Perhaps it was all the time Clovis spent with the artists and priests, those wine-addled philosophers, but he believed in the concept of rebirth. Not so much after death but as more of a continuous process throughout one’s life. Like snakes or spiders molting out of their skins, living beings are constantly reborn from themselves.

Six years ago, his skin had been flayed from his flesh without warning. Everything that reminded him of that untimely molting was like staring into a highly-detailed portrait of a nightmare.

And there was no one as finely detailed as Shana. Her face was painted in fine long strokes: a thin nose, sharp eyebrows, and high cheekbones. Her dark brown hair fell in curls; it was longer than he remembered.

She wore a red half-cape over her black uniform. The half-cape bore the black figure of a blood raptor – the symbol of House Inquell. Out of the seven Foretoken families, Inquell was the one in charge of the army.

She was on duty, four soldiers trailing behind her and holding thrasher pikes. He quickly looked away, hoping she hadn’t seen him. When he looked back, she was talking to the soldiers and pointing in his direction. His heart thumped rapidly and he broke into a stride.

“Ah, Lord Clovis!” Mairwen called. “Wait for me!”

He cursed at her calling his name and turned back to tell her to hurry.

“So it is you, Clovis.” Shana stood a few feet away from him, a reserved smile on her face. With her right hand over the middle of her chest and her left hand behind her back, she gave a small nod of her head. That was the salute used in the army to greet officers of equal standing.

Unsure of how to greet her, he settled for a small bow and a nervous smile. “Shana. Or I suppose ‘High Herald Shana’ would be more appropriate,” he said, gesturing at her half-cape. Over the years, he had heard of her swift ascension through the ranks, but he had purposefully avoided the details.

“Congratulations,” he said, and the smile on his face now felt genuine. “You accomplished what you’ve always worked for.”

“Thank you,” she replied politely.

There was a stiff formality between them, one that felt insurmountable. It was natural, he supposed. Time, strong emotions, and the mixture of the two had eaten away at any intimacy they’d once shared.

He looked at the sword hanging on her right side. “You’re using a rapier now, huh?”

“Yes, it suits me better.” She looked at Mairwen. “Off to the fisheries?”

“Yes. It’s salted greengills for dinner tonight,” he said, and foolishly, he wondered if she still remembered his fondness of them.

“What about yourself?” He nodded at the four soldiers who were staring in their direction. “Another fistfight between grandmas at the docks?”

“No, I don’t handle those anymore,” Shana said lightly, but for some reason, it sounded like a reprimand. A well-deserved one. He shouldn’t be bringing up the past.

“Must be quite something to send a High Herald,” he mused.

“Just making some inquiries,” she said stiffly. “About a citizen.”

He scratched his stubble, wishing he hadn’t shaved yesterday. He thought he looked better with a beard. “Sounds like the kind of work for the Gregoys.” Trying to keep his voice controlled, he added, “Or I’m sure your husband could pull out some census data from the library records.”

“Some things need to be confirmed from primary sources.” She gave him a quick salute. “Forgive me, I should go.”

“Of course, a High Herald has her duties.” He gave her another small awkward bow.

She took a few steps away before turning back. There was a strange expression on her face, one that he’d never seen before. There was neither a smile nor a frown. “Have you been happy and well, Clovis?”

“Of course,” he said. Then, out of some grotesque notion of nostalgia, he tugged his right earlobe with his hand. An inside joke between the two.

That seemed to confirm something for her and she left without another word.

“Let’s hurry, the fisheries will close soon,” he said to Mairwen. She had kept her head down during the conversation, feigning disinterest, but he had seen her stealthy glances.

He broke into a stride again, and she frantically sped after him. He navigated the long alleyways and bustling crowds of the 3rd ward with ease. Her, not so much.

After some time, she spoke to him. “Things seem quite amicable between you and Lady Shana,” she said between heavy pants.

“No, she hates me,” he said with a soft chuckle.

It was what he deserved for breaking off their engagement.

When they got back to the manor, the guests, twelve in number, were sitting around the dining room table. Almost all of them were holding a goblet of whiskey. This was nothing unusual, even for the priests. The priests who came to him weren’t the most disciplined sort; that’s why they had come to him in the first place. What was unusual was that he had ordered the servants to hide the alcohol from them. How had these fools found it?

