Roth had always said the mammoth gates to the King's keep were as wide as the wingspan of the monstrous spider dragon. Yet, standing in front of them, Juda thought them to be larger, and no doubt to some, far more terrifying than the eight-eyed winged beast that laid its gossamer traps in the narrow passages of the Dreynian mountains, waiting to ensnare any traveller unfortunate to wander off course.

To him, however, the gates to the black palace sent a rush of exhilaration through his veins. They were, after all, the gateway to everything he had been striving for since Aleina had been dragged from his side.

At his side now stood The Grim, who had rapped five times on the small entry door cut into the gates with his wide, roughened knuckles and now stood waiting, staring directly ahead as he had in the training yard.

It took an age for someone to open the door. Time crawled by so slow that Juda wondered if it might stop altogether and he would be frozen here, so close to his goal and yet forever on the wrong side of the palace walls.

When the snap and click of well-oiled latches could be heard and the door was finally opened, it was not the familiar red and black uniform of an Elite Guardsman who greeted them, but the fully cloaked figure of a Druvari priest, his shaven head half etched with scrawls of indigo ink.

Juda couldn't see The Grim's expression, for his own attention was fixed ahead, but he noted the hesitation in the Commander before he finally spoke.

"I, Commander Grim of the Serpent Order, come to deliver one Highguard Vikaris to the His Most Exalted King Ban-Keren's side, to remain eternally loyal, fierce in his devotion, and to sacrifice his own life if the crown does so require it, until the tide comes when His Grace grants him leave of service, or when he doth meet his death."

The priest's piercing gaze crawled over Juda's flesh, his distaste evident in the sneering curl of his mouth. "Scraping the barrel now, I see, Commander? One wonders, by Ban-Keren, what paltry scraps you will deliver to the palace next?"

The Grim broke from his position to lock eyes with the priest.

"Scraps, is it?" he said, his voice sharp as a dagger's edge. "You tell Hoth-Sàl, he can match any of you wet-hearted rags of shit to my warriors any tide he cares for, and I'll wager it'll be your blood I'll see ooze out of your soft-cocked bodies into the dust of my training yard. Any fucking tide, do you hear me, wretch? Now do your fucking job and let us through, before I make you piss in your britches in front of however many more of you pitiful whelps stand cowering behind this gate."

Juda allowed himself a brief glance at the priest, hoping to see how The Grim's rebuke would have undoubtedly soured the arrogant look on the man's face, and yet instead saw something that spiked a recollection so sharp into his brain, that it would have rocked a weaker man back onto his heels.

A line of spidery script curled around the tip of the priest's ear, broken partway where the cartilage had been torn from an old injury.

Juda's body was being torn apart. He was certain of it. Whatever burrowed inside him would devour his innards, drink his blood, rip apart his flesh until his body could no longer contain its wild thrashing. Any other pain such as this, and his body would grant him the blessed relief of unconsciousness, but the borer-worm would allow no such thing. No, it would keep him awake throughout its torture, attempt to destroy not only his body, but his mind too. He had to withstand it. He had to...

The cool metal of a heavy Druvari medallion dropped against Juda's burning skin.

The priest's visage swam before his wide-open eyes, like a fever-dream. A sick fascination and amusement lingered upon his face. He was enjoying Juda's pain, exhilarated by his agony. He drew close, knowing that Juda could do nothing to stop him. Laughter filled the gaps between Juda's screams.

Someone entered the crypt and the priest's head snapped to the right. Juda saw prominent veins on his neck. Intricate etchings inked over the back of his skull and up the torn ridge of his ear.

As The Grim and Juda marched behind the priest—whose face was now redder than Estella's after she'd rouged her cheeks—Juda kept his attention fixed to the back of the man's shaven skull, silently vowing to himself that once the King was dead, he'd come and find this priest. The decision whether to rip out his tongue or pop out his eyeballs would be a difficult one, but whichever he chose, Juda was sure he would enjoy the bastard's pain, as much as the Druvari had enjoyed his. Maybe more.

Focus, Juda, Aleina whispered. Enjoy your spoils later, for now you must concentrate on the task ahead. Certainty beckons.

The courtyard beyond the gates was almost as large as half the entire surface area of the slums, stretching out on either side of the palace, the obsidian cobbles smoothed by the constant tread of the Druvarian people throughout time.

