Ruination

by Anthony Reynolds

Genres: Sword & Sorcery; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

This audiobook features dramatized audio performances by a full cast - featuring some of your favorite Riot voices.

Discover an epic tale of magic, revenge, and an empire on the verge of ruin in the first ever novel set in the blockbuster universe of League of Legends.

Camavor is a brutal land with a bloody legacy. Where the empire’s knights go, slaughter follows. 
 
Kalista seeks to change that. When her young and narcissistic uncle, Viego, becomes king, she vows to temper his destructive instincts, as his loyal confidant, advisor, and military general. But her plans are thwarted when an assassin’s poisoned blade strikes Viego’s wife, Isolde, afflicting her with a malady for which there is no cure. 
 
As Isolde’s condition worsens, Viego descends into madness and grief, threatening to drag Camavor down with him. Kalista makes a desperate gambit to save the kingdom: she searches for the long lost Blessed Isles, rumored to hold the queen’s salvation, if only Kalista can find them.
 
But corruption grows in the Blessed Isles’ capital, where a vengeful warden seeks to ensnare Kalista in his cruel machinations. She will be forced to choose between her loyalty to Viego and doing what she knows is right--for even in the face of utter darkness, one noble act can shine a light that saves the world.

Release date: September 6, 2022

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 400

Sample

The Scouring Plains, Santoras

Eighteen Months After Viego’s Coronation

Kalista vol Kalah Heigaari, General of the Host, Spear of the Argent Throne, and niece to the king, ripped the helmet from her head. She sucked in a deep breath and ran a hand through her long, sweat-damp hair.

The sun beat down upon her, relentless and unforgiving. The heat was searing, burning her lungs, but slowly, her heart rate began to steady. Only then, with the fury of battle dissipating, did she feel the ache and sting of wounds she didn’t remember taking. Her head felt heavy, and there was a ringing in her ears. Had she taken a head blow? It was possible, yet the battle had been so chaotic, she couldn’t be certain.

Her arms were leaden, her back sore. All she wanted to do was sink to the ground and close her eyes, but she did not. No soldier wanted to see their commander giving in to exhaustion. And so she remained on her feet, praying to the Ancestors that her legs did not collapse beneath her.

Thousands of bodies were strewn across the dusty plain. Where the fighting had been thickest, they were piled high, in lines where the soldiers had clashed and died. Most were motionless, but not all. Survivors on both sides twitched and moaned. But the Camavorans were the victors, and so while their wounded would be borne away, their injuries tended, the Santorassians were already being finished off.

Beyond the battlefield, the wives and daughters, husbands and sons of those soldiers watched from atop the sloping sandstone walls of their city. Kalista imagined she could hear their wails. There would be panic within those walls. Their king had gambled all by standing against Camavor, but he was dead, and his city would be claimed.

Far behind Kalista, upon a rise overlooking the battlefield, was the covered pavilion where her king watched, his queen at his side. Viego had wanted to be down here, fighting, leading from the front, the mighty blade Sanctity in hand. He came from a lineage of warrior-kings, and his father was the legendary Lion of Camavor, after all. Viego had been king for a year and a half now, and wanted to prove his might to his allies and his detractors alike.

Before the battle, he had dismissed the counsel of his advisors and generals who urged him to watch from afar, out of harm’s way. Once they had gone, Kalista had confronted him.

“You are the king, and you do not yet have an heir,” Kalista had said through gritted teeth, starting to lose her patience.

“I am sick of living in my father’s shadow,” Viego had snapped. He was garbed for battle, wearing gleaming black plate edged in gold. “I am every bit the warrior he was. I want this victory to be mine.”

“It will be yours whether you take the field or not,” Kalista shot back. “The histories will record it as a victory for King Viego. It doesn’t matter if you fight.”

“It matters to me,” he had returned hotly.

No one else would dare speak to him in the tone she had used, but as a child, he had always sought her approval, and in many ways still did.

Even so, Viego was not to be convinced. He had opened his mouth to argue, until Queen Isolde placed a hand on his arm. “Kalista is wise, my love,” she had said. “Stay by my side. Please. You have nothing to prove.”

As gently spoken as she was, there was a formidable strength in Isolde. Viego had sighed, and finally relented. “I guess it is just pride that makes me want to fight,” he had said, placing a hand over his queen’s. “I will do as you wish, my love.”

