Chapter One

One

Sephara

Empyria, the Imperium

13th of Tabus

The blood had long since dried by the time Sephara reached the body.

Her great-aunt’s corpse sprawled in the shadow of one of several hundred twenty-foot statues flanking the palatial Path of Triumph. As she strode towards the mass of blue-coated Praevin guarding the scene, Sephara’s attention snagged on the statue’s marble greatsword, angled as if it had struck the killing blow. Similar stone titans posed in unending lines of the empire’s vaunted heroes on either side of the Path, silent witnesses to this grievous crime.

She navigated the press of morbidly curious bystanders and aimed for the officers. Before the foremost of them could challenge her, she brandished her father’s writ. The officer skimmed the paper, no doubt focusing on the dog’s head crest of the Boratorren family. Her father’s signature swirled below, legalising a document that gave Sephara permission to speak and act in his stead.

“Silvia Barum?” the officer probed. He glanced at the crossed swords stitched on her greatcoat’s lapel. It marked her as a simple guardswoman, albeit one with all the permissions of Valerian Boratorren.

Sephara nodded at her false name.

“We wanted your employer to identify the body,” the officer added.

More than a week back in the capital, once more entrenched in her family’s fraught politics, and Sephara was still unused to hearing her father referred to as her employer. She wore the guise of his lowborn bodyguard, a role they’d decided between them after he’d summoned her to the city of Empyria. Valerian’s reasoning had been simple: if Sephara, scion of one of the Imperium’s most powerful families, wanted to fend off the enemies waiting in the shadows, she needed the ability to hide in the shadows herself. It was why he’d called her here after ten years out in the provinces learning to protect herself and her family.

It was also why he’d sent her here, to the statue-guarded Path of Triumph that bisected half the city, where his aunt had just been murdered.

“He gave me a detailed description,” Sephara replied. “I can do it.”

The officer returned her writ and stepped aside. Sephara moved past him, her chest tightening as she neared the body. She’d seen corpses before, of course. But her relation to the victim sharpened the situation’s horror, even if she’d never actually met Novissa Boratorren.

A dagger to the heart had felled the woman. The offending weapon still jutted hilt-deep from her chest. It had been lodged awkwardly between ribs, which explained why the killer hadn’t taken the weapon with them when they’d fled. A messy circle of brown-red lifeblood painted the Path’s bleached white paving stones. It posed a stark contrast to the rich Boratorren-blue of Novissa’s fine coat.

“That’s her,” Sephara confirmed, stepping back. It wasn’t just the canine crest on her coat that identified Novissa, but the broad build, square jaw, and heavy brows the Boratorren family had monopolised. Not to mention the intense green eyes, harsh even in death as the woman stared unseeingly skywards. Sephara’s lack of these hereditary features allowed her to don her commoner alter-ego with ease.

To draw her focus from those horribly blank eyes, Sephara squinted at the dagger’s bloodied handle and the strange shape carved there. She was about to bend down and afford it closer inspection when a voice jolted her.

“I thought it was her. I saw her often enough at the Caetoran’s side, but I had to be certain. Formalities, you know?”

She turned to regard the man who’d ghosted up beside her. He was tall and well-built, with a clean-shaven face and thick black hair kept slightly longer than the Praevin’s regulations. Lupine blue eyes gleamed above a patrician nose, and the bright smile he flashed her afforded him an aura of youthfulness. Had she not spotted the golden epaulettes on his knee-length coat marking him as the Captain-General of the Praevin, she might’ve assumed he wasn’t much older than her. But that wasn’t possible: to earn his title meant he’d served within the Praevin for decades.

Her interest strayed to the gleaming sabre hanging at his hip; she’d heard many rumours about his skill with that blade, known to many as his trademark weapon.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, his smile widening to a grin. Though a placating expression, Sephara had learned to look past such amicable expressions.

“Your officer identified me,” she replied, nodding to the man who’d checked her writ. “I serve Corajus Valerian Boratorren.”

“In what capacity?”

“I’m part of his personal guard.” She offered her hand, relieved when he took it in a firm hold. “Silvia Barum, at your service.”

A nobody’s name, unaccompanied by titles. Simple and liberating.

He gave her hand an authoritative pump and then released her. “A pleasure. I’m—”

“—Dexion Mendacium,” she finished. “I may be new to the city, but I’ve already heard much about you.” She rested her hand on the ceremonial dagger at her belt and looked down at his sabre. “I’ve heard you spar in the arenas and that you’ll fight anyone who answers your public challenge. And I’ve heard you’re good. Really good.”