Once, this place had housed the great Moontide Markets, when the moon itself was at its fullest and when it was said the gods were seated high on their celestial thrones, blessing the Kingdom with a fruitful harvest. Traders would gather to sell produce, crowds would teem in through the gates, many travelling over the Setalah from Dreynia, and even Carraterra, to take in the delights of the markets. There would be music, song, dance and, of course, more ale than any man should be able to sup and still stand upright, all in gratitude to the gods who had bestowed such sacred blessings upon Druvaria.

Now, when the crowds teemed in through the black gates, it was not to sing and dance and feast for gods who blessed them, but to kneel in front of a god who bestowed blessings only upon himself A god who gave them nothing but lies and suffering. A god who would see them cower.

Juda had oft wondered what it would be to make a god kneel and cower before him. To press his boot onto Ban-Keren's throat, in the same way the King used the boot of The Order to tread upon the necks of all those who opposed him.

This tide, the courtyard was like a desolate landscape and above it, overlooked the jagged black towers of the palace, like giant sea stacks jutting out of the King's vast keep. As they crossed the courtyard, Juda glanced upwards as much as he dared, sure to keep his neck stiff and straight, his chin held at the same level. Scarlet moss crept up the walls, thickened crimson tributaries crawling towards the turret peaks as if it sought to squeeze the entire palace in its grip.

The steps leading up the palace approach were lined with a wall of Druvari, all draped in their heavy wool cloaks, despite the glare of the late midtide sun. The Grim gave them barely a glance—or at least, appeared to pay little attention—but Juda was certain he saw what Juda did. Their cloaked forms were too bulky. Their stance too regimented. Juda would have wagered that strip away their priest cloaks, and underneath there was a warrior's garb and weapons.

Roth had been right in what he had told Elara.

The Druvari Sect were something else now, transformed into more than mere devout men of faith. This was an army, and however this had come to pass, whoever was in charge—this Hoth-Sàl maybe—The Grim knew of it and didn't like it any fucking more than Roth did.

Well, fuck it all. Whatever this was, whatever Lord Dageor had planned, it was not going to stop Juda. Not now. He was through the gates. He'd ascended the black steps.

He was at the palace doors.

On sentry stood just two Elite Highguards, both of whom saluted The Grim as he approached with a thump of fist against their broad chests.

The Grim and Juda followed suit, but it was the Commander who addressed them, stepping closer and lowering his voice out of earshot of the line of Druvari.

"By Ban-Keren, Elite Highguards Ven-Bartul and Gar-Primar," he said, nodding to each of them in turn. "And a fair midtide to you both. How goes it? There is a foul stench in the King's courtyard that was not present upon my last visit. For how long has it lingered?"

Juda's ears pricked. If The Grim had known of the rise of the Druvari as warriors, it seemed he was unaware of their strong presence inside the palace walls.

Ven-Bartul, the Elite Guard to whom The Grim had gestured first, cast his gaze briefly beyond the Commander's shoulder and back to him. "The stench began to linger not long after the uprising in Grimefell, Commander, and here it has remained ever since."

The Grim raised a brow. "Indeed? We live to see interesting tides, Elite Highguards. Very interesting, it seems. I take it Special Commander Kol-Ganis is here?"

Gar-Primar nodded. "The Special Commander awaits your arrival at the throne room, segian."

Such was the power of The Grim's instruction, Juda noted. Even after many moons gone from the barracks, those who were once moulded by the Commander's hands were never done with segian and dogian—master and novice.

"Then let my companion and I make haste. It appears the Special Commander and I have much to discuss before this tide is out."

Companion. Juda bristled inwardly. Each step closer to the King, each step closer to his goal, and The Grim continued to surprise him. Despite the brutality of the Commander's training, Juda had strangely never once despised the man. Instead, a begrudging respect had festered away inside him, a respect he did not want, for when the time came, he had no doubt that it would be The Grim he would face—not in the bloody square, but wherever the battle placed them both once the King was dead by his hand.

As far as Juda was concerned, if there was no brothers in The Order, there was no fucking companions either. He needed not any companion, any brother, nor any father. All he needed was the blade thrust into the King's heart and his blood pouring over his hand as he twisted the dagger and looked into his eyes as the light faded. After that, well, he cared for nothing more.

At least, he hadn't.

Before he'd met her. Before Elara.

Juda cast the thought aside—buried it under his skin—as the Elite Highguards pushed on the palace doors, the gap between widening like the opening of the jaws of some great beast. Standing either side, they saluted once more, the thwack of fist upon leather echoing into the entrance chamber as The Grim stepped over the threshold, Juda falling into step beside him with ease.