On the dusty, hot battlefield, surrounded by the dead and dying, Kalista raised her spear high, in salute to the royal couple in the distance.

“Best get that seen to, General,” said a voice, a deep baritone rumble. Kalista turned to see Ledros, her most trusted and capable captain. He was a giant of a man, standing head and shoulders above the next tallest soldier in the Camavoran ranks, and his deeply tanned face was crisscrossed with pale scars. As with all the lowborn infantry of the Host, his armor consisted of little more than a baked-leather breastplate, a humble bronze helm, and leather greaves. His large wooden shield was splintered, and it fell to pieces as he unhooked it from one arm. Those arms were massive, as big as any other man’s thighs. He was splattered with blood, but little of it was his own.

Kalista stared at him, trying to understand what he meant. He gestured to the side of her head, and she reached up to her temple. She frowned as her fingertips came away bloody. Glancing down at her helmet, held loosely in numb fingers, she saw the rent gouged in its side. Axe strike. It must have been a glancing blow, else she would have been lying in the dust with the other corpses. She’d been lucky, and Ledros knew it.

“It’s nothing, Captain,” she said.

Ledros was carrying a severed head, holding the grisly trophy by its hair. The Santorassian king. It had been the death of that warrior-monarch that broke the enemy. And as always, once the rout began, the end had been inevitable. Fear was contagious on the battlefield, and the resolve of soldiers could be fragile. The death of one man could cause an entire battle line to shatter, just as a single pebble could cause an avalanche.

“That was a fine kill,” Kalista said.

The enemy king had a reputation as a consummate swordsman, and from what Kalista had seen of him fighting, that reputation wasn’t exaggerated. He’d carved into their right flank at the head of his elite guard, fighting like a demigod, slaughtering everything in his path. The Camavoran line had buckled, threatening to break, until Ledros had shouldered his way through the fray to face him.

There was no doubt the king had been a gifted warrior… He’d just never faced the likes of Ledros before.

“Bastard put up a good fight,” Ledros grunted.

“Not good enough, it seems,” Kalista observed. “The Knightly Orders will be furious you denied them the chance to claim that glory themselves.”

Ledros grinned. His features were too broad and thick for him to be regarded as handsome, but he had an honest face. He had absolutely no guile in him, which was far too rare a trait. “That just makes this victory all the sweeter,” he said, a wicked gleam in his dark eyes.

Kalista snorted. It was an undignified sound, but there was no one near to hear it but Ledros and her other loyal soldiers of the Host. She may have been highborn, but she had always felt more comfortable among the common rank and file than among other nobles, with all their flattery, lies, and backstabbing. Camavoran court politics were as dangerous as any battlefield, full of feints, sudden assaults, and desperate last stands, but Kalista would much rather face her enemies across the field. At least there you could see who was holding a blade.

Dust clouds in the distance showed where the scattered remnants of the enemy army had fled. They wouldn’t last long. Three major Knightly Orders had marshaled for battle alongside the Host to defeat Santoras—the Knights of the Azure Flame, the Horns of Ebon, and the Iron Order—along with a handful of minor orders. They had been denied the glory of a decisive, victorious charge, for the enemy had broken before any of them had fully committed themselves to the battle, and so those knights would satisfy themselves by running down the survivors.

Pushing aside her exhaustion, Kalista walked among the Host, Ledros at her side. She wanted them to see their general. She stopped frequently to compliment individual soldiers, to joke with some, and commiserate with others. She knelt beside the injured, and held the hands of the dying, and drew the blood trident upon the foreheads of those who had already passed, speaking words of thanks for their bravery—it sounded empty to her but seemed to give solace to those still living to hear it. She told the younger soldiers they were veterans now, and nodded to the real veterans, with their haunted eyes. Porcelain-masked priests picked their way across the field, tapping at the taut surface of their finger-drums to help guide the spirits of the dead to the Revered Ancestors.

Everywhere they went, soldiers slapped Ledros on the shoulder. Even those who had not seen him kill the enemy king knew of it. Every soldier in the Host regarded him with awe and reverence. He was their talisman. Kalista dreaded what would happen should he ever fall in battle, for he truly was the heart and soul of the Host.

The sun had dipped low as Kalista and Ledros made their way through the gathered knots of soldiers. Her throat was parched and dust-coated, and she gratefully accepted a waterskin from one of her officers.

Now that the shock of combat was fading, there was a jubilant mood among the Host. They had survived the day and were victorious. They would see their wives, husbands, and children once more, and the next dawn would seem glorious for that.

