They say good things come to those who wait. But Floratian Locutus Secaius did not want to settle for “good.”

And as Conqueror, Venerate, and now Magistrate of Gaiam—one of the newest and most populous planets in His Eternal Empire—he certainly hadn’t built his illustrious career by listening to the “reasonable advice” of others.

No.

Magistrate Secaius was destined for greater things. For instance, the newly uncovered god. He would claim this prize and the Emperor’s gaze would fall upon him. Only if I’m quick enough, he thought.

But first, he needed to taste home.

Secaius opened the slats of his carriage and inhaled. There was nothing like that first breath of home. Secaius breathed it in as long as he could, letting its sweetness turn to cold fire in his lungs.

It had been too many months since he’d last stepped foot in Cyre.

The gate’s arms were coming to a stop, which meant it was time to go. And, while the primitive xenos of Gaiam were awed by old tech, in crowded Cyre, his floating carriage would only slow him down. And a rig would move too slowly. The Magistrate needed to find a drudge.

He threw open the door, barely noting the centurions standing on the gate around his carriage. The soldiers were laughing, and brilliant smiles cracked their dull-scaled faces.

I suppose this is their home too. Then it is only right that they smile. This world was, after all, paradise. Secaius should know. He had been on so many others, all disgustingly inferior to this one.

The Emperor, in his infinite wisdom, had chosen well.

When the Magistrate’s boots touched the gate’s surface, his heels froze to the metal. He would have to wait a minute longer. But he didn’t mind. It meant he would get to relish the beauty of his city just a while longer.

Around him, beyond the neat square of his centurions, were hundreds of carts loaded down with wares and trade goods from Gaiam. Merchants of all species (though most of them were those wretched avians, of course) looked up at the glorious city around them. He could tell which ones had never traveled off world before by the blank wonderment in their faces.

Cyre smelled of freshly poured concrete and chiseled marble, of sweet olives and ripe citrus, of incense and mollusks and the salty sting of the ocean breeze. Local traders had come to barter and buy from the Gaiam merchants.

They set up their own tents and pavilions in a vast, colorful circle around the disc of the gate. Constructs and alien beasts hauled carts loaded down with goods from every known world. There were the Menua berries and melons and all those fruits in their jagged, neon patterns. Here were the bones and furs of animals from Dasteen and from Deioch’s outpost. And there were the piles of cyran olives that the Magistrate did so love.

There were luxury perfumes, clothes of every dye and make, and the finest tradecraft that new tech could create. Tinkers paraded their constructs down the paths between the tents, and buskers and street artists made whatever noise they were making these days.

Ah, Secaius breathed once more, to be home again.

The last of the gate’s humming energy softened into silence, and the cold metal released his boots.

Traffic guards directed the traders off the gate, but when they saw Secaius approach, they stepped back and bowed deeply before him. He did not nod back, nor was he expected to.

He was Magistrate and Venerate. There was no higher power in Cyre. Almost.

Even the merchants parted before him, though that might have had more to do with the horde of black-armored centurions following him in perfect step. He was on the Vium Eldiem within minutes, where a retinue of house guards and attendants were waiting for him. Two of them held the dark blue flags emblazoned with his sigil high above the throngs of people.

“Magistrate.” Ociphor, his senior servant, bowed low. “How good to see you again.”

The old dullscale cyran held a careful, practiced smile on his face, almost as if he were truly pleased to see his master. Despite his age, Ociphor still walked with a kind of wizened grace, using a driftwood cane to help him stand straight.

“Ociphor.” Secaius honored his servant in front of the others simply by speaking his name. Ociphor’s chest swelled at the attention. “Tell me, when does the Veneratian convene next?”

“Tomorrow at noon, Magistrate. Another day of speeches.” Ociphor’s voice was low and scratchy, but it did not carry far. The scales which covered his face and every inch of his body were a dull blue and lifeless green, marking him as one of Cyre’s lesser people.

“Good. Will Deioch and Vorpei be there?”

“Oh, Magistrate, it is certain they will. Vorpei returned from her Thrassian campaign only two months ago, and she hasn’t left the Veneratian floor since, it seems. Every day, she has a new speech to drum up support. The campaign has stalled, and she needs more soldiers. And then there’s Deioch . . .” Ociphor raised his eye scales, letting the insinuation hang in the air.

The two consuls, Deioch and Vorpei, were old rivals and the highest authorities in the Veneratian. When Vorpei came to the city, Deioch was never far behind.

Theirs was the kind of relationship that was begging to be exploited given the right opportunity. And Magistrate Secaius believed he had found such an opportunity.

“Send a message and tell them I will be there. Make sure I get primacy on the floor, for I have a matter of the highest import to discuss.”

He saw the flicker in Ociphor’s gaze. A questioned burned on his servant’s dull lips.

