She carries a demon inside her. She serves a king who carries one too. And the world is running out of time.
Jora is a gatekeeper—a woman who can command otherworldly creatures. She's also a reluctant host to Urielle, a demon who shares her body and whispers at the edges of her mind.
The Mindstream, the divine web of truth that once bound the world, flickers out leaving civilizations in the dark. Then, Jora discovers something that could change everything: a single shard of the destroyed Spirit Stone may hold the key to restoring it to the world. But the search for answers pulls her into a web of imperial threats, wrongful convictions, and a king slowly losing himself to the demon within.
As war looms and the Krykons grow bolder, the greatest danger isn't the emperor massing his navy on the horizon—it's the darkness Jora and her allies carry inside themselves. Because when the Krykon hosts touch, something vast and cold stirs between them, plotting in the silence.
And Urielle has plans of her own.
She carries a demon inside her. She serves a king who carries one too. And the world is running out of time.
Jora is a gatekeeper—a woman who can command otherworldly creatures. She's also a reluctant host to Urielle, a demon who shares her body and whispers at the edges of her mind.
The Mindstream, the divine web of truth that once bound the world, flickers out leaving civilizations in the dark. Then, Jora discovers something that could change everything: a single shard of the destroyed Spirit Stone may hold the key to restoring it to the world. But the search for answers pulls her into a web of imperial threats, wrongful convictions, and a king slowly losing himself to the demon within.
As war looms and the Krykons grow bolder, the greatest danger isn't the emperor massing his navy on the horizon—it's the darkness Jora and her allies carry inside themselves. Because when the Krykon hosts touch, something vast and cold stirs between them, plotting in the silence.
And Urielle has plans of her own.
Jora gazed into the mirror, meeting her own eyes with stern resolve. She barely knew the woman in the mirror anymore. The softness was gone. Scars crossed her cheek and throat, and even her own skin sometimes felt borrowed.
She breathed slowly and watched her reflection, searching her eyes for the telltale shimmer. They stayed warm. Stayed hers. Urielle was quiet for now—not sleeping but calm. Jora had learned not to mistake that quiet for peace.
“Remember what I said,” she whispered. Anxiety tightened her shoulders. “Leave this evening to me. Don’t say a word. Do you hear me?”
Her eyes shifted, the warm amber turning gold. Cold and hard. Her reflection frowned at her. “You will need me.”
“No, I truly won’t,” she whispered, forcing her face into a neutral expression. Her eyes softened again, the gold receding to amber. “I mean it, Urielle. Sit back and watch. Do not move my body. Do not so much as make a face.”
Jora had no true power over the creature, only the ability to deceive it, an illusion of authority that had kept her in control. Some battles required cunning rather than strength.
Satisfied Urielle would yield, at least temporarily, she made her way down the wide, marble steps of her home. The slight jitter in her hands belied her unease. Though she’d been dining with Cyprianus weekly for a few months now, tonight’s gathering was different. This time, she would be meeting his new lady friend.
Despite his extraordinary good looks, Jora felt no flicker of romantic interest toward him. His time in Mangendan captivity had left marks deeper than flesh and a peculiar sort of social innocence, a vulnerability that tugged at her protective instincts. She was prepared to champion him against any who might seek to exploit his naïveté, even if it meant standing against someone he professed to love.
The receiving room was warm with lamplight and the scent of wine. A woman with hair like polished ravens’ wings sat primly on the sofa, her back to Jora. Cyprianus knelt before her in rapt attention, his expression one of soft adoration that transformed his handsome face to boyish as he drank in her every word.
Within Jora’s mind, Urielle muttered an unkind speculation about the bland taste of his blood.
“Prian,” Jora said warmly, approaching with hands outstretched for his. Upon his arrival in Renn, where he managed Queen Gritha’s paper shop, Cyprianus began to use the name Prian Prothes. The shortened version of his name sat awkwardly on her tongue. It sounded too much like peon. He’d explained that “Cyp” had an offensive connotation in his native Quandarian tongue, “Anus” was obviously impossible, and using his real name would invite questions. Questions that might reveal what King Gerad wished to keep hidden—that Prian was, in fact, the infamous Cyprianus Prothesilus from ages past, a man who’d died countless deaths across five centuries only to rise again.
“Figment!” He rose gracefully and came toward her, hands extended. She leaned in to kiss his right cheek as he did the same. In the five months since she’d pulled him from that dungeon, the deathly gauntness had receded, replaced by a newfound strength and vibrancy. His blond hair framed his face in carefully graduated lengths, highlighting the fine angles of his features. As was his habit, a leather water skin hung from his belt, looking oddly out of place against the crisp lines of his gray suit. They exchanged their customary compliments on each other’s apparent good health.
The lady had risen as well, turning to observe their reunion. A gentle smile graced a face so open with sincere kindness that the last vestige of Jora’s wariness dissolved. Her complexion was a rich, golden brown that reminded Jora of her own childhood—sun-kissed skin from endless summer days.
Prian, his accent still thickly Mangendan, introduced her as Deardra Distad from Noossmor, an ally and neighbor beyond the formidable Dragonspine Mountains that formed Serocia’s western border.
