Skylar spun around to see from where the voice came. His mouth gaped in astonishment at what he saw. There stood before him the uncloaked figure of Lasseter, proud and erect as a king.

The rest of the council was blurred in Skylar's memory. The green flash of lightning in Lasseter's eyes and the silence that rent the clamor asunder were all that he recalled clearly. And Lasseter's words...they had echoed and re-echoed in his thoughts a thousand times.

I am King Athylian.

How could it be? Any moment he expected to awake from this dream. Lasseter—the king? His father?

Of how the Council meeting concluded he possessed only a vague idea. That none questioned Lasseter's claim, he felt certain. How could they? Standing there with his head held high, his jaw set as if hewn from stone, his voice booming like thunder and his eyes blazing with such fiery indignation, who could doubt him? No, all present knew it. Though some, to protect themselves might openly deny it.

Nothing pertinent remained to deliberate in the meeting. A call-to-arms was all that was needed. And to that they had yet to see how the Haladrians would respond.

He slept that night at home, in his own room, warm and comfortable in his own bed. Krom approved his visit home, provided Endrick stay close at hand. Now that his identity was public knowledge, there was no longer a need to hide from prying eyes.

As of yet he and Lasseter—his father—had not spoken. After the assembly, Lasseter was instantly swept away with matters of state, of raising an army and preparing for war. Skylar felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. He wanted to speak with Lasseter—to his father. Yet he didn't feel ready. What would he say to him now that he knew?

For now, Skylar felt content simply to be back at his home in the Gorge with his mother. He'd missed her more than he realized. They spoke little that night, both overcome with emotion at being together again and the weight of everything heavy on their minds.

In the morning, though, they spoke. Skylar felt more at ease and let loose his tongue, telling his mother of nearly all that had befallen him since he left, saving her only from the most harrowing moments. Of Grim's death he kept silent, though he wished to confide in her his deep sense of guilt and remorse. She listened to all with admirable composure.

"I'm so sorry, Sky," she said softly once he had finished his tale. "I'm sorry you had to find out about who you are the way you did. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you anymore—save you from all of this. And I'm sorry...for me...that I'm no longer needed."

She bowed her head and looked on the verge of tears.

"You needn't feel sorry. You did all you could. You are mother to me. Nothing will ever change that. I wish things had never changed, that I could go back to just being Skylar. I know now that's not possible."

She smiled, her eyes glistening with bated tears, and ruffled his hair with her hand.

"What happened to my boy? You left me scarcely a fortnight ago and you already seem ten years older."

"I don't feel older. Indeed, I've often felt younger than I am, unequal to the tasks required of me."

"Well...now you know the secret," she said with a smile. "True adulthood does not come with age, but acceptance of adult responsibilities. Few adults, I imagine, ever feel entirely equal to the difficult tasks sometimes laid upon them. It can make one feel young and inadequate, truly."

Skylar did not respond, but let his thoughts dwell over what his mother had said. Eventually his thoughts returned to Lasseter.

"Did you know about Lasseter?" he asked. "I mean, did you know he was really my father and not some former servant?"

His mother slowly shook her head. "He never told me, no. At times the idea would enter my head. But I never entertained it long. You two always bore such close resemblance..."

She paused, and looked to be considering something.

"Are you disappointed that he's your father?" she said hesitantly.

Skylar felt a slight pang of guilt. The question hit close to home. He sighed.

"Yes, a little, I suppose."

"You expected someone different," she replied, more as a statement than question.

Skylar shrugged.

"I guess...it's just that I've always heard such incredible things about Athylian; how all his people loved him; how he was a great king. Yet, when I think of Lasseter..." his voice trailed off before he finished the thought. His mother knew, though, what those unuttered words were.

"Sky, he was not a great king because he possessed some superhuman power or because he stood as tall as a giant. Athylian was great because he loved his people. He was great because he was good."

Skylar nodded.

