Nearly ten years to the night his mother had hid him away on a lowly merchant vessel, Dascus stood at the railing of the fantastic ship he’d boarded to take him home. Wide-bodied and strongly built, it was a passenger ferry of fairly comfortable amenities, with staterooms and a large dining area where the passengers ate mostly together. The sailors were polite, efficient and busy and one in particular had been excellent company to keep him warm at night.

It wasn’t entirely a pleasant trip for him, but spending the near entirety of his youth’s savings on the fare seemed worth it, he thought. To put Riverbrook behind, one last time, he hoped never to grace the continent again or even speak to an Orak’Thune if he could avoid it. He’d been so sure of his future there; growing up he’d known without a doubt Kara was meant to be with him forever. He’d been made a fool, but that was all behind him now.

The waves carried them over medium swells, enough so that he had to grip the railing but not so his sea legs could not adjust. He loved the sea, in fact. Fresh, fast air blew past his face and light touches of spray added refreshing mist in the bigger gusts. White gulls chased the boat and the churned swirls and eddies that flanked them. He watched the birds diving like sharp arrows every now and then to hunt whatever it was they stirred up.

It was a clear day, warm. An hour ago, one of the sailors had shouted that land had been spotted and he’d been glued to the deck ever since.

Rogun. A place of opulence and warmth, he had not forgotten that his mother had secreted him away to hide him from the emperor. She’d done everything in her limited power to secure his escape back to Riverbrook, to be sure he would grow up away from him. She had also been especially concerned he should not tell anyone that he could speak to the dead. He’d followed that, even in Riverbrook. He’d never told a soul.

But when Riverbrook fell apart, all that he had built and planned with one visit from some marauding, young king, Dascus had lost all respect and control. In a rage, he’d packed his things and written a brief letter to his adoptive parents, telling them he was leaving to start a life elsewhere. To no one else did he even say a word.

Kara had spent a considerable amount of time trying to explain, suddenly aware—but too late—that she’d wounded him. But no amount of convincing could change her mind or her heart. She’d fallen for Madras and was marrying him.

Married by now, Dascus corrected himself. It had taken him nearly a year to get on this ship and start the crossing and it took just about three weeks to get from one to the other. His plan was to reunite with his mother and show her he could make for them a new home. Maybe take her from the emperor himself; he doubted he cared little for what would be an old woman now. He was also interested in meeting his now adolescent sister.

As for the voices, well, they didn’t control him. All his life, since old enough to remember Rogun, they had spoken to him, whispered of things that he didn’t understand and of which he could care less. At Riverbrook, he’d met a spirit or two, but none of those had cared about any ‘destiny’ or ‘fire serpent’ either. Ghosts telling tales to scare the living, he surmised, and brushing them aside became easier as he’d grown older.

When the boat lined up with its berth, most of the passengers had crowded the railings along with him to witness it. Gradually the ship moved closer, linesmen running out to catch swinging ropes and tethers and, with experienced hands, wrapped them with lightning speed around the mooring cleats bolted to the deck.

A gentle bump and the ship was docked. Moments later, the gangplank shot out.

Cheering erupted from the elated and celebratory passengers and Dascus smiled slightly at the relief to have arrived too. He was also pleased to be one of the first off and completely free of the ship, having travelled with only a single bag that he now carried on his back.

His first stop was a medium-grade, port-side inn called the Drenched Cat. With a well-maintained façade and clean, modestly decorated sign, it advertised to those travellers who had the money to pay for a certain guarantee the ale and sustenance was not swimming with vermin.

After placing his order, he turned to listen to the patrons. He needed to gather news and be brought up to date before he approached the palace. Announcing himself as the one-time-adopted son of the emperor might be a bit presumptuous, and definitely unwise until he knew the climate of tidings surrounding the royal family.

Dascus knew the one national holiday was approaching, so he leaned to the table beside, where a man and woman sat, and asked if the day was still as anticipated as he had heard.

“Oh, yes!” the woman replied with a grin. Her husband drank long from his ale cup but nodded before he swallowed.

“I heard the emperor likes to donate confections to the children in the parades. That’s a lovely gesture,” Dascus went on, working to instill a tourist persona.

The woman looked at her companion with a bit less excitement.

“Emperor not as enthusiastic about the general folk these days,” he said in a gravelly voice.

Dascus frowned a bit in puzzlement.