“Weak,” Urielle declared silently within Jora’s mind. “An unworthy adversary. Even you could best it easily without my aid or that of your allies.”
Jora started to offer her hand to Deardra, but a surge of violent lust seized it. She pushed her hand to her side, gritting her teeth, wrestling it from Urielle’s control. She inclined her head instead. “The pleasure is mine. Welcome. Please make yourselves comfortable.” She gestured toward the sofa as she settled on the one opposite.
The three made pleasant conversation about recent happenings, the rhythm of it familiar and comforting. Their mutual friend Adriel, it turned out, was also seeing someone, though she remained stubbornly vague about his identity, insisting it was merely a fleeting dalliance.
“Your journey from Noossmor must have been hard, going through the passes in winter. How long did it take?”
Deardra was staring at the wine glass in her hand, seeming not to have heard.
Prian patted her arm. “About three weeks, yes?”
The lady startled. “From Noossmor? Yes. I’ve made the journey twice since—” A flush swept up her neck to her cheeks, and tears welled in her eyes. “Forgive me, Lady Minister,” Deardra said, fishing in her purse for a handkerchief. “I’ve been distracted lately.”
“Oh, please call me Jora.” She gave what she hoped was a disarming smile. The woman’s distress seemed genuine, but Jora didn’t want to pry.
“Of course. My apologies.” Deardra dabbed at her eyes.
“Let’s kill it,” Urielle said. “It’s a pathetic wretch.” She reached for the wine glass, too quickly.
Jora thrust her hand downward onto the arm of the sofa, gripping it, willing the Krykon not to do or say anything. As if her will alone could stop it.
“Anything I can help with?” Jora asked, hoping she wasn’t being too forward?
Prian put his arm lovingly—or protectively—around Deardra’s shoulders. “She came to Renn to request help on behalf of her brother who’s been wrongly convicted of murder.”
Jora narrowed her eyes. Didn’t every criminal claim innocence? She wouldn’t be deceived into aiding a killer’s escape from justice.
“But the person he’s accused of killing,” Deardra said, “is very much alive and willing to testify on Jaik’s behalf.” She wiped her eyes.
“Can’t the supposed victim simply go to court to correct the record?” Jora asked, outrage rising as heat in her cheeks.
“The court can’t accept the testimony of someone who’s been declared dead. So my brother’s life hangs in the balance. Jaik was originally sentenced to”—she swallowed, a hitch in her voice—“public hanging next week. His advocate appealed for the court’s patience for a few weeks while I came back to beg your Justice Bureau’s help.”
“With the rumor circulating that Jolver and Renn still have access to the Mindstream,” Prian said, “I made an appointment for Deardra to meet with Elder Brinion next Martis Day. Obviously, the sooner this matter gets resolved, the better for everyone.”
After the ancient dolphin statues—the Spirit Stones—had returned to life in the sea, Truth Sayers across the world lost their ability to witness past and present events through those threads. Unwatched, some people had embraced their darker impulses. Only Jolver and its closest neighbor, Renn, retained the power and the order it brought.
Jora traced the rim of her glass. She thought of her family and friends, taken from her in blood. Her throat tightened. It still hurt. It always would. “I’d be happy to help.” Helping felt less like kindness than necessity.
Deardra’s mouth fell open, astonishment widening her eyes. “A–Are you serious?”
“Of course she is,” Prian said with warm certainty, squeezing her hand. “I told you. All you needed to do was ask.”
A plan began forming in Jora’s mind. She could bring Jaik and several justice officers to Renn in her larger sky carriage to Observe him for themselves. But because she’d absorbed the Mesitalic of Urielle, the Mindstream remained accessible to her regardless of her proximity to the Spirit Stone’s lingering presence. She could fly to Noossmor herself, Observe Jaik directly, and relate what she witnessed to the officials there. She offered this alternative.
A sob escaped Deardra’s mouth, and tears flowed down her face. “Oh, my goodness.” She took a moment to dab at her face and compose herself. “That would be wonderful. Thank you, Jora. I don’t know how to repay you.”
Jora’s heart broke for the woman. She couldn’t pass up an opportunity to save a brother. She’d failed her own. “By King Gerad’s leave, we could leave tomorrow morning.” While she’d arranged a free day to spend with Arc, justice was more urgent. A brother’s life was more urgent. He would understand.
“Gracious,” Deardra said, a hand on her chest. “That’s exceedingly kind of you.” She looked at Prian with pleading eyes. “But we have another engagement tomorrow.”
Jora stiffened. That must’ve been the mysterious reason Prian had given for moving their supper from Iovis Day to Mercurs Day this week. She feared they planned to elope against King Gerad’s wishes. As a ward of the Crown, Prian’s freedoms had limits.
“Let’s skip it,” Prian said without hesitation. “This is much more important.”
Jora let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Her shoulders relaxed.
With tears glistening in her eyes, Deardra nodded. “Tomorrow morning, then. Thank you so much, Jora. You can’t know what this means to me.”