“Sounds like you’re sizing me up.”

It felt wrong to bandy playful words with this stranger so close to her great-aunt’s remains, but she couldn’t risk revealing herself to this man. As the guardswoman to a Corajus, even one as young as her, it was expected that she be as desensitised to death as the Praevin themselves. Besides, Valerian had never cared for his aunt, so why would his unrelated bodyguard?

Dexion reached forward, plucked her dagger free, and held it before his eyes. He took an unconscious step backwards. “I hope you wouldn’t fight me with this. I’d be surprised if you could use it as a dinner knife.”

She snatched her blade back before he could react. With a flamboyant flourish, she stabbed it back into its sheath. “I can’t. That one’s just for show.”

“Maybe we should spar sometime,” he mused, a mischievous lilt to his smile.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

From what her father had said of this man before sending her off earlier that afternoon, Dexion frequently offered such challenges. Though it wasn’t yet a sign he favoured her with any significant attention, she decided it might be useful to steer him in that direction. Cultivating an alliance with the Captain-General would certainly benefit her mission in the capital. He’d have access to networks of information Sephara could never obtain alone, and he boasted the confidence of the Caetoran—the Imperium’s ruler—and all that entailed.

Her father’s paranoia labelled everyone outside their family circle enemies. Maybe he’d make an exception for someone as powerful as Captain-General Mendacium.

“How did she die?” Sephara asked, drawing Dexion’s attention back to the body now a few paces away. No doubt his little display and his step backwards had been meant to distract her, to draw her away.

Dexion frowned and looked down at the dagger piercing Novissa’s heart, then back at Sephara. She sighed. “I can see that,” she said. “I meant, did anyone see what happened? Do you know who did it?”

She scanned the Path of Triumph’s palatial expanse, noting the clusters of lingering bystanders staining the thoroughfare’s otherwise pristine white stone. It was late afternoon, and this one of the busiest streets in the capital, just as much a tourist landmark as a main artery. It divided the Industrial District and the Imperial District, which together encompassed fully half of Empyria’s sprawl. If Novissa had been killed here—which the lack of a blood trail suggested—someone other than the statues must’ve seen something.

“According to the dozen accounts we collected, Novissa dropped dead with the dagger in her chest.”

“Just like that?”

Dexion nodded, expressionless. “Just like that. No sign of a killer.” He regarded the body. “The blade wasn’t thrown from a distance, either. She was stabbed up close and the dagger wrenched into her ribs. You need to be close to your victim to do that.”

Sephara rubbed her chin as she considered. Her gaze wandered to the immense base of the statue Novissa had been killed beneath, to the darkness it threw across the body.

Could it have been magic? She’d read of mages able to conjure shadows to fold around themselves and others as concealing cloaks. If a mage hid within the darkness cast by the statue, it was possible no one nearby had seen the attack.

But the Imperium monitored its scarce mage community far too strictly for such talent to slip through. The only mages permitted to openly practice in Empyria itself were the Caetoran’s worldstriding messengers, kept so closely guarded as to practically be slaves. Such measures had rendered magic almost extinct in the Imperium, though it still appeared in bloodlines every now and again.

Her eyes roved upwards, studying the statue’s looming stone visage. More than three times the height of a man, it made for an intimidating structure, the figure clad in full battle-plate and poised mid-strike. The lack of a helmet allowed the statue’s anvil jaw and fierce glower to threaten passersby. Unlike the myriad other statues punctuating the length of the Path of Triumph, this one’s subject hadn’t yet been lost to history.

All the brutal hallmarks of the Boratorren family stared stonily down at Sephara. At Novissa, too, who really did look like the statue had murdered her.

“Ever met him?” Dexion asked, nodding at the statue.

“No,” she lied. Well, half-lied.

Sephara hadn’t seen her uncle in more than a decade. Endarion Boratorren, the man this statue depicted, was a semi-mythical figure to her now, known more through the stories told of him than any interactions with the man himself. The same could be said of most members of her family, though.

“Not even in your employer’s company?”

Sensing the question beneath the question, Sephara shifted her focus back to Dexion. He watched her with an easy smile that enhanced his vitality. He really does look far too young to be a Captain-General.

“Valerian Boratorren is a private man,” she replied at length. “And his brother Endarion has been away from the capital for the last four years. I’ve never seen them together in the time I’ve worked for the Corajus.”

