Sensus Wrought

KNITE:

Upon entering the grand foyer, I beheld a red-haired, freckled woman kneeling on the warm marble, her hands diligently scrubbing and polishing the gleaming surface with the aid of simple Ignis and Zephyr Arts. She hummed a tune as she worked. We moved past the bustling kitchens, where lively laughter and melodious singing spilled into the corridors. There, a maid carried a heaping pile of clean silks. I saw her smile despite her bowed head. Throughout Blint's estate, others wandered the halls, their steps unburdened by hunger, their spirits buoyed by a jubilance born of comparison. I judged them not for cloaking their imprisonment in contentment; I, too, understand the gnawing agony of hunger, especially among my privileged kin.

Blint's circuitous route finally brought us to our destination as the towering doors parted and we passed beneath the archway into the council chamber. We stepped into a circular atrium crowned by a glass dome that seemed almost exposed, shedding light on five thrones arranged in a perfect circle around a central dais. Murals of the ruling Bainan Leaves stretched across the lofty walls above the five archways, with a haughty Yabiskus gazing arrogantly over our shoulders as we moved toward the dais.

Blint's seat remained empty. The other four councilmen were already present.

Valim, chosen of Brittle, sat with his fingers steepled, his eyes unreadable. There were centuries in them, a dull glint easily mistaken for placidity. Behind him was a portrait of Brittle, her muscular form slouched on a throne, her eyes carrying the same dull glint. Valim, like Brittle, was a man of intellect, himself once a Leaf candidate elevated for his mastery of logistics and his uncanny ability to predict outcomes with terrifying precision. He did not rise when I entered. He merely nodded, a gesture contrived by calculation.

"The chamber acknowledges your presence, Master Yabiskus," he said, his tone clipped.

Thessa, chosen of Velusni, stood. Her robes, ornamented by golden stitches in the shape of vines, shimmered with sensus. She was a formidable Surgeon, and her elevation to Bainan's prime council had come through her ability to inspire fear—the projects she enacted on her enemies were known far and wide, some of them having been entered into the curriculum for aspiring Leaf candidates in Bainan's institutions. Her eyes were sharp, her mouth set in a line that rarely softened. She bowed, but only slightly.

"You arrive without herald," she said. "And with blood on your blade. Should we be concerned?"

"You should always be concerned," I replied.

Drennik, framed by his father, Muraad, was a brute of a man, his musclebound arms bare. A war hero, he had been chosen for his loyalty and his ability to rally the lower castes. His throne was the only one not cushioned, forged from iron and etched with the names of the foreign royals slain by his hand.

He stood and thumped his chest. "Master Yabiskus," he said, voice booming. "If you've come to raid my father's holdings, you'll find them well guarded."

"You think yourself greater than Muraad?" I said.

Drennik grinned. "Tales of your victory are just that—tales."

Councilwoman Elira, the Pale Flame

Alusia was the oldest among them, her blonde hair so pale as to be nearly silver. Many considered Alusia the greatest Tripler to have ever lived, the many years she'd survived giving her the experience and power to contend with the lowliest of Leaves. Her throne was carved from whitewood, and her pale, cloudy eyes seemed to look through me rather than at me.

She did not speak immediately. When she did, her voice was like wind through reeds. "The balance shifts. You bring change, Master Yabiskus. But change is not always progress."

"Progress is a matter of perspective," I said.

"And relying on perspective," Alusia replied, "is often the first sign of regression."

"And regression is a matter of perspective, but that is neither here nor there." I stepped onto the dais, my gaze sweeping across the four. Blint had returned to his seat, his posture rigid, his throat still bearing the faintest scar of my blade's lesson. "I have not come here to debate lesser godlings such as yourselves. I have come to command that you call for those you represent."

***

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Dusk the following day.

Kalisa arrived first. Her thin dress, the bodice tight, the silhouette of the skirt voluminous and so long as to sweep behind her like a tide, was bizarre for one of her House—Those of House Bainan were raised to hold violence and practicalities in high esteem, and her dress was far from either. Braids sat looped tight atop her head like a coronet. There was her practicality. Her narrowed, unyielding eyes scanned the chamber like a blade seeking flesh. There was the violence. So too was it strapped to her thighs, bladed implements of battle further sharpened by obscurity and the potential surprises hidden therein.

Kalisa's sharp gaze found me, and she bowed from the neck, the gesture not even so grand as to be called a nod, as if the subtlety was to acknowledge the hierarchy she had clawed her way into.

"Yabiskus," she said, her voice low and smooth. "I have come at your request. I do hope the matter you wish to discuss is not so trivial."

I sat in what was usually Blint's seat of power. Kip stood to my right, the crate still strapped to his back. As always, his foolish grin beamed, the bloodlust it held only visible to me.

