“His chambers,” the servant said. Behind Kant, a great stone slab slid into place. Kant—now alone—had no choice but to meet his master.

Kant entered. The view stopped his breath. Not from luxury, for the room was austere: a large ruby hung over a basin, there were a few scrolls, and windows—all around, windows.

Kant drifted past the scrolls and looked out. He could see the clouds below. Somewhere down there was his family’s villa and his father who waited to hear about—

One window flashed yellow. One image blurred and changed and hundreds of spans shot past. Yet all the other windows remained static.

Through the one window, he saw galleys, dozens of boats packed with Britania’s legions, the last to disembark. The legions had been recalled to defend the continent.

“Worthless,” a voice muttered.

Swantae stepped besides Kant. His skin glowed bronze and his robes glistened the purest white.

Kant stammered. “I’m here to—“

“My newest magistrate,” Swantae’s nostrils flared and he flashed his teeth. His eyes bored into Kant’s chest.

Kant bowed at the waist, and unsure of just what do with his hands, kept them folded in his sleeves.

“Do you have any sisters?” Swantae asked.

“Yes,” Kant fumbled. “Well I had—have two, sir, but the Tax.”

“You’ve none left?” Swantae asked. He licked his lips. Kant took a step back before he remembered himself and straightened his back.

“You took them all…And, if not too much, could my father visit?” Kant finished asking.

Two servants entered, carrying a small bundle. The bundle moved and cried. Swantae turned to meet them and motioned Kant to follow.

“Do you think my Tax is for a crude, barbaric lust?” Swantae asked.

The bundle was set down on a wire mesh that stretched over the basin. Above the bundle, the ruby pulsated. The bundle stirred and Kant thought he saw a small arm stick up from the cloth.

“Beauty follows spirit,” Swantae said. “And spirit is power—power that I need.” Swantae pulled back the cloth and revealed a naked boy, still covered in birthing fluid. “What do you think of my son?” Swantae asked.

The babe, pink and plump, stirred and cried.

“His mother?” Kant asked.

“Spirit and beauty“–Swantae unsheathed a purple, veined with gold and wickedly curved knife—“are hereditary.”