“But for a few cousins who were away serving in the Legion, I lost everyone I ever loved to injustice. I’m sensitive to the need to protect family. I would do anything to have them back.” Her eyes burned, and her throat thickened. Though her beloved eldest brother, Tosh, still lived, she had to speak of him as dead to protect one of Serocia’s many secrets.
“I’m deeply sorry for your loss,” Deardra said, her voice thick with genuine compassion. Kindness shone in her eyes. “How did they die?”
The question awakened Urielle’s interest. “Tell it. Tell the tale.” Her hunger for battle and death pressed against Jora’s mind like eager hands against a windowpane.
“Violently,” Jora said. The memory was too heavy to share so casually. And telling it would remind Jora of all she’d lost, her sadness giving Urielle an advantage. “But let’s turn to a much more cheerful subject. How did you two meet?”
“Coward,” Urielle thought.
Deardra’s tale was simple and tender. A question in the paper shop had grown over weeks into love. She turned to him with a warm smile. “I first broke the news to him about Jaik’s troubles in a letter. I was so afraid of seeing wariness or disappointment in his eyes. Some people believe an accusation is the same as guilt.”
“I understand completely,” Jora said. “Don’t worry. We’ll set the truth free.”
“Your misguided effort to free Truth is what caused this situation in the first place,” Urielle reminded her. Jora pushed the thought away, refusing to let the Krykon’s malice taint her resolve.
On Orbus’s signal, they moved to the dining room. Lamplight reflected off the shiny porcelain and silver place settings atop the walnut table.
Fragrant dishes were laid before them. They had barely begun to eat when Orbus returned, his hands clasped formally before him. “Your last guest has arrived, Lady Lanseri. He awaits you in the receiving room.”
Jora stood, a smile breaking across her face. “Excuse me. Please don’t let your meal get cold waiting for us. I’ll only be a minute.”
She crossed the hall and stopped. Arc stood waiting, dressed finer than she’d ever seen him in a long-sleeved white tunic embroidered with subtle elegance, black trousers, and black shoes polished to a deep sheen. The sheer bulk of his arms, chest, and legs strained the seams of his clothing. Even without armor, he looked dangerous. His blue-green eyes softened when they met hers.
“You came,” she said, smiling broadly. “I didn’t think you would. And looking so handsome too.”
He moved toward her with a warrior’s grace, dropping to one knee, and pressed a tender kiss to her lips. Kneeling, he was only slightly taller than she was, making it easier to lose herself in the depths of his beautiful eyes.
“’Twas to my weening that my attendance was important to you.” His thick accent still charmed her. Though he spoke like a man of his own distant time, he had at least abandoned the formal thous and thees of his era.
She stroked his hair, her fingers lingering in the softness of it. She kissed him again, tasting wine on his lips. “It is. Very much so. Thank you.” Then, she fixed him with a mock scowl, her eyes narrowing playfully. “You will be on your best behavior, right?”
“Aye. I shall not threaten his life this evening.” The solemn vow carried a hint of reluctance that made her lips twitch with amusement.
“Or kill him? He’d have a hard time explaining that to his companion on their way home.”
“Nor that,” he said with a laugh. “For you, I will keep my desires on a tight leash. Once your guests leave, my desires will not be so easily restrained.”
She grinned at him, heat curling low in her belly. She took his enormous hand in her much smaller one, feeling the calluses against her palm. “Promise?”
Arc chuckled as he rose to his full height, brushing off the knee of his trouser leg. “Let us get on with it lest I forget about the hunger in my belly and focus on satisfying the one in my loins.”
Jora laughed, the sound startled from her by his bluntness. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you go hungry for long.”
He picked up the wine glass on the side table and took another sip as she led him toward the dining room.
“Nor will I,” Urielle muttered silently. Jora felt her mouth pull into a grin that wasn’t entirely hers—a reminder that she was never truly alone.
* * *
“His Royal Highness, King Jared Druba of Serocia,” the chamberlain announced. His voice boomed, echoing through the vast hall.
A blare of brass announced Gerad’s entrance into the cavernous throne room. Before him lay the dais, draped in a velvety expanse of deep royal blue, upon which sat a trio of chairs with gold-fringed cushions that matched the carpet. Gold paint, liberally applied to the wood, lent the furniture an air of ostentatious wealth, bordering on vulgar. For reasons Gerad couldn’t fathom, a heavy canopy of deep blue and gold hung above the thrones. He often wondered if the room’s architect had anticipated indoor storms.
Before the two smaller thrones stood Danika, his seventeen-year-old daughter and heiress, and his half-sister, Rivva. Two years apart in age with blond hair and blue eyes, they looked like they could be sisters. Danika gave him a sweet smile as he approached. Rivva stared ahead, the perpetual shadow of a past haunting lingered in her eyes.
Two tables had been positioned at the forward corners of the dais. At the table to the right stood the Minister of War, and to the left, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, each attended by a deputy. Throughout the immense room, a half dozen seven-foot Colossus warriors stood guard.
Gerad stepped onto the dais and sat on the taller throne. When he did, everyone else took their seats. Ludovicus, the Colossus deputy commander who had escorted him in, positioned himself behind Gerad’s left. Another Colossus stood guard at Danika’s right. The fanfare concluded with a final flourish, and the three musicians bowed themselves out of the room.