I gestured at Alusia's usual throne of whitewood; the old Tripler knelt beside it on one knee, having vacated the seat for her matriarch. "I hear the others docked soon after you arrived," I said. "We shall not have to wait long to find out."

Velusni followed, his quiet arrival as disconcerting as the immaculate cleanliness that masked his poisonous mind and powers. He wore white garments streaked with pale blue, his robes pristine despite the long journey from the northernmost edge of the island and the hazardous trek through the city's dying outskirts. His hands, gloved in silk the color of purest milk, glowed faintly.

He bowed with practiced grace, his eyes never leaving mine. "I trust the smell of blood on your blade was not drawn from one of mine," he said, his smile thin.

I glanced over at Thessa and her deadly beauty. She, too, knelt beside her usual throne. "As you can see," I said, "your chosen council member yet breathes. I'd not sully my blade with anyone with fainter blood than she, so you may rest at ease."

Velusni chuckled softly. "That's too bad. I'd have liked a passable reason to challenge you."

Last came Brittle. She entered without sound, her bare feet whispering across the marble. Her tunic was spun from simple cotton, grey and blue and otherwise unadorned. Her hair hung loose, her face unpainted, her presence unembellished. Yet the air shifted around her as if the weight of her presence was so profound as to be tangible. She did not bow. She did not speak immediately. She simply looked at me.

"You called?" she said.

"I did."

"Then speak."

"Sit."

"This best be worth the time I wasted traveling here from Discipulus."

The three other Leaves of House Bainan sat before me now—Kalisa, Velusni, and Brittle. I was considered the fourth. Unbeknownst to them, the fifth was also present.

"You have heard of my victory over Muraad," I said.

"An unlikely tale," Velusni said. "I doubt you'd have taken down that battle-hungry buffoon where I'd have struggled." He glanced at Drennik, Muraad's chosen. "Where is he?"

"I called," Drennik said. Lines of worry cut deep into his face. "He did not answer."

"Has he returned to the frontier?" Velusne asked. "For once, I'd very much like him here if only to challenge and defeat this imitator of his."

"I spoke with his adjutant," Drennik said. "The last he'd seen of him was—"

"You have heard of my victory over Muraad," I repeated, interrupting their interplay.

Velusni's smile faltered. Brittle's gaze narrowed. Kalisa tilted her head, the tight coronet of braids casting a shadow across her cheek.

"I did not come here to entertain disbelief," I said, then waved Kip forward.

The Golodanian knelt, unstrapped the crate from his back, and set it down with a thud that echoed through the spacious chamber. The wood was dark, reinforced with iron bands, and stained in places where the contents had leaked—though not blood.

Kip stepped back.

I moved forward, placing a hand on the lid. "You doubt me," I said, my voice low. "You think me incapable of felling the man you once feared, the warlord Bainan held in highest regard, the tyrant you plotted against but never dared to face. You think me a storyteller. A liar."

I opened the crate and kicked it forward. The stench hit first, sour and overly sweet once you smelled past the aroma of decay. A body tumbled out.

Muraad.

His once-mighty frame was now a ruin. Bones jutted from beneath parchment-thin skin. His eyes, sunken and rimmed with red, blinked slowly against the light. His beard, once thick and proud, was knotted into clumps, matted with sweat and filth.

Gasps rippled through the chamber. Even Brittle's composure cracked, her lips parting in silent shock. Kalisa stepped forward, her hand twitching toward the blade at her thigh. Velusni's gloved fingers curled into fists.

Muraad looked up at me with only his eyes, his voice a broken rasp. "You… Kill me. Please."

"I will," I replied. " In due time."

I turned to the others. "This is not a tale. This is not a boast. This is a warning. A proclamation of sorts."

I let the silence stretch, let the image of Muraad linger in their minds, of how I'd dismantled a symbol of indomitable strength into a creature more pitiable than the lowliest of Muds.

"Your continued rule will be because I allow it," I said. "Even now, you breathe because I permit it. And so you will serve because I demand it."

A heavy silence settled over the chamber. Not the silence of reverence, nor of fear, but of reckoning. The kind that follows a revelation too vast to be immediately understood.

Kalisa's lips parted slightly, her eyes locked on Muraad's skeletal form. Her fingers twitched near the hilt of her thigh-bound blade, not in threat, but in the instinct to kill and attack what she did not understand. The glow of Velusni's gloves sparked a sickly green for much the same reason. Brittle remained still, but her gaze had shifted to me, her ever-present calculations overwhelmed. Drennik bowed her head to hide his burgeoning tears.

Kip grinned.

I stood above them all, the crate open, the proof laid bare.

And then he came.