Dexion nodded, the dimming of his smile making his expression unreadable. “Endarion will be summoned back from hiding, I think. All the generals will,” he said. “There’ll be repercussions to this. War, even.”

Ah, yes. In the tumult of her father receiving news of his aunt’s death and Sephara hurrying to the scene before Novissa’s body could be moved and crucial evidence concealed, she’d almost forgotten the political implications of this woman’s murder.

Novissa being a Boratorren was significant enough. The fact she also served as the Warmaster—the Caetoran’s military advisor—made this a case of national importance. It also meant the woman hadn’t been randomly targeted.

What Sephara needed to know now was whether Novissa had been murdered for her family name or her position. The former option justified Valerian’s rampant paranoia. The latter intimated a deliberate and violent act against the Imperium itself.

And Dexion had mentioned war. A murder would only truly prompt war if committed by someone outside the Imperium. Maybe he already suspected this to be the case.

“Killing Novissa beneath her nephew’s statue,” Sephara said, “is a clear message.”

No doubt the Praevin had reached this conclusion the moment they’d been alerted to Novissa’s death and the placement of her remains. Sephara also didn’t doubt Dexion had no plans to freely relinquish information to her, but she needed to probe. She couldn’t return to her father without an answer, or at least a suspicion.

Dexion cocked his head. “Clear how?”

“They’re both Boratorrens. Novissa was Endarion’s mentor and predecessor as well as his aunt.”

“Who would want to send this message?”

She hesitated, aware of the dangerous territory their conversation strayed into.

It was an ill-kept secret that the Caetoran’s family and the Boratorrens were politically opposed. Not openly, not yet, but in principle and in promise. Sephara’s father had schooled her at length about this rivalry. Before she’d left earlier that day, Valerian had even suggested Sephara look for ways to implicate the Caetoran in Novissa’s death. The most obvious culprit, her father had reasoned, was usually to blame.

But then, Dexion thought her a lowborn bodyguard, untethered to her employer’s politics. She could voice Valerian’s opinions without attributing them to herself and use her lowborn, employee status as a shield.

“The Caetoran?” she said.

Dexion shook his head, smile never faltering. “Too obvious,” he said. “Whoever killed Novissa wants everyone to believe they’re targeting her family. That would cast suspicion on the Caetoran and muddy the waters.”

“You sound like you have a few suspects already.”

Dexion shrugged. He held out an arm and shepherded her back through the line of Praevin, the light touch of his palm on the back of her shoulder familiar but not invasive. “The poor woman’s only been dead a few hours,” he replied. “Far too early to start charging suspects.”

Ah, but not too early to have suspects in the first place.

“My employer will want answers, Captain-General.” She cringed at the formality in her tone, imagining this was how her haughty father addressed those he believed beneath him. Meaning everyone.

Dexion offered another cheerful smile, prompting Sephara to wonder how his cheeks didn’t ache. “Yes, I’m familiar with how impatient nobles can be.”

Even when they’d moved well clear of the scene, Dexion didn’t remove his hand from her shoulder until she stepped away to mirror his expression. She wasn’t sure how much to read into the lingering nature of his touch. “How lucky you are to deal with me today, instead of him.”

Dexion’s smile broadened at the bait. He looked her up down as if making a point of memorising her, his eyes narrowing into an almost flirtatious expression. “Lucky indeed,” he said slowly, as if tasting the syllables. “I doubt anything I said would’ve dissuaded the imperious Valerian Boratorren.”

“Whereas I make for easier, more gullible sport.”

His eyebrows twitched at that. No doubt he’d understood the meaning behind her jest—she was not gullible, because she knew he’d already made his conclusions about this murder. He knew something, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—tell her.

Perhaps it involved the dagger in Novissa’s chest. Sephara had been about to bend down to study it when Dexion had interrupted. His arrival had been conveniently well-timed, as had his shepherding of her away from the crime scene.

“I’m sure you’ll find the killer soon enough,” she said, subjecting him to her own visual assessment. As a slight prod, she quirked one brow when she ended her study at his handsome face; let him wonder whether she found him wanting or not.

He dipped his head in silent acknowledgement. “I’d better finish up here,” he said. “And you’d better return to your employer with everything you’ve learned before he comes down here himself.”

She waited until he turned away before answering. “I’ll come and find you in Traian’s Arena if I ever want that fight.”

Dexion glanced over his shoulder. “Please do. Something tells me you’d be far more interesting than my usual opponents.”

Only when Sephara was halfway back to her father’s estate did she realise she hadn’t learned anything at all. That had, she knew, been Dexion’s design.