The emissary stood unmistakable amid his contingent, his garments a declaration more than mere attire—red and gold threaded through black like fire smoldering in shadow. His attendants mirrored his finery, though without the crown of fabric that marked him as the one to speak, the one to be heard. One among them stood out, his skin a shade of tan much lighter than the others’ deep brown.
“The Crown welcomes you,” Rivva announced. “Who will be addressing His Royal Majesty this evening?”
The emissary nudged the fair-skinned fellow seated to his left, who then rose. “Aggen Zed, second son of the great and powerful Emperor Zega Zed of Guyamman.” To Gerad’s surprise, the man spoke with a Serocian accent.
The emissary stood and briefly dipped one knee rather than bow with the upper body. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, King Gerad.” His accent was unfamiliar. His Serocian companion stepped forward to hand an envelope to Minister Annah, who broke the seal and began to peruse the documents within.
“Welcome, Emissary Zed,” Annah said, inclining her head slightly. “Please introduce your companions.”
“This is my assistant, Deputy Emissary Andwele Ishaq.”
Ishaq stood to offer a bow, then retook his seat.
“And my accountant, Momolu Araya,” Zed continued, gesturing toward a third man, who also rose to bow.
“And?” Annah prompted.
“Soren Skau is a Serocian citizen hired to serve as my translation assistant for our meetings. The others are my personal guardsmen. Their names are…irrelevant,” he said after a brief consultation with Skau. Though the guards had been disarmed at the door, they exuded a palpable air of menace, hands balled into fists at their sides.
Skau, still standing, bowed deeply with a quiet, “Your Grace.”
Minister Annah gave Gerad a discreet nod, confirming that Zed was indeed a duly authorized representative of Emperor Zega.
Turning her attention to the visitors, Rivva said simply, “Please proceed.”
Zed’s dark gaze met Gerad’s, his brow lowered. His face was broad, with a distinct cleft in his chin. His brown eyes looked too small for his face. His sharply angled black eyebrows looked as though they had been painted on. He spoke in a low voice, addressing the translator, Skau.
“King Gerad,” the translator said, reading from a paper in his hand, “the Emperor of Guyamman wishes to extend his most sincere greetings and to offer his congratulations on your most spectacular ascension. Emperor Zega particularly admires the guile with which your father seized and retained control of Serocia in plain view, without anyone noticing.”
A silence descended upon the throne room, every quill pausing, every shuffling foot still.
Admires the guile? Gerad’s lip lifted in disgust. His father’s ascent to the throne had been built upon a foundation of deceit.
“Emperor Zega wishes, however, to convey a message of the gravest importance. The Spirit Stone in our neighboring country of Methoastan has long provided the people of Guyamman the ability to witness events using the Web.”
Of course, Gerad thought with a weary sigh. What they termed the Web, Jora called the Mindstream—the magical insight once granted by the Spirit Stones. Two other sets of emissaries had arrived earlier that day, each with the same grievance. He was no closer to a resolution now than he’d been a month ago.
“And since you have proudly admitted to such, the great and powerful Emperor Zega therefore charges that you, along with your dominee and the Gatekeeper, conspired to”—Skau swallowed audibly—“steal the Spirit Stone specifically to prevent those in its vicinity from accessing the Web.”
Gerad narrowed his eyes. Anger burned in his gut. His fingers tightened around the carved armrests of the throne. Within him, the restless presence of Setennel stirred, a flicker of dark excitement at his rising ire.
“The Spirit Stone was not stolen, sir,” Rivva said, her voice firm. “As King Gerad has informed the king and citizens of Methoastan, they were living dolphins imprisoned in stone for thousands of years. They’ve been restored to flesh and released into the oceans.”
Zed and Skau exchanged hushed whispers, their expressions unreadable. Skau seemed unable to speak, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
“Emperor Zega is well aware of your excuse,” Emissary Zed said. “He is aware, too, that Serocia kept one of the Spirit Stones for herself.”
A prickling numbness began to creep into Gerad’s hands, and he flexed his fingers in a futile attempt to restore sensation.
“You misunderstand,” Rivva began, her tone placating.
“He’s wrong,” Gerad said, his voice cutting across hers. “First of all, we didn’t steal anything. We performed the ritual on all seven statues across Aerta, a task the Gatekeeper—head of the Iskori temple itself, mind you—believes was divinely inspired. The outcome was neither planned nor anticipated.”
“You do not deny that Serocia alone retains the ability to access the Web?” Zed said, his gaze unwavering.
“That was an unintended consequence of Ibsa Bervoets’s treachery,” Gerad said. He hadn’t wanted to be put on the back foot, yet how else could he explain the situation so these envoys would understand that his intentions had been pure, even if the outcome had unexpectedly favored Serocia? “We took precautions, but the Scribe—the former dominee—was particularly willful and punic. She leveraged my sister’s life in an attempt to evade justice for her crimes. I can assure you and Emperor Zega that Ibsa Bervoets has been executed for her many egregious acts, the desecration of the Spirit Stone chief among them.”