A great cheer went up for Ledros, and he obligingly lifted his bloody trophy high for all to see. Kalista saw the blush on his broad cheeks and smiled. As big as he was, indomitable in battle and able to face charging heavy cavalry without a hint of fear, this kind of adoration made him nervous. She found it endearing.

Ledros caught her eye. Help me, his eyes begged, but that merely goaded her on. She placed a hand on his massive shoulder—well above her own head—and lifted up her spear.

“Ledros!” she roared. “Slayer of Kings!”

He stared down at her, aghast, and she laughed at his embarrassment.

The Host roared their approval and chanted his name. Everyone was on their feet now, thrusting dented and bloodied weapons in the air. Only when it began to die down did Kalista notice the heavily armored horseman nearby, watching silently. Sitting astride a steel-encased warhorse of titanic proportions, the knight was resplendent in his ornate armor, a rich purple cloak of the finest velvet draped over his shoulders.

Hecarim, Grand Master of the Iron Order. My betrothed.

She hurriedly removed her hand from Ledros’s shoulder. The jubilation of moments before was gone, leaving only silence. The big captain turned toward Hecarim and lowered his gaze in dutiful deference, as did every member of the Host. Kalista did not follow suit. She was of royal blood and lowered her gaze to no one but the king.

Hecarim’s features were proud and noble, refined and aristocratic, and he cast his imperious gaze across the soldiers. It lingered on Ledros for a moment before settling on Kalista. His wavy shoulder-length hair was dark, his olive skin unmarred by flaw or blemish. His eyes were the deep green of ocean depths, and they had an intensity that was at once alluring and dangerous.

He dismounted, sliding smoothly to the ground with a rattle of armor. He was tall and broad-shouldered. Not Ledros-tall, but who is? A squire rushed forward—the daughter of some nobleman wealthy enough to buy her place at Hecarim’s side—and took the warhorse by the bridle. The beast snorted and stamped one iron-shod hoof, eyes flashing. For a moment it seemed it would bite the girl, but a sharp word from its master settled it.

“Lady Kalista,” Hecarim said, bowing his head, though his eyes never left her own.

“My lord Hecarim,” Kalista returned, with a subtle inclination of her chin.

The silence lengthened as she waited for him to speak. A bead of sweat ran down her taut, muscled back, beneath her armor. They were set to be wed before the year was out, yet this was only the third time they had spoken. There was an understandable awkwardness between them, for they were barely more than strangers. Dozens nearby watched and listened, but if she was being honest with herself, she was mainly conscious of Ledros, standing statue-still at her side.

As if sensing her thoughts, Hecarim glanced again at Ledros, lingering on the severed head still clasped in the captain’s hand. Kalista wondered if he was going to say something about a lowborn bondsman denying him the honor of that kill. Instead, he smiled. It was warm and lit up his face.

“Will you walk a moment with me, lady?” Hecarim said.

“Of course,” she answered.

He turned and held out his arm. Kalista passed her spear to an attendant and stepped beside him, placing her hand lightly upon his ornate vambrace.

We must make a strange sight. A leisurely afternoon stroll through a garden would perhaps have been more fitting for a betrothed couple, but here they were, walking among the dead and dying. Hecarim’s appearance was spotless, and Kalista was acutely conscious of the fact that she was covered in blood, dust, and sweat.

“Don’t ever say I don’t take you to the nicest of places,” Hecarim murmured, a smile in his voice. “If you’re lucky, next time I may take you to a charnel pit. Or a swamp. Chaperoned, of course.”

Kalista was pleased to see he had some wit about him. She felt the tension between them ease a little, and she looked up at him. How were his teeth so perfect? she wondered idly.

“It is good to see you smile, lady,” he said softly.

She glanced around them. “It surprises me that I am able,” she admitted, “given the circumstances.”

“You have won a convincing victory this day. A victory for the ages.”

“In the king’s name, glory be upon him.”

“Of course.”

The ranks of the Host stood at attention as they walked by, saluting sharply.

“They really do adore you, don’t they?” remarked Hecarim.

“They appreciate a general who doesn’t treat them as chaff.”

Hecarim grunted. Kalista wasn’t sure whether he was amused or he’d never really considered the notion. In truth, few nobles had.

“There are those who worry you hold too much sway with the common masses,” he mused.

“Because I don’t lead them to slaughter, like cattle?”