The doors were closed behind them, the clang reverberating in Juda's ears and leaving them to the ominous silence of the long passageway stretching far ahead, the gleam of the obsidian floor and walls highlighted by the flicker from the flamed sconces. Despite the light emanating from the lamps, the lengthy chamber felt unspeakably cold and hollow, just a black, cavernous void filled with nothing but dread and a chill that gripped his bones.

As they marched in tandem along the passageway, it was as if Juda could see Roth walking ahead of him, his slow, but strong gait, the corpse of Eva Victori cradled in his arms. It was difficult to imagine Vi-Garran as possessing the capacity for tenderness, and yet Juda knew that's how he had carried the body of Elara's mother. Had the King noticed this when Roth had crossed the throne room and placed Eva at his feet? No doubt the vile bastard had just been irate that he could no longer sup Naiad blood, as if it were the finest Dreynian wine.

At the end of the passageway stood a man Juda recognised, albeit from past fleeting appearances at the novice barracks. Draven Kol-Ganis, Special Commander of the Elite Guard, and Hand of the King stood in front of the grand doors to the throne room, the crimson straps across his leather breastplate a sharp contrast to the blackness that surrounded him. He wore five red stripes as opposed to Juda's three, and the snaps that fastened his cloak to his shoulders were gilded with gold detailing that glinted in the gloom.

Special Commander Kol-Ganis' visits to the barracks were rare, his duty and obligation keeping him by the King's side. Juda knew if he was in attendance to watch a battle in the bloody square, then it was likely he was there to give his seal of approval to The Grim's nomination for the Elite Guard.

He'd never attended a single one of Juda's battles, and yet, here Juda stood facing the man that would be his Commander until the day Juda was to be released from service or met his death—not that Juda planned to stick around long enough for either to be an eventuality. Roth had once by this man's superior, and although this was Juda's first real introduction to him, he was already well aware of his style of fighting, his strengths and his weaknesses—he is faster with his hands, than he is with his feet, boy, he can be outmanoeuvred if you stay nimble, but his skill with the sabre is masterful. To get the measure of a man before battle commenced was key to survival, within the training yard and outside its bloody boundaries, and Juda was good at it. He'd been trained by the best, after all.

As they came to a halt in front of the Special Commander, Juda and The Grim saluted him with a fist to the chest, and he returned the greeting with the same. The Grim repeated the same monotone speech he had given the Druvari priest at the black gates and this time, saluted once more, again which Kol-Ganis acknowledge with a salute of his own.

Formalities aside, Kol-Ganis reached out he grasped The Grim's shoulder, and The Grim his, a smile breaking between the two Commanders.

"It's good to see you, Grim," Kol-Ganis said, keeping his voice low so not to echo through the hall.

"Likewise, Draven. I wish I could say the same of our welcome here this tide."

A look passed between them, an acknowledgment of the thing neither of them would speak aloud here, in this black hall where the blood had run like a river and the scarlet moss climbed the walls outside.

"Then let us do our duty to the King and share a flask. It's been too long."

"That it has," The Grim replied. "Let us get to it then, eh?" His gaze swept the hallway. "Never much cared for this place myself."

Kol-Ganis gave a wry smile. "Same old Grim. Slice open your flesh, I swear, by Ban-Keren, the grit and dust of the training yard would pour out of your veins instead of blood."

"Any man who dared to slice my flesh wouldn't live long enough to see anything run from my veins, and well you know it."

The Special Commander gave a slow nod and a final salute before pushing on the door behind him.

The last, and only time, Juda had been summoned to the great throne room, he had entered through another door, having been stripped almost bare—exposed and vulnerable— to endure the King's trial. This time, he would enter the throne room wearing the uniform of the King's Elite Guard. This time, he came cloaked as the King's protector, and yet underneath it all, strip it all away, and he was Aleina's son.

Aleina's vengeance. His vengeance.

He crossed the threshold, and walked the long room, flanked either side by Kol-Ganis and The Grim, knowing that with each step, certainty grew closer. He was likewise aware—as Roth had instructed him many moons ago would be the case—of the ranks of Elite Guards lining the walls; statues of scarlet and obsidian, born of nobility, and yet raised with the taste of the bloody square under their tongues. They watched and yet did not watch. They breathed and yet did not breath. They lived, and yet, Juda thought, there was more life on the mortuary slab than in this chamber.