Aggen Zed’s brow furrowed in a deep scowl. “Do you believe your excuse restores the Web? Do you think your assurance replaces an entire system of justice that has persisted for hundreds of years?”
“Of course not,” Rivva said.
“My people are suffering!” Zed shouted, spittle flying from his lips.
Gerad found himself without a ready answer. Yes, Jolver retained a fragile link to the Mindstream, but he couldn’t simply hand them shards of the broken Spirit Stone for reasons he preferred to keep secret.
Aggen Zed erupted in a torrent of indecipherable words and animated gestures. The translator, his eyes darting between Zed and Gerad, said, “Are you suggesting, King Gerad, that I throw up my hands, return home, and tell my father, ‘He cannot help us. Oh, well?’ Do you think the great and powerful Emperor Zega would not declare war and send two thousand of his best ships to attack your shores? You have hundreds of miles of coastline. You cannot protect it all at once. Imagine all the forces of Mangend, Arynd Ban, and Barad Selegal striking your entire country at once. Now, triple that number.” Skau cast Gerad a look of palpable fear, as if he believed every word.
Minister of War Isak Kyear shot to his feet, his posture rigid. “Is that a threat, sir?”
Inside, Setennel seethed, glaring at the man. “Its blood would taste so sweet.”
Gerad swallowed hard, a knot of apprehension tightening in his chest. The mere intrusion of its thought sent a shiver down his spine. He knew Jora had been hearing Urielle’s thoughts for some time. Ibsa had once confessed that she and Messa had reached an understanding. But until now, he’d assumed Setennel’s silence meant he wouldn’t have to suffer what his counterparts did.
He felt the precarious hold he had on the Krykon begin to slip. With Jora’s assistance, he’d finally brought an end to a century of conflict with Serocia’s neighbors. The last thing he wanted was to ignite fresh hostilities with new enemies. Losing control of Setennel now would only make matters worse.
“Let me be clear,” Zed said. “It is a warning, sir. A very”—he consulted Skau in a low murmur—“stark warning. Listen to me, King, and listen well. You have taken our god. You have taken our ability to see the truth. Our people are angry, but our cities and towns will not suffer their wrath. The emperor will arm them and put them on ships and direct their anger at you. Perhaps you’re unaware of Emperor Zega’s reputation or that of our elite fighting forces.”
“Oh, we’re aware,” Kyear said, though Gerad, still finding his footing on the throne, was not. “Perhaps you’re unaware the Gatekeeper—”
“I understand Emperor Zega’s frustration,” Gerad said, cutting off his war minister before he could escalate the tension with a counter-threat. “We’re committed to finding a viable remedy to your country’s plight. We’re investigating every possibility. Until a solution presents itself, you’re welcome to submit any suggestions to Minister Annah.” He gestured toward the Minister of Foreign Affairs as he rose to his feet, a signal that the meeting was at an end. A rustle swept through the room as everyone else rose as well.
“You’re leaving? You’re walking out on Emperor Zega?” Zed asked, his voice shrill.
“The emperor isn’t here,” Gerad said, his voice laced with forced calm. “Good evening, sir.” He turned and strode toward the rear door.
“The great and powerful Emperor Zega bestowed upon you a great honor by sending his own son.” Zed’s voice boomed within the great hall. “You insult him gravely with your disrespectful…” The rest of his words faded from Gerad’s hearing as he ascended the back staircase.
Gerad paced the length of his office, the plush carpet muffling his steps, robbing him of their satisfying thuds. He’d known this would happen. He’d warned Ministers Annah and Kyear, told them the rumors would spread and ignite unrest. They’d stubbornly insisted they couldn’t properly devise a strategy to counter a threat whose exact form remained unknown. Was that not the very purpose of advisors—to contemplate the myriad possibilities and to draft contingency plans for each?
A sharp knock rattled the door. Ludovicus admitted Isak Kyear.
“Sire, respectfully, we can’t assume Zega is bluffing,” Kyear said, his angular face sharp with concern, his hooded, golden-brown eyes, so like a hawk’s, fixed on Gerad.
“I know,” Gerad said with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “What about Methoastan? Shioka? Will they be sending warships too? What about our allies, like Loworia and Noossmor? Will they be pounding on our door next? Our peace with Arynd Ban and Mangend is especially fragile. How long before we’re back into that war?”
Kyear nodded grimly, acknowledging the very real possibility that Serocia could find itself under attack from all sides in the coming weeks. “We must plan for every contingency, sire. I urge you to reconsider recalling our soldiers to active duty in preparation. We can’t defend ourselves without the full strength of the Legion ready to fight. This time could be used to retrain our men and replenish our armory. It might even be necessary, sire, to consider recalling some who were previously released from service. Maybe men as old as thirty-five.”
Gerad shook his head firmly. “No more war, Isak. We have to find another way.”
“Sire, with all due respect, it’s far better to be battle-ready than to be attacked while we’re pulling up our trousers. Our very sovereignty is at stake, not to mention the lives of thousands.”