“Because there are a lot of them,” replied Hecarim, scratching his chin. “Populist monarchs have come to power in the past through lowborn uprisings.”

Kalista laughed. “Anyone who thinks I am plotting to take the Argent Throne is an abject fool,” she said. “I have no desire to rule, and I detest court politics. I’ll stick to the battlefield.”

Hecarim smiled. Ancestors, but he is a good-looking man.

“And you lead your soldiers well,” he said. “But in a void of decent gossip, there are plenty who feel the need to manufacture it. Though declaring your best bondsman soldier Kingslayer, well, that is perhaps not going to do much to quell such talk.”

Kalista frowned. “I really don’t care what they whisper behind my back,” she declared. “The court is a mass of vipers.”

Hecarim’s expression became more serious, and it was like the sun dipping behind a cloud. He stopped and turned to face Kalista, taking her hands in his own. It was the first time they had ever really touched.

“My apologies, noble lady,” he said earnestly. “It was not my intention to cause you upset. I had merely come to ensure that you were unharmed, and to offer congratulations for your strategic mastery today.”

Kalista felt her cheeks blush. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Hecarim released her hands, and they continued in silence until they came full circle, returning to where they had started. The knight’s squire still held his angry ebony steed, and she looked relieved to hand back the reins.

“I must leave you, dear lady. The king has ordered that the city not be sacked, and I want to ensure that that decree is followed,” said Hecarim. “There will be a triumphal feast held within the walls. Will you do me the honor of being seated at my side?”

“The honor would be mine, my lord.”

Flashing a final smile, Lord Hecarim remounted his immense steed. He wheeled once, then rode off, attendants following in his wake, like leaves in the wind. He rode like one born to the saddle, as if he and his furious warhorse were one.

His knights cheered as their Grand Master rejoined them. With a blare of a horn, the one known as the Iron Harbinger signaled their advance, and the order rode for the conquered city.

Dust rose behind them, and Kalista’s expression darkened. The city of Santoras would not be sacked, but there would still be some degree of looting and plundering, despite what Hecarim said; there always was in the aftermath of battle. And she knew that any who resisted would be slaughtered.

Ledros spat onto the ground.

“He rides well enough,” he said. “I’ll give him that.”

Santoras

As arranged marriages went, Kalista had little to complain about.

She had always known the choice of her husband would not be her own, as the old king’s granddaughter, and niece to the new king, Viego. Hers was always going to be a marriage of political gain. She had never felt any bitterness about it. It was just the way of things. She had long resigned herself to being married off to some fat old nobleman, so when Viego had informed her that he wished her wed to Hecarim, she was pleasantly surprised.

She was under no misunderstanding, of course. Hers was a betrothal orchestrated purely to consolidate power… but as she sat beside Hecarim at the triumphal feast, in the central square of the conquered city of Santoras, she felt the Ancestors had not been unkind.

Hecarim was only a few years her senior, and his rise within the Iron Order had been swift. He was its youngest-ever Grand Master and had already earned a swathe of victories and honors. The Iron Order was the most powerful Knightly Order in the realm, in terms of both political weight and military strength… and that was not even accounting for its wealth. Hundreds of years of conquest had ensured that the coffers of the Iron Order’s impenetrable fortress were overflowing with gold, precious jewels, and magical artifacts.

It was several hours after nightfall. The tables were laden with food, and the ale and wine were flowing freely. It was clear that the feast was already being prepared even as the two armies had clashed on the plain before the city. Doubtless this was meant to be a victory banquet for the Santorassian king. Kalista noted the fear among the servants, though they tried to hide it. Their masters had been slaughtered by those they now served.

“Thank you,” she said to a young servant as a plate of food was placed before her, but he looked startled to have been addressed and practically fled.

Already it was a raucous affair. The Camavoran revelers shouted across the tables, laughing loudly as they toasted the victory. Musicians played, and a troupe of feline vastayan dancers performed, trailing magical swirls of iridescent light as they spun, somersaulted, and backflipped with inhuman grace.

Viego and his young queen had not yet joined the feast but had sent word for it to begin without them, and the nobles were embracing that command with vigor. Kalista felt it was obscene to drink and dine while the city’s inhabitants cowered in their homes, fearing for their lives, and she made only a pretense at eating. She would stay as long as etiquette demanded but not a moment longer. Of course, things would have been much, much worse for the city had Viego not ordered restraint, but that would be little comfort to the many people who had lost their loved ones this day.