"I know...I know. It's just...well, I've not been very kind to him the last few years. In fact, I've been ashamed of his strange behavior. I worried what others would think of me because of him. Now I know he did it to protect me.

"In a way, I'm glad it's him. I don't know that I could call anyone father but him. I'm ashamed for thinking otherwise."

His mother rubbed his arm tenderly.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Sky. This would be a difficult thing for anyone to accept."

By the afternoon of the next day, the battle preparations were evident everywhere. And over the course of the next several days the signs of war only grew. Many women and small children were transported to smaller mining units far outside Kaladra, where they might escape possible harm from war. Skylar had tried to convince his mother to go with them.

"No, Sky, I won't leave you. If and when the battle happens, I shall serve as a nurse for the wounded."

That had been the end of it.

Infantry units of inexperienced soldiers carrying makeshift weapons and clad in rusty armor arrived almost hourly from all corners of their small planet. Every forge in Haladras sung with the hammers of metal smiths as they pounded out sword after sword on their anvils. They could not make them fast enough. Shields were mass produced, cast from a molten teryleum alloy, capable of deflecting the rays of Morvath's blasters. Ballistic cannons, too, were hastily assembled.

Despite Athylian's distain for blasters, he permitted Haladras' meager arsenal of blasters to be put into action.

A battle encampment had been situated on the outskirts of Kaladra, between the Gorge and Cloud Harbor. There Skylar spent most of his time, receiving instruction from Endrick in the art of sword fighting, learning combat techniques from Arturo's drill sergeants and sitting in war council with his father, Krom, Arturo, and the other newly-appointed war captains.

Athylian looked different now. He had shaven his beard and trimmed his hair. He no longer went about cloaked and hooded. But there was something else, too. Something Skylar had never before noticed in this man he'd called uncle. Skylar didn't know any other way to describe it other than to say that Athylian had a kingly air. Perhaps it had always been there, and Skylar merely had failed to see it beneath his uncle's eccentricities.

The days passed rapidly. The buzz of war increased with each passing one. It was all the kind of thrill and adventure he once dreamed about. Now upon him, it brought him nothing of excitement and anticipation. Instead, dread filled his heart, for he'd seen enough of death to want no part of it. Yet he knew the battle was inevitable. He refused to shrink from it.

On the fourth day since they met in the Council hall, scouts returned confirming Skylar's assertions about Morvath's intent.

"A military convoy from Ahlderon has been spotted, your majesty," reported one of the scouts. "We've projected its course and believe it is heading straight for Haladras."

"How big?" questioned Lasseter.

"One starcruiser, Sire—sufficient to transport several legions of soldiers; a dozen frigates and a destroyer."

Skylar stared wide-eyed at the scout. Several legions! Several legions of well-trained, heavily-armed soldiers? How could they possibly stand against such an army?

Lasseter looked as unruffled as a statue.

"And Morvath?"

"On Fenorra, your majesty, preparing to embark for Haladras, another legion to join him."

Another legion!

"How long before they arrive?"

"We estimate two days, your majesty."

To which reply Lasseter simply turned to his captains. "You have two days. See that your men are ready."

In the two days that followed, Skylar prepared himself as much as possible. He trained with Endrick for hours a day, at the end of which he could scarcely lift his arm, much less his sword. What discretionary time was granted him he spent with his mother and visiting anyone who came to see him.

Ever since the news of his true identity had spread through the community like a swarm of Trackers, there had been no end to the callers wishing to see the "lost prince." Few of these visitors Skylar knew. Most that he did know were neighbors he'd rarely talked to, friends of his mother, or previous intructors from the Academy. Skylar made an effort to be gracious. But often he would ask his mother to tell whatever visitor that he was too exhausted to see anyone else that day. Which wasn't entirely untrue.

The one visitor he did wish to see never came. Skylar wondered what Kendyl thought of him.

She probably thinks I lied to her, thought Skylar. Hates me, I'm sure.