“Well, there is the parade, of course,” the woman went on, batting her fingers on the man's forearm. “But the people supply the decorations now, we don’t hear much from the palace these days,” she added decorously.

The man grunted. “’Cept when a guard comes round and wants money not to arrest ya,” he growled.

“A little rough in areas, I take it?” Dascus pushed, looking to know if the city had changed more than he imagined.

The man then looked directly at him. He eyed him through narrowed, uninterested eyes.

“Areas?” the man repeated and huffed once. “Rogun ain’t what it used to be, boy. Once the emperor gave a turd about his city. Sure, it was because he hated the stench, but he kept it nice and tidy. Now? Coltair don’t give no shits about us. Now the guards run the streets, gangsters every last one of them. They own the pubs, parlours and brothels, you know. You be careful when you go looking in any of those places now. They’ll take your money in the front and the back and slit you in the alley for your trouble.”

Dascus leaned back in surprise. “I don’t understand. Is the emperor sick?”

The woman laughed nervously and shrugged. Her husband carried on. “Don’t know, but nobody sees him much anymore,” he said.

Dascus moved to sip from his cup while he considered this. What he remembered, only ten years ago, was a city tightly controlled by Coltair and his brother Zephen; a firm and dictatorial leadership, the way it always had been. Clean streets, no begging children and the bums and slums were relegated to a small quarter near the barge depot far out at the end of the harbour district. The guards frequently patrolled the commercial district in crisp uniforms. He remembered shopping with his mother and sister in comfort, a regular and enjoyable activity, with little concern for security.

He had noticed the dingier colour and scent of the city since stepping off his transport.

“Will the emperor's children ride in the children’s parade? Is that still a tradition?” he asked.

It was a safe way to know if his sister would be visible to him outside the palace walls. The children’s parade was where the prince and princesses would ride their brightly coloured horses and gilded carriages down the main street and throw gifts to the common children lined up to receive them. It was a spectacle of wealth but colourful, festive and filled with dancers and music. The event was always popular. He himself had ridden in the ornate carriage with his mother, being too young to safely ride a horse alone. There was a chance she would be there still, being that she was never empress and would have no place in the more formal ceremonies.

The man and the woman looked at each other, concern colouring their features.

“Um, well, there remain only two children, you see,” the woman began and shot a few furtive glances at her husband, but he remained silent, choosing to bury his face in his cup. “One, really,” she added and looked sadder. Dascus stared at her.

“And the runt is sickly,” the man blurted out, disgust on his face. The woman looked stricken by his words and glanced around quickly in concern.

“I don’t understand,” Dascus admitted, still shocked that out of two daughters from his first wife, and a boy and a girl from his current one, the emperor counted only Polara and they’d heard she was sick.

“The older girls were married off young, of course. Princess Palmira died in a storm crossing the Green Sea on her way to the Antarian king. Poor dear, so her sister Princess Perseya was sent to replace her,” she told him and hung her head a bit. “Princess Polara is well and all, but we rarely see her,” the woman said, low over the table. Dascus closed his eyes in relief. “The boy, Vail, well,” she said and shrugged.

“Vail?” Dascus said in confusion. The man turned his head to see him, mild amusement on his face.

“You get your news slow, boy,” he teased him. Dascus waved a hand, indicating that they should fill him in.

“Third wife gave him a son, Prince Vail,” he told him, speaking leisurely. “But he’s a sickly lad. Skinny, pale.”

“Third wife?” Dascus replied, inhaling sharply in disbelief. Shock gripped his chest. The woman noticed and leaned to pat his hand in concern. He swallowed.

The man had been watching him closely. He frowned and looked like he was tired of the company. “Yes, third wife. Offed the last one after the boy disappeared. Served her right for stealing the heir away from us. Now come, Myrtle. Time’s a wastin’ if we’re to get to Palm Plantation before nightfall,” he said and urged his wife to stand. The woman nodded in agreement and lifted her shawl to wrap it around her shoulders.

“I hope you take care, Mister,” she told him. “Rogun is still full to the brim with honest and lovely people. Just gotta watch that palace and any uniformed men you watch out for now especially. Corruption done gone to their heads, we suppose. Not as safe for us common folk as it was,” she said and dipped in polite curtsy but moved ahead of her husband to leave.

Dascus had no reaction, not even to thank them. His mother was dead.