She was still bedecked in her armor, though it had been cleaned. She had not had time to bathe, but her hands and face were washed, and servants had combed and oiled her long ebony hair. She wore it unbound and free-flowing, as she would until the day of her marriage, whereafter it would be bound into braids, symbolizing the tying of her life to Hecarim’s. Her spear leaned against the table at her side, never far from reach.

There were close to a hundred present, all of noble birth. Most were knights, though a few were aristocrats serving as her officers in the Host. Those had been shunted to the tables on the edges of the gathering, of course. There was little honor to be had serving in the Host, and even less gold; it was within the Knightly Orders where real wealth and prestige were made. Kalista was well aware of the privilege afforded her through being part of the royal bloodline, but she liked to think she would have served in the Host regardless. She would certainly have rather been feasting with her soldiers outside the walls than sitting among the warrior elite of Camavor, but this was where Viego wanted her, and so this was where she was.

Hecarim sat at her left. He was an attentive and charming suitor, and his conversation was easy and light. Immediately around them were the other leaders of the Knightly Orders who had accompanied Viego and the Host to Santoras: Lord Ordono of the Knights of the Azure Flame—tall and severe—and the statuesque Lady Aurora, Grand Master of the Horns of Ebon. The latter was a loud and forthright woman with a fearsome reputation. Kalista had instantly warmed to her.

Across the table sat the Grand Master of the Golden Shield, one of the lesser Knightly Orders. He was of middling years and heavyset, with small, piggish eyes and an ugly scar across his pale face. He was also well into his cups.

“It seems you have achieved the unachievable, Lady Kalista,” he drawled.

Kalista sighed inwardly, having no desire to engage him in small talk, but graced him with a smile that did not reach her eyes. “How so, Grand Master Siodona?”

“You have forged the lowborn rabble into a passably decent army,” he said. He raised his goblet unsteadily, spilling some of its contents. “I’ll drink to that, for I never thought such a thing possible. Nor that anyone would bother. Particularly one of the royal bloodline.”

“It pleases me to defy expectations.”

Most at court were aghast that she led the Host. She didn’t feel it arrogant to acknowledge her gift for military strategy, and stepping into the role of general of Camavor’s immense standing army was, she believed, the best way she could serve her nation. Aristocrats saw little honor in leading lowborn soldiers, but what did she care of what the feckless nobility thought of her?

“But why the Host?” continued Siodona. “Any noble order would be honored to have you ride with them. Why lead that rabble?”

“That rabble won the day today,” Kalista noted. “Besides, I am where I can serve Camavor best. All of Camavor. Too often in the past the Host has been used to simply soak up arrows and blunt the enemy’s charge.”

“They are lowborn,” said Siodona, wiping his mouth.

“They are Camavoran and deserve more than to be treated as expendable. It is my belief the Host can be far more than that. And a strong Host can help ensure that we have a strong Camavor.”

Grand Master Siodona grunted as his goblet was refilled. “The Knightly Orders ensure a strong Camavor,” he said. “That’s where the true power lies. As it always has.”

Kalista barely concealed her dislike for Siodona. “The Knightly Orders are not Camavor,” she stated. “There have been times when various orders have reneged on their promises or refused to pledge themselves to a newly crowned monarch. I believe the knights of the Golden Shield fought against the crown during the reign of my ancestor King Seuro, did they not?”

“She’s got you there,” Lady Aurora said, grinning.

Siodona glowered. “That was three hundred years ago,” he snarled. “My order has bled for the Argent Throne, more than most. We swore ourselves to the new king on the day of his coronation. More than can be said for others.” He glanced pointedly at Hecarim.

The Iron Order had not pledged itself to Viego right away. That was not unusual, but it was also not a sign of confidence in the new king, particularly since the Iron Order had always been the throne’s most stalwart defender. It had taken them a full week—and the promise of Kalista’s betrothal to Hecarim—before the Iron Order offered its oath.

Necks strained as the nobles seated nearby waited to see if Hecarim would rise to the bait, but he merely laughed under his breath, dabbing at his mouth with a silk napkin.

Kalista raised a hand placatingly. Goading Siodona further would serve no one, even if it was amusing. “No one is besmirching the honor of the Golden Shield,” she said. “My point is merely that it’s wise for Camavor to have a strong, loyal military force of its own, independent of and in addition to the honorable Knightly Orders, long may they serve.”

