In a quiet hour of darkness, one hundred men entered the city of Palthos through its open gates. A few of the city-dwellers spotted them through their windows and crept to the nearest hiding place to wait out their presence. Those that saw them were summarily killed before much fanfare could be made of it, their bodies left behind on the stone road, blood leaking into the cracks.

A man stood at the corner of the docks, crouched down and tying a rope around a wooden pole. His skin was tanned and painted with the canvasses of his wars at sea, although they had become disfigured with age. He heard that army approaching, but paid little attention. Now he could hear them padding unsteadily on the wooden boards behind him, growing closer.

“Rise, sailor,” one voice said. The man snarled as he did so.

Taramiel could see a vicious beast in the man’s eyes. He was grateful to his sword drawn, the tip biting into the board below. Sure, one hundred to one . . . but still.

“Give us three vessels, and we’ll let you live. Fast ones, ready for battle. Guide us to them, open your equipment to us and prepare our departure, and we will cause you no trouble.” By now Taramiel new that the man had spotted the crest sewn into his shirt: a black shield with a full sun and its rays outstretched in the top half.

“I ain’t working with none Gloss’ men,” the man said, and spit on Taramiel’s shoe.

“Unfortunately, you don’t have much of a choice.” Taramiel lifted his sword and dropped its flat side on the man’s shoulder. The growl in the man’s face seemed to grow deeper, and his teeth seemed to grow sharper.

“I’ll give you no damn boats.”

“You sure?”

Taramiel was half certain the man would bark at him before he cut out the sailor’s throat. As it dropped into the cold ocean water, the sailor’s skin turned paler, and shined almost like a white sheet as it fell, until submerged in the black abyss.

Taramiel found three ships that seemed suitable enough. They weren’t the largest in the docks, but they were sleek, and outfitted with rams, harpoons, and an armory of weapons. Some scaled other ships to pilfer them for other valuables, while the rest began rigging the three ships. Taramiel re-fitted sails and unlatched the ropes. Those movements were mechanical, learned from hours at After a few hours of labor under the light of the moon, the eye shut behind a protective layer of clouds, and they were left with a dim reflection against the water.

And three ships were rigged. At the first sign of light, as the gray fog of the morning became visible, they were to leave the docks and sail forwards—and find that sole survivor sailing away. Three boats, the Sacredate had said, would capture him.

Taramiel and his men examined their ships one last time before falling in line into the cabins below. Taramiel went in last, savoring a final moment above-board, the cool wind blowing into his face and the stars spelling an unspoken pattern in the sky. But eventually, he followed. Taramiel found an unoccupied cabin and dropped into it.

The Gods would wake him when it was time to rise.