If it were not for the two men who awaited him at the far end, where the lamplight reflected off the smooth black rock of the throne like oil on water, Juda would have thought he was walking through the Great Tomb of King Gor-Wilden. Roth had taken him there once, not long after he'd begun his lessons, on the eastern side of Druvaria, a tomb carved out of the black rock where once the people had flocked to honour their dead king, and which was now a cold, empty place, shrouded in more dust than that which lingered upon the library shelves. Amidst the dust and forgotten prayers, sat the shrine itself, a grand ornately carved monument, and surrounding it as if protecting him even in death, rows of statues of the King's Elite Guard, fashioned with as much care and detail as the shrine itself.

There was a time, boy, when the kings of this land were courageous and just, when they were worthy of the black throne, worthy of the soldiers trained to protect them. Because a King needs to be just as worthy as his subjects, Juda. Never forget that. To sit on that throne, to be protected by the best warriors borne of this land, is a privilege. Not a right. Do you understand?

All Juda understood then was that there would come a tide when he would drag the King from his throne and make certain that he knew just how worthless he really was when Juda swiped the sacred blade across his throat and the royal blood ran down the throne's black steps.

It was not to be this tide, of course, not when the Elite Guard were ready to protect their false god. Juda knew full well that while they might look like sculptures, they would cut him down before he had the chance to reach within a hair's breadth of the king. Now was not the time. But that did not mean the blood did not thrum in his veins like the pounding of war drums, accompanying his march towards the man who now sat watching them as they approached.

On the surface, Juda's eyes were as dead as those of the statues in the tomb, and yet underneath the dust, he saw everything, drank in every little detail, fed from it—hungered for it.

King Aldolus Ban-Keren sat as if moulded to the throne, his body angled in a casual way, one arm draped over the side, one long leg outstretched. His hair, which Juda wagered was long enough to reach almost to his waist, was glossy and dark, save for one grey patch at his left temple, over which his fingers lingered, as if he was too aware of its presence. His face was a marvel. Barely a wrinkle bothered the corners of his dark eyes, his gaze weighty. Juda felt it upon him, an instant pressure, like a hand gripping his throat, but he held firm to the memory of his mother and remembered his duty.

Close to the king's side stood Lord Dageor, his fingers steepled in front of his chest, the Druvari medallion glinting against his thick woollen cloak. His pale lips were pressed into a tight smile, and where the king's skin did not pucker, the priest's crinkled around his mouth and hollowed thinly under his cheekbones.

They stopped before the dais, and all three dropped to one knee, arm held at a strong angle, elbow braced against their raised right knee, heads bowed.

"Special Commander. Commander Grim," Lord Dageor said, and the two climbed to their feet, and thumped their fists to their chest in salute.

Juda remained kneeling.

"By Ban-Keren."

"Indeed."

The voice did not match the face, Juda noted. There was an aged timbre to it. Deep. Raspy. But it stirred enough hatred within him to hear it. Enough to think on how it would feel to cut the tongue from his mouth.

"You have my gratitude, Commander Grim. Once again, you have provided and provided well."

By the dead gods—by his blood—Juda wanted to lift his head and look the bastard in the eye. Wanted to tell him he would provide so much more than what was expected of him. Wanted to repeat his mother's name over and over as he opened Ban-Keren's throat.

"Your grace," The Grim replied.

There was a strange moment of stilted silence, a lingering pause when Juda was certain that the king's attention was fixed upon him once more.

"That will be all, commanders."

Juda heard the slap of the Special Commander's fist against his breastplate, but The Grim's salute was notably hesitant, coming just moments later, with an uncertainty that Juda felt prickle up his spine and course over his skin. The Grim never faltered, never hesitated. Everything he did was with precision and timed to perfection. His training and his sense of duty was so engrained, there was never a possibility for error. Error was insubordination, insubordination was treason.

"By Ban-Keren's will," the commanders said in unison, before taking a step back, and spinning sharply on their heels, they both turned and walked away, leaving Juda where he was.

Juda listened to the clip of their booted heels against the floor, but if they had left the room, he surely did not know, for his heart drummed so loud and the blood rushed in waves, battering against his skull bone like a storm inside his head.

The Grim never faltered. Not once. And yet, he had. He had. But, why? Why would he falter now, in this moment?

Something was...different. Something was not what he had expected.

Juda's mind was in such turmoil, questions twisting through the workings of his brain, that he was not aware of the shadow of the king passing over him until he heard his voice again, this time coming from directly in front of his face.

"Intriguing...most intriguing."

Juda's gaze remained fixed upon a point on the floor in front of him. A mosaic tile just at his toe was split directly down the middle. Just one. One hairline fracture. One tiny flaw.

The king's hand covered it as he pressed his palm to the floor. He was crouched low. Crouched in front of Juda. An impossibility. The unthinkable.