So news of the human has already reached Cyre. Dangerous.

Do they know I haven’t captured the human yet? That would be even worse. Time was wasting. As much as it hurt him to admit it, Secaius needed help.

“One more thing,” Secaius said. He looked up at the sky, where the Scar was reaching its zenith. A pale crack, as if someone had taken a hammer to the sky. Even in the daytime, the Scar’s edges glowed with a faint light.

He could not wait another day for this opportunity.

“Yes, Magistrate?”

“Get me an audience with the Historians.”

“How soon, Magistrate?”

Secaius shot a scathing look at his servant as if to say, What kind of fool are you?

Ociphor bowed. “For you, I will bring you the swiftest drudge in the city.”

Nearby, his other servants were pretending not to eavesdrop, but Secaius was not blind. He could feel their questions, that invisible force of yearning. Unlike true cyrans, the dullscales were still a superstitious folk. True cyrans paid their respects, but dullscales and the other provincials actually believed it all. The return of the gods. The prophecies of salvation, whatever that was. Even Ociphor, who came to him from eastern Kyproch, was leaning forward on his cane with an eager ear.

“Well?” Secaius said. “The drudge, Ociphor.”

“Yes, Magistrate. It’s only that we heard rumors, but we could not believe them. Is it true?” Ociphor at least had the sense to lower his voice to a scratchy whisper when he asked, “Did you really find a living human?”

“You cross a line, Ociphor. If I did not so value your tongue, I would have it cut out.”

Maybe I should cut his tongue out anyway. Secaius’s gloved hands twitched at the thought. It has been a long year. Perhaps the old servant has outlived his purpose. Perhaps this was a good time to make some changes.

But then Ociphor was bowing his spotted, mottled head, and his cane clacked on the cobblestones as he backed away. “Yes, Magistrate. Forgive me. You are as merciful as you are wise.”

Ociphor turned and barked orders at the other servants, and they snapped to attention, offering him wineskins and peeled fruits and other fare. The old servant hurried away to complete his errands, the dark green scales on his neck and shoulders glinting dully in the sun.

Secaius took a wineskin, tipped it up, and took three long gulps, relishing the sweet nectar that only the fertile hills of Cyre could produce. Relishing the cool breeze, the sunshine on his face. The sounds of people walking and working and talking in the paved streets.

Ociphor returned not long after, and Secaius remembered why he tolerated the old cyran servant: how swiftly he could find a drudge.

“Had to fight for it,” the old servant said. “A woman and a child. Said she didn’t care if it was the Emperor himself, they were both tired. So I pulled them both out. I hope it pleases you, Magistrate.”

Secaius beamed at the machine-drawn cart. It was tied to a four-legged drudge, quietly awaiting its next command. Its joints were well oiled, and its curving metal carapace was polished to a shine. Even the cart’s seat was fitted with good, strong leather.

“Good,” was all Secaius said before climbing in and spurring the machine into motion.

***

The Scar in the sky never moved, they said. It only looks like that because we’re down here and the whole planet is rolling over like a great ball.

They were wrong. Not about orbits and rotations around the Sun; all that made sense.

But Secaius was all but certain that the Scar did move, in patterns that lasted centuries.

Old hand-drawn records dating back to the founding of Cyre—and beyond—showed the shape of the Scar. Every hundred years, a new hairline crack appeared, while another disappeared. Never growing, just changing.

If the imperial astratitians could explain it, they would have by now. Not even the Historians had an answer: What is it?

Today, the thin, white line of the Scar hung directly over the city, an uneven arrow that pointed toward the hills of Cyre and the Everthrone.

And the drudge was moving too slowly. It was on automatic travel, which meant it waited for others to pass and had to weave through the scattered throngs of people.

Secaius wrapped his hands around the controller, taking manual control, and pushed the drudge forward. His cart, a floating two-person chariot, was jerked forward as the drudge took up a gallop. He plowed through the vium so that people had to rush out of his way. Those who didn’t recognize him shouted at him, but Secaius ignored them. If they are too invalid to walk swiftly and too poor to hire a construct, then they should find somewhere else to stroll. Simple as that.

He passed by temples and fountains and lush gardens. Middle roads opened on either side, full of common folk and public parks and tiered apartments with those red, clay roofs. The olive trees were in full bloom, and all the avenues were littered with white petals and ripe lemons that had fallen from the branches. A sweeper construct was in his path, but Secaius took no notice. It crunched under the hooves of his drudge.

He made a straight dash up the Vium Primus, the only road that went up to His Everthrone. The vium rose into the high hills, becoming a paved switchback that crawled above the city. The statue of Cyre’s founding god stared down at him, an austere frown etched into his face.

May he rest just a while longer.