“I know that, Isak. I know.” Gerad turned to the window, staring out into the inky blackness, though the reflection of the lamplight within the room obscured the garden below. All he yearned for was a moment of respite for Serocia. “Begin the planning, but don’t recall the soldiers yet. Maybe we can still resolve this through diplomacy.”
Kyear gave a curt nod. “Have you heard from our man in Mangend?”
“Not recently. Send for Jora, will you?”
“Aye, sire,” Ludo said, “but she is entertaining guests. Cyprianus and a friend, I understand. Archesilaus is with her.”
“I see.” Gerad sat at his desk and opened an ink pot. “I’ll send a note instead, ask for an update first thing tomorrow. I need to know what thoughts stir in their minds.”
* * *
No sooner had Jora’s footsteps faded from earshot than Prian rested his arm along the back of Deardra’s chair, leaning in close to murmur, “Did you see what I mean about her golden irises? Just that fleeting shift from amber to gold?”
“They’re beautiful, if a little… unsettling,” Deardra said.
“As long as they don’t stay gold, we’ve no reason to fret,” Prian said, lifting his wine glass with his free hand. “She keeps the Krykon’s spirit on a tight rein.”
“Why did you call her ‘Figment’?” Deardra asked, her head slightly tilted.
The question caught Prian off guard, and he nearly choked on the sip of wine he’d just taken. He swallowed hastily, setting his glass down, and dabbed his lips with the napkin. “Oh, it’s just a foolish nickname I gave her when we first met. I was… unwell, seeing things that weren’t there, and for a time, I believed her to be a figment of my addled imagination.” It was the truth, or a carefully curated sliver of it. He loathed the necessity of keeping secrets from the woman he hoped one day to call his wife, but he’d given his word to King Gerad, a promise he wouldn’t break. Not yet, at least. Not until he found the courage to seek the king’s permission to confide in her. His freedom was not something he took lightly.
Concern etched itself onto her features as she turned to him. “Do you often see visions?”
“Not anymore,” he said. “I was under a considerable strain, but Jora kindly remedied my situation, as I trust she will for your brother. She has a keen sense of justice and a heart brimming with compassion.” He hoped she wouldn’t press for details. He’d yet to weave a believable tapestry of lies to explain his sojourn in a Mangendan dungeon and the subsequent hallucinations. Five hundred years in prison did horrid things to the human mind.
“I can’t believe the Gatekeeper herself is going to help Jaik,” Deardra said, her voice hushed with awe.
“Don’t you think it’s wise to tell her everything before she commits herself fully to your cause?” Prian asked, striving for a tone of gentle reasonableness. “What he was before… It’ll come up.”
She considered his words for a moment, then nodded slowly. “You’re absolutely right. I don’t want to mislead anyone, least of all the one woman who might save his life.”
Prian gently stroked her hand with his thumb. “You fear Jora might harbor prejudices that would preclude her helping Jaik.”
“I’ve witnessed so much ugliness in people since his accusation and arrest.”
“No need to worry—”
“Apologies for the delay,” Jora said, leading the towering seven-foot Colossus commander, Archesilaus, by the hand.
Prian sprang to his feet. His heart fluttered and his mouth went dry. He doubted he would ever truly grow accustomed to the sight of a human being that large, let alone the thirty-six of them—well, thirty-three, at their current count. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and took another hasty gulp of wine to steady his nerves. He couldn’t help it. The Colossi always made him break out in a cold sweat.
It wasn’t merely their immense size, their formidable strength, or the god’s blood that flowed through their veins that put him on edge. He’d wronged them, all of them, just as he’d wronged the people of Serocia so long ago. The giant warriors had taken turns killing him, a grim ritual that did not and never would quench the thirst for his blood that he saw simmering in their eyes. One day, one of them might simply decide to sever his head and end him for good.
“Deardra,” Jora said, “may I present Archesilaus Asellio, Commander of the Colossus warriors. Arc, this is Deardra Distad of Noossmor.”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Deardra,” Arc said, offering a bow that managed to be both graceful and imposing.
“Likewise,” Deardra squeaked, her eyes wide with an almost comical disbelief at the sheer scale of the man before her.
Jora gestured toward Prian as she passed. “And you remember Prian.”
Those sea-green eyes looked none too serene as they scorched holes through Prian’s skull. “How could I forget?” He paused behind Deardra’s chair and thrust a hand toward Prian, the gesture almost predatory, as if it held a weapon to run him through.
Prian stared down at the offered hand, a tremor of fear running through him. He braced himself for the bone crushing, yet he dared not refuse the gesture lest he further inflame the man’s animosity. He reached out tentatively, intending a polite, gentlemanly squeeze of the fingers. Arc’s large hand closed around his, engulfing his slender fingers in a rugged paw.
Uh oh. He squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation of the pain. To his surprise, the giant simply pumped his arm and let go. Prian had the sudden urge to urinate.
Jora retook her seat at the head of the table, and Arc settled into the chair to her left, directly across from Deardra.
Prian cleared his throat. “Good to see you again, Arc,” he managed, forcing a semblance of normalcy into his voice as he sat down.
“My name is Archesilaus,” the Colossus said, his gaze level and unwavering. “Ar-KESS-i-luss. That is how you will address me.”