A king would never crouch. A god would never kneel.

"You may look at me, Elite Highguard Vikaris. Look at me."

Juda complied, raising his head, slow, until he was looking directly into the king's dark eyes.

King Aldolus Ban-Keren studied Juda, his gaze sweeping over his face as if it sought to digest every detail, no matter how small. He was close. Far closer than Juda could ever have hoped for.

"So, you are the one who passed the Trial of Sin-Sabre," the king murmured. "And a citizen of Grimefell too, and yet...I see no rat here. Where are you, rat?" He tilted his head to one side, inching closer until Juda could feel his breath upon his skin. "I think perhaps my Lord Dageor here was mistaken in his initial assessment of your origins, for I know a rat when I see one. You are no rat."

Reaching out, he pressed a finger against Juda's jaw, pushing his face to one side, and then, to the other.

"Do you know, I was convinced I would see Vi-Garran in you? No rat could pass the trial, after all. You had to be Vi-Garran's bastard." He forced Juda to look at him once again. "But no. He is not here either. A curious thing, indeed."

His eyes widened a little as he continued to examine Juda, a hint of amusement glinting in the darkness of his gaze. Standing, he turned on his heels, a movement so unexpected that Juda almost reeled at the sudden abruptness of it all. He stared as the king walked past the dais and the throne, heading behind it, not even looking back as he called out.

"Come, Juda."

Juda shot a sharp glance at Lord Dageor, who just raised one thin brow and flicked his fingers at Juda, ordering him to his feet.

"Make haste." The king's voice echoed through the throne room.

Juda wanted to reach for his sabre, for he sensed the peculiarity of the situation as if ghouls were scratching at his skin, prickling his flesh, and yet one thought struck him as he marched after Ban-Keren and that was, if his plot had been discovered, then they would not have allowed him to enter this place fully armed? No. They would surely have disarmed him of his weapons at the palace doors. By now, Lord Dageor was well versed in Juda's capabilities. To allow the king to come into such proximity to a creature such as Juda was at worst, folly, or at best, treason.

Following the king's path, Juda walked behind the dais and throne, spying an open doorway concealed at the back of the room. A strange but soft azure light ghosted the floor, rippling with shadows as if candlelight flickered on a breeze.

"Enter, enter," the king called out again, this time, his voice tinged with excitement.

King Aldolus Ban-Keren is mad, Juda, there is no doubt of that. But do not underestimate his cunning. Insanity does not dullen the blade but sharpens it.

Juda knew he had no choice. He had to play on. Whatever this was, it was too late to turn back now.

He stepped through the doorway, eyeing the black drapes that hung from the ceiling, a maze of soft, sheer silk. The urge to grasp the pommel of his blade itched the surface of his palm. Through the long curtains, he could see the king waiting, that odd azure light dancing over his features. What was that? It was not the light from the black candles dotted about the room, that much he knew, and yet it was a light that was familiar to him. He had seen it before.

He had seen it...

Juda stepped beyond the final sheer silken screen, the sight before him making his gait suddenly unsteady. A strange noise pushed its way over his tongue, forced itself through his parted lips before he could stop it. It pained his chest, rasping in his throat as if someone had reached in and squeezed the very air from his lungs.

The dragon's gold clustered over the rocks in the huge glass tank, no doubt placed there as decoration and nothing more, mimicking a sight that once would have been seen in the depths of the Setalah. From a time before the Naiad curse when the waters had been safe to investigate. Snake reeds grew in the cracks between the rocks, their purple flesh pushing against the glass like bruised skin.

Juda had heard of such aquariums in the homes of the nobles—using their generous share of the Dreynian water to house collections of fish and other aquatic creatures for their spoilt brattish offspring, water that the people of Grimefell would have been forced to betray half the slums to get their hands on.

Except this aquarium did not contain any fish.

The Naiad's hair was lighter and redder than he knew it to be, but Juda remembered how the light of the dragon's gold on her wet hair had transformed it into a different hue than when it was dry. She was suspended motionless in the water, head up, back arched, her legs trailing behind. Juda's gaze swept the curve of her naked body—a body he had mapped with his mouth until he knew it as well as he knew his own. Her arms floated beside her, her long hair flared about her face, wispy and weightless in the water. Her eyes—those that had once contained so much fire and anger and passion—were wide open, but utterly devoid of life.

The only light that remained was that which reflected off her body by the dragon's gold. Cerulean radiance dappling pale, soft flesh. Dead flesh.

Elara Consuli, the last water witch, was gone, and Juda's world descended into darkness once more.