A normal evening consisted of boozing and debates that often devolved into fisticuffs. As the moon shone brighter and shadows grew longer, they would start departing alone to either tend to their works or to fall asleep in random rooms.

Most of the estates on the 4th ward sat on the outskirts, away from the government buildings, and his manor used to be one of the grandest. However, his neighbors were always expanding, capitalizing on the misfortunes of those who either ran out of luck or money and had to sell their lands and move out of the ward. Still, his manor was of an impressive size, boasting three floors and seventy-nine rooms.

It was not uncommon for his guests to seemingly disappear. Sometimes, the artists would commandeer a room or even a whole wing and isolate themselves for weeks. Other times, he’d learn months later of their departure. A few came crawling back, but others vanished completely, never to be heard from again. They were a fickle, rowdy bunch, but that suited him just fine.

The center of attention tonight was Thracius, who sat at the head of the table. He was talking animatedly and looked up as he and Mairwen entered the room.

“Exciting news, Clovis!” he exclaimed, his face flushed red from alcohol. “Straight from the 6th ward!”

“I thought you said you were going to the 2nd ward.” He handed the basket of groceries to Jaska, who was standing by the doorway, supervising the group. “Mairwen, take the remaining servants and make a proper dinner, please. The recipe for salted greengills should be in one of the drawers if you need it.”

“Yes, my lord.” Mairwen curtsied and beckoned to Jaska.

“Oh, and…”

She turned back to him.

“Thanks for accompanying me. Perhaps we should do it again sometime.”

She smiled. “Of course, my lord.” The servants left through the opposite hall and towards the kitchen.

Clovis approached the table. A priest sitting to Thracius’s right – a man named Emil who had been branded a heretic by the temple for advocating inter-species relations – stood up and obsequiously offered him his chair. He took it and leaned in eagerly, his air of melancholy from earlier dissipating.

Thracius possessed not only a good voice for stories but also a good ear. He chose his pieces of gossip carefully. Clovis didn’t care much for dry recountings of who hated whom; everyone knew the Proverts and Tariens hated each other. What he loved was a good story, the juicy details of how exactly Irena Provert had snubbed Margaret Tarien in the streets.

“Start the story over,” urged a sculptor, and it was met with a chorus of cheers.

“Alright, alright.” Thracius tugged his beard. “I was in the 6th ward, near the western border. This old grandmother falls, almost gets trampled by an incoming carriage. Well, I rescue her, and as I’m picking up the oranges that had fallen out of her basket –”

“I thought you said apples,” said a singer, pursing her lips.

“Did I?” He scowled. “No, it was oranges.”

“O’Forebearer, you’re full of shit,” someone jeered at him, and the others followed suit, spitting insults and recounting anecdotes of his lies. Clovis just laughed; a cornerstone of Thracius’s stories was the embellishment. Emil, the priest from earlier, handed him a goblet. He took it gratefully, thinking how strange it was that such a thin, servile man had been expelled from the temples for his passionate speeches.

“Doesn’t matter, apples or oranges,” Thracius said, his face even redder either from the alcohol or from having to constantly justify himself. “Point is I was at the border when it happened. The border guards, lads no older than sixteen, yelped like banister mice. Something had arrived at the gates.”

“Runaways from another plantation?” Clovis mused. It happened every few years. “But from where?”

A vast forest stood outside the borders of Truweld. The nearest plantation was at least two days away by horseback. Over the years, Truweld had been slowly expanding, but only because the population was growing too quickly. If possible, they avoided doing anything that would attract the Worldrenders.

“Good guess, but no. Humans.”

Clovis frowned. House Inquell supplied the troops, but if one wanted to go through the borders, they’d have to request permission from House Barym. It was a rigorous process, usually only given to armies and well-prepared merchant bands. His had taken months to be approved and that was only due to a special exception.

“Hounds,” Thracius said after a dramatic pause. He held up two fingers. “Man and woman. Ah, I know what you’re thinking. Hounds have their own passageways into the empire. Why go through an official channel? Well, that’s the thing. Both were filthy, but the woman was in especially bad shape. But she was screaming her head off. Something important to say to the Council of Forespeakers, she said.”

“What was it?” someone said.

“No clue,” Thracius said, and everyone at the table groaned. “Jokes, jokes. I heard it actually, just as the rest of the guards came.”

“Well?” Clovis said impatiently.

Thracius leaned back, his face suddenly grim. “‘The Worldrenders are coming. They’re coming to take back our lands.’”