An awkward silence descended upon the room, broken only when Orbus gave Aisly a subtle nudge, prompting the assistant steward to spring into action and offer Arc—Ar-KESS-i-luss—the platters of food.
“Yes, of course.” Prian felt beads of sweat tracing cold paths down his ribs from his armpits. “My apologies, sir. It won’t happen again.” He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, silently cursing his own foolishness for treating the Colossus with such deference. Archesilaus was just a man. A very large man. A very strong large man with a knife lying within easy reach and, Prian suspected, a deep-seated desire to inflict significant bodily harm upon him.
“Deardra was just telling me about her brother’s court case,” Jora said to Archesilaus, then proceeded to summarize the predicament Jaik found himself in. “And since I still have access to the Mindstream, I thought I could go and Observe Jaik’s actions myself and report my findings to the justice officers.”
“To Noossmor?” he asked, his brow slightly furrowed.
“With King Gerad’s leave, of course.”
“I am gladdened to hear you have offered your aid,” Archesilaus said, serving himself from the platters. He glanced at Deardra and gave a reassuring nod. “Do not doubt that she will set things right. You will see.”
“I couldn’t be more grateful for any assistance,” Deardra said, offering Jora a timid smile. “Then Jaik can return to carving out a new life for himself.”
“What’s wrong with his old life?” Jora asked. “Once he’s exonerated, things will return to normal, yes?” She took a thoughtful sip of wine.
After a deep breath and a nervous glance at Prian, Deardra said, “He… he was a woman in his old life.” Her worried expression and the anxious twisting of her hands betrayed her fear that Jora might retract her offer of assistance.
“Sorry, what was that?” Jora asked, cupping a hand to her ear. “I misheard you.”
“No,” Prian said gently. “You heard correctly.” He took Deardra’s right hand, hoping to offer some measure of comfort. It trembled in his grasp as if she were chilled to the bone.
“He used to be my sister,” Deardra said, her voice barely above a whisper.
A moment of stunned silence hung in the air, broken only by the soft clinking of silverware as Archesilaus set down his spoon. He and Jora exchanged wide-eyed glances. Deardra’s grip on Prian’s hand tightened.
“He was born a girl?” Archesilaus asked, his deep voice devoid of judgment, merely curious.
“Yes. Her name was Jaika. Everyone was surprised at her birth, because all the predictors had foretold Mama would bear a son. Jaika hated being a girl. She only ever played with the boys as a child and loathed being made to wear dresses. She confessed to feeling awkward and out of place around girls and women.”
“Did she mature into a woman?” Jora asked, her gaze fixed intently on Deardra, her body leaning forward.
“She did,” Deardra said. Her grip on Prian’s hand relaxed ever so slightly. “She had her monthlies as usual, right up until… the change.”
“Ah,” Archesilaus said, a knowing smile gracing his lips. “I understand. She dresses as a man and assumed a man’s name.”
“No,” Deardra said. “She physically changed from a woman to a man, with all the proper parts. Jaik can now grow a full, thick beard, and so we assume he can also father children. Maybe one day we’ll find out.”
“All the parts?” Archesilaus asked, his eyebrows raised.
“All.”
“How is that possible?” Jora asked, her brow furrowed in genuine bewilderment. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Nor have I,” Archesilaus said. “It is akin to a Colossus returning to normal size.”
“Jaik tells the story far better than I ever could,” Deardra said. “As I understand it, Jaika was in communion and Retar said he wanted to give her a gift. Then she felt a magical warmth flow into her. When it stopped, Retar was gone.”
The Silence. The very moment Retar ascended.
“Whoa,” Jora said, her face alight with wonder. “Did Retar warn him first? Did Jaika change to Jaik in that moment?”
“No, not immediately. Retar said something about time being short but didn’t say what would happen, only that she could alter the circumstances of her birth. And she did. He did. I still wrestle with the pronouns. Jaik says he always felt like a boy on the inside, but we choose our words based on what we see on the outside.” She took a deep breath and let it out. Her hand had finally ceased its trembling.
At that moment, Orbus crossed the room and whispered something into Jora’s ear too softly for Prian to make out. He handed her a sealed note. Everyone watched in silence while Jora broke the seal and read the message. Her brows knitted for a moment before she folded the paper and passed it to Archesilaus, who read it quickly and gave her an acknowledging nod.
Jora smiled dimly at Deardra. “Do go on. Please.”
“That evening at dusk, Jaika tried the magic on herself—a certain series of foreign words started the process. The day of the Silence, my mother was distraught, so my son and I went to stay with her. When we left, Mama had two daughters and I had a sister, and when we returned the following morning, Jaika had become Jaik. He said it was very painful but worth it.”
Jora nodded again, her intense gaze unwavering on Deardra. “Fascinating. And he’s happy this way? As a physical man?”
“Happier than I’ve ever seen him. He said Retar understood him, even when no one else did.” Deardra looked down at her hands. “I think, deep down, I always knew he was a boy inside, but he had the body of a girl, so I thought of him as my sister—as simply a boyish girl. I was wrong. He’s a man in every respect now, and this… this feels so natural. He finally has the body he was meant to have, if that makes sense.”