Siodona grunted at Hecarim. “And you agree with this?”

Hecarim shrugged. “If a strong Host means less of my own will die, then why would I be opposed?”

Siodona waved his hand dismissively. “If you weren’t marrying her, you’d say otherwise. And the king’s order not to sack the city? Bah! Makes this war hardly worth the effort!”

Hecarim’s smile became cold, though his tone remained light. “Drink some water, Grand Master Siodona,” he said in a loud voice, “else you’ll be waking tomorrow with a sore head and a handful of honor duels from everyone you’ve offended tonight.”

There was soft laughter from those within earshot. They had gathered something of an audience, as the nobility were always hungry for court drama. Two Grand Masters flexing their muscles was a delicacy few of them could resist. Siodona snorted and took another drink, ignoring Hecarim’s suggestion of switching to water.

Kalista appreciated how Hecarim had deftly turned the attention from her. He gave her a wink only she saw. He’s far better at these games of politics than I. Clearly it was more than just his strength of arm that had seen him rise to lead his order so quickly, when the previous Grand Master had fallen in battle.

Tying the Iron Order to the throne through marriage was a smart move. She had suspected initially that the idea had come from the king’s shrewd chief advisor, but now she wondered if it had been put forward by Hecarim himself. He was certainly bold enough to have approached the king directly with the proposition. And if it was him who had proposed the marriage, she wasn’t sure if she should be impressed with the scale of his ambition, or wary of it. Something of both, she decided.

Before she had a chance to puzzle on that notion further, a crier raised his voice above the din of the feast. “King Viego of Camavor, and Queen Isolde! Long may they reign!”

As one, the gathered nobles rose to greet them.

Flanked by the royal guard, and with the ever-present figure of the king’s bodyguard, Vaask, close behind, Viego and Isolde swept into the courtyard amid a fanfare of trumpets. The young king strode forward eagerly, a broad, winning smile on his face, while his wife seemed to glide along elegantly on his arm. They were utterly besotted with each other, and Kalista couldn’t be anything but happy for them. Viego had not known a lot of love in his life.

As a child, he was given everything he demanded… except for the love of a parent. His mother had died in childbirth, and his father—already an old man when Viego was born—had completely ignored him until his elder heir was dead, and even then, his attention was cold, stifling, and overbearing. The old king had died only months later, so Viego was given little preparation for ruling.

Kalista loved Viego as a brother and was fiercely protective of him, but even she acknowledged he’d been a spoiled boy and had grown into an entitled young man, unused to being denied much. Nevertheless, she knew him better than anyone. He had a good heart and felt things deeply, for better and worse. With the right guidance, she believed he could become a good king, once he matured a little.

At first, Kalista was as shocked by Viego’s impulsive marriage as any of the nobles, and more than a little concerned. Isolde was not from a long and proud lineage, and the union didn’t bring Camavor political power or wealth—she was not even Camavoran, but merely a lowborn seamstress from a conquered nation. Yet Kalista had quickly adjusted her assessment after seeing them together.

Viego doted on Isolde like he had doted on nothing and no one his entire life. For the first time he put someone else above his own wants and needs. He listened to her, valuing her opinions far more than those of his advisors or even Kalista. And while the new queen was not formally schooled, she was fiercely intelligent and had an instinctive understanding of people and court politics. More importantly, perhaps, she was kind and considerate, and she tempered Viego’s more impulsive and ego-led decisions. Kalista finally had an ally—someone who could help rein in Viego and help ensure stability for Camavor.

Now he was finally growing into his role as Camavor’s monarch, and tonight’s performance—for it was a performance, one that was masterfully constructed—showed a glimpse of the powerful and beloved ruler he could become. He oozed charisma and confidence, and he had timed their appearance perfectly. The crowd was already well oiled, on both wine and victory, but other than the red-faced Siodona, none were yet so drunk as to be sloppy or belligerent.

Viego was dressed regally but not overly ostentatiously—that might suit the court back in Alovédra, but not here, in the aftermath of battle. He wore his gleaming black cuirass over his chest to assure them that he was a warrior, even if he hadn’t taken part in the battle. The jagged crown of kings sat upon his brow, but his sword, the immense blade that was the true symbol of kingship—Sanctity—was conspicuous in its absence.

For her part, Viego’s queen, Isolde, was a vision of demure beauty. Her face was a perfect oval, her blue