White laurels hung on the lanterns along the vium, but it was all a blur. Ociphor had chosen a good drudge. A brisk breeze nipped at his nose and the crested fins on his face, but it was a good feeling. The kind that invigorates your spirit and makes you want to breathe a little deeper. Now, this. This was the Cyre he knew and loved. A truly immortal paradise, the crowning jewel of this grand Empire.

Yet the Emperor frowned upon this jewel. His stone-carved lips, glittering with that unmistakable metal, pressed together in a tight, dissatisfied frown as if the whole city were lacking. As if the city were a serious problem that needed to be solved.

Well, the founding god of Cyre could keep his austere thoughts to himself. Nothing could dampen Secaius’s resolve. I found a gods-damned human. On my planet.

If the human had been dead, that would’ve been a miracle. But the fact that his sources said it was still living . . . how was that possible?

Secaius’s drudge climbed and climbed, and the grade was so steep he had to hold tightly to the reins to stay in the chariot. At last, the incline of the hill leveled out into a flat, circular expanse chiseled out of the rock itself.

Dozens of statues lined the circle. Statues of cyran heroes, and saints, and a few impressions of the old gods. But his eye was drawn up, toward the immense stone feet of the Emperor. And higher still, to the columns of temples carved into his chair, his cloak, his royal armor. The tips of his fingers could just be seen from here, gripping the arms of his great throne.

Guards were scattered around the base of the Everthrone, though their posts were purely ceremonial. Nobody would ever dare profane the Everthrone, and even if they did, nothing could scratch that human-forged metal. It laced through the statue, glinting out from the cracks in the stone or binding together the heaviest joints. It traced and trimmed his arms, his clothes, his neck and chest, deceptively delicate. Only the gods could have forged it, they said, and there was no harder substance in the universe. But the Emperor’s face was covered in it, a mask of metal that extended from the bridge of his nose to the back of his skull.

The metal changed with the light, and with the observer’s direction from the light: sometimes it was a white silver, sometimes a red gold, and sometimes it hinted at metallic emerald and azure. Such a beautiful material, Secaius always thought. And so much of it wasted on this statue.

But when one is the Emperor of all the known worlds, made by the gods themselves, well. Why not waste it?

“Magistrate Secaius.” A guard caught his attention with a salute.

Secaius looked up, squinting at the sky and the Scar. There, in the middle of that white, jagged line, was a black speck.

The home of the Historians. The Ebon Library.

“Be swift,” Secaius said. “My errand is urgent.”

“Of course,” she said, her face as emotionless as stone. “The gate is almost ready for your departure.”

The guard gestured to the gate, the smallest one in existence, sitting in the center of that flat expanse. A small metal disc, with ten semicircular rings stacked on top of each other—no, floating on top of each other—while several crimson-robed priests knelt around the gate making the proper appeals and rites to the Old Ones. Speaking the holy numbers aloud, one by one.

Is this really necessary? But he would not say it out loud. Not so close to the Emperor, in case he was listening.

Two more priests approached, carrying an insulated suit that would cover his entire body. Another held a helmet with a faceplate made of flawless, polished glass clear enough to see through. On the back of the suit were two canisters filled with air, and on the front, a motor where strips of shiny, flexible metal ran in lines around the suit to conduct the heat out from the motor.

Secaius held his arms out, and the priests helped him into the suit. It fit as if it had been made just for him.

“Your gloves,” one of the priests said.

“I need them.”

“Please, Magistrate.”

“The gloves stay.”

The priest looked like he was about to argue, but another stepped in, gently shaking his head. You are lucky, Secaius thought. He just saved your life.

The second priest said, “Please refrain from using them inside the Library.”

Secaius exhaled through his nose, agreeing to nothing. Don’t they know how important this is? Don’t they understand what hangs in the balance?

The gate was humming now, and the priests formed a kneeling circle around it. He took one last sigh of the sweet, cyran air. Tasting the salt on the breeze, the sweetness of the fresh flowers. Letting his nerves melt away. Then he allowed the priests to put the helmet over his head, growling at them when they scraped the metal rim against his scales until it was fastened in place.

The lead guard motioned for him to step onto the plate.

Secaius had been to the Ebon Library several times throughout his life. But there was something about this gate. It was so small. Unlike the other planetary gates, this one did not go far. Instead, it seemed only to link with the Library, and only when it was directly overhead. Perhaps it bothered Secaius because he was going up, alone.

If something did happen up there . . . it would happen to him and only him.

Magistrate Secaius held his head high as he stepped onto the gate.

He nodded, and the kneeling priests began their final prayer. The metal disc began to chill, and a cold crawled into his boots, freezing them in place. The metal rings began their slow, gyrating dance until they were spinning and whistling and moving so fast the naked eye could not see their path.

There was a light. Even through the glass of his helmet, it was blinding.

And then, he was gone.