Jora rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “I wonder if anyone else communing with the god at the moment of the Silence experienced something similar, or if that was unique to Jaik?”
“Several have come forward, saying they were also in communion when Retar stopped answering,” Deardra said, “but I haven’t heard of anyone who’s claimed new abilities nor described the feeling of magic flowing into them.” She cast Prian a glance that conveyed both relief and a burgeoning excitement.
“Interesting,” Jora said. “Unfortunately, I might not be able to take you home tomorrow after all.” She tapped the folded note on the table. “Something’s come up, but I’ll find a day soon that’ll work for us all.”
Deardra nodded, though her shoulders dropped a fraction, disappointment in her eyes. She hung her head.
“What o’the person he is accused o’slaying?” Archesilaus asked. “Jaik bestowed the magic upon her?” Prian appreciated that the Colossus wasn’t merely brute strength without intellect.
“In a manner of speaking,” Deardra said, looking up. “Retar told Jaik that he could pass on the benefit to anyone who desired it, but the magical ability to alter one’s sex remains solely Jaik’s. Cadmus is the man presumed dead, but Cady is the lady he became—rather, she became. That Retar considered Jaika worthy of such a gift of power must surely count for something.”
Jora smiled wistfully. “Indeed. Jaik must be a very special person.”
“Oh, he is.” Deardra’s eyes shone with warmth and love. “He’s good and kind and humble and generous, well deserving of such a rare and valuable honor—and certainly not capable of killing anyone.”
Prian asked, “Wouldn’t that be a remarkable gift to have? To know who is decent, honorable, and trustworthy?”
“I wish I had that sense,” Jora said.
“Sometimes,” Deardra said, “those with the most malevolent intentions have an uncanny knack for making people trust them implicitly.”
“Like a wolf hiding in sheep’s wool,” Prian said.
An uncomfortable hush fell over the room for the briefest of moments. Prian caught a fleeting flash of gold in Jora’s eyes. He drew back, his heartbeat quickening. But her eyes shifted back to their familiar, benign amber when Archesilaus made a subtle movement, as if he had taken Jora’s hand beneath the table.
“People will travel across Aerta to receive Jaik’s blessing,” the Colossus said. “He could become a very wealthy man.”
“You think he should charge a fee for sharing what the god gave him?” Jora asked, her brow slightly raised.
Archesilaus nodded slowly. “I do. When a family accused him o’murder, Jaik’s life was upended and shaken. He incurred debts, as did his sister in traveling to Serocia to seek thine aid. He was harshly punished and might have been executed for a crime that never occurred. That he and his family must bear these costs to provide a benefit to others seems unjust if he receives no recompense from those who stand to gain the most.”
She gave a conceding nod. “You make a valid point. No reason he shouldn’t earn a living from his gifts if he chooses. I certainly do.”
Deardra nodded in agreement. “We have a lot to think about. This is all so new to us.”
“As are so many things. To new friendships,” Archesilaus said, raising his wine glass to Deardra and to Jora, though a fleeting glance his way lifted Prian’s heart with a fragile hope.
“To new friendships,” the rest echoed, Prian most loudly.
K.C. May's The Whispering Wind is an engrossing fantasy novel that proves epic storytelling doesn't have to sacrifice emotional intimacy. Set in the expansive Mindstream universe, the book seamlessly combines political conflict, magical lore, and deeply personal struggles, creating a story that feels both grand in scale and remarkably human.
At the heart of the novel is Jora, a protagonist whose greatest challenge comes not from external enemies but from the dangerous presence that exists within her own mind. Her internal battle gives every decision added weight, making even quiet conversations feel tense and unpredictable. Jora is compassionate without being naïve, determined without being flawless, and her emotional complexity makes her an instantly engaging heroine.
The supporting cast is equally compelling. Characters such as Gerad, Prian, Arc, and Deardra each bring unique perspectives that enrich the narrative. Their relationships feel genuine, and the interactions between them balance moments of warmth, humour, vulnerability, and political tension. Rather than relying on simplistic heroes and villains, the novel presents individuals shaped by trauma, responsibility, and difficult choices.
One of the book's standout achievements is its world-building. The kingdoms, political alliances, magical systems, and historical conflicts are intricately developed without feeling overwhelming. Magic is treated less as a convenient solution and more as a force with profound moral and personal consequences. The ongoing diplomatic struggles add urgency to the plot while allowing the characters' personal journeys to remain at the forefront.
The novel also deserves praise for its thoughtful exploration of identity, justice, grief, and compassion. These themes are handled with sensitivity and woven naturally into the story rather than feeling like separate messages. As a result, the emotional impact is just as memorable as the fantasy elements.
The only minor drawback is that the opening introduces numerous names, locations, and political dynamics in quick succession, requiring readers to pay close attention before everything falls comfortably into place.
Overall, The Whispering Wind is an intelligent, emotionally resonant fantasy that rewards patient readers with richly developed characters, intricate storytelling, and a world that feels vividly alive. Both longtime fantasy enthusiasts and newcomers looking for a thoughtful, character-driven adventure will find plenty to admire.