced silence: a few weeks of Salen's rule had changed the atmosphere of Thotel completely. The Chosen of Larat had done exactly as expected, performing one last act of service, however un¬wittingly, for the lord he had plotted against for years.

Here inside the stoneduns, Styrax could feel the pain of those slaughtered here, the entire extended family. Salen would not have noticed the voices, nor been able to sense the tears, the loss, echoing around the bloodstained tu

He ran his stained fingernails over the rough-hewn surface. As ever, his left hand was ungloved. He almost savoured the discomfort of his damaged skin. The duel with Koezh Vukotic had left the feeling impaired in his pale and scarred hand, but it had been replaced with a less worldly sensation. He couldn't feel the evening breeze on his skin, but it sang when power flowed through his body. Right now, the sensation was one of needles being pushed into the back of his hand.

He could feel the currents of magic ru

His footsteps silent, his black armour melting into the shadows, Styrax felt insubstantial, temporary, nothing but a memory when compared to the solid, immovable stone that encased him. As he reached the high chamber he stopped and waited, buoyed by the ac¬cumulating power inside him. After a while he decided the time had come. He scuffed the sole of his boot lightly on the ground.

The figure up ahead didn't move, but Styrax knew he had been heard.

After a longer pause, Salen asked, 'Well, Mikiss, what do you want now?'

Styrax remained still, drawing more power into the Skull at his chest as he watched Salen's back. He wanted the man to have time to appreciate the foolishness of his treachery, to understand how he had been anticipated every step of the way, and that he had been permitted his childish delusion of supremacy – before it was all stripped away.

Salen's long robe of reds and yellows and blues, the seams stitched in silver and gold, moved a little in what little breeze reached the tower. 'Mikiss?' As he turned around, his expression of anger fell away.

Styrax smiled. His white hand burned savagely, every crease in his skin alive with sensation as the stored magic howled to be loose. He was glad of the pain; it reminded him of his mortality as much as his vast strength. He believed in the need for balance in all things – his son Kohrad was not the only person he tried to drum this into – so perhaps a demonstration would succeed where wise words had not.

'Well, Salen? You've been preparing for this moment for weeks now. Time to make your move.'

The Chosen of Larat jerked into action, his hand darting into his pocket as he reached for the energy around him – and astonishment flashed across his face as he grasped nothing, the expected flow of power inexplicably absent to his touch. Instead, it was surging to the Skull fused to Styrax's armour.

'What?' Salen whispered in confusion.

Styrax saw the white-eye was still open to the absent energies in the air, but he was no longer searching for the tang of magic. The path was laid, the energies inside him screaming to be released – with a gasping shudder, he let the torrent course through his body and surge

towards Salen, who rocked back on his heels, flailing wildly, as if he were being physically overcome by the raging deluge. With the Skull, Styrax had barely been able to contain the power he'd stolen; now, as he reversed the flow, his enemy screamed hideously and writhed in agony as the rampant flood of energy burned through every nerve and blood vessel in his body.

The Lord of the Hidden Tower collapsed, still convulsing, and the patchwork robe burst into pyrotechnic flames, the colours searing through Styrax's closed eyelids. He shielded his face with his hands, but still flinched as the amulets on Salen's robe exploded into bright white light.

Wind whipped across his body and Styrax jerked away as a piece of stone hit the thumbnail of his exposed hand. The night air grew suddenly close around him, pressing tight against his throat. Styrax forced his arms down by his sides and rested one hand on his sword hilt as he recognised the presence of the Gods. He would not let them see him reeling, not even if he were dying.

A profound silence fell on the chamber. Styrax opened his eyes to see just a charred pile of bones where Salen had been lying, and darkness all around. As he watched, the harsh shadows softened; Styrax imagined Death stalking back into the night, dragging Salen's scorched and pitted soul along behind him.

A sound came distantly, faint against the wind ru