Despite some feelings of embarrassment, he spoke to his mother about his concerns.

"I'm sure she doesn't hate you, Sky," she had reassured him. "At least not in earnest. She might tell herself she's angry—even act like it—but it's all superficial."

"What? Think it? Act like it?" replied Skylar in stupefaction. "How is that different than actually hating me?"

"Girls are...uh...complicated with these matters. You should go see her. I'm sure she wants you to."

"Why? So she can pretend that she's mad at me to my face?"

His mother's words had only left him feeling more confused and hopeless than before. He decided not go to see Kendyl. Whatever courage he had to do so was now gone.

Rolander Finch, his ever-faithful friend spoke with him often during the days preceding the battle. The freckled-faced boy had somehow managed to enlist in one of the infantry units. Unlike Skylar, Rolander spoke excitedly about all that was happening. He marveled at Skylar's adventures away from Haladras, listening with awe to all he said.

"I wish I could have been there with you," said Rolander. "I've been just dying to dissect one of those so-called insects. And you were attacked by an entire swarm of them. Incredible! Can you imagine what it would take to construct something so small? And those Mauwiks...fascinating! I've never read any book that mentioned anything about them. I'd love to study them in their forest city."

Rolander's mouth moved with dizzying speed, salivating as he spoke. Skylar smiled good-naturedly at his friend.

"It wasn't quite as exciting as it may seem," Skylar assured him. "I wish I had stayed on Haladras. Not a day went by that I didn't long to be rid of all the adventuring."

"That's only because you forgot how boring Haladras can be. Or perhaps it was a particular red-head you missed?"

Rolander gave him a goofy, conspiratorial smile. Skylar ignored him.

"At least," continued Rolander, "I won't miss out on the fighting."

"You actually want to fight?"

"Indubitably."

"Why?"

"Adventure. Action. Glory. Honor. A chance to fight for our liberties. What could be greater than that?"

"You make it sound like a game, Roland. There will be honor enough, in standing for what's right. But there seems little glorious about blood split on a battle field."

"Who cares about the blood of Tarus' soldiers!" exclaimed Rolander.

Skylar did not reply, only sighed within. How could Roland feel such confidence? Skylar had seen his friend during training. He had watched Rolander's scrawny arms heft a sword that looked to weigh more than his entire body and swing it clumsily at a smirking opponent. Oh, Rolander, Skylar's heart ached, shall I lose you, too?

The following day, the watchtower guards sighted the empire's military ships. The type and number of each agreed precisely with the report from the Haladrian scouts. The king's forces remained outside the planet's atmosphere, waiting for the command to descend and destroy.

Within a quarter hour the Haladrian war council had assembled to discuss the situation. Skylar stood silent and uneasy within the large tent which served as command post. His eyes were fixed on Athylian, who sat listening to the report with calm assurance.

"What word from Allega?" said Athylian when the brief report concluded.

"None, your majesty," replied Captain Arturo. "Neither from the dispatch carrier or from Rowvan himself."

Athylian nodded his head knowingly.

"Captured by the empire, no doubt," he said absently.

"Indeed, your majesty."

Athylian sat quietly for several moments, pondering, weighing the odds and possible outcomes in his mind. No one interrupted him.

Skylar noted his father's composure and confidence under such a heavy burden.

How can he feel so sure of himself when so much is at stake? he wondered.

Suddenly a commotion broke out somewhere beyond their tent walls. Everyone looked toward the tent's entrance. One of the sentries entered and hurriedly bowed.

"Your majesty," he said, "a messenger from the empire has arrived. He claims to bear an epistle from Tarus' chief minister. Shall I bring him in, Sire?"

"Yes, see him in."

The sentry turned on his heel, strode out of the tent, and returned shortly with Morvath's messenger in tow.

The messenger's stature and appearance were unimpressive. A long cape, the color of scarlet, hung from what little neck he had for supporting his disproportionately fat head. His face, screwed up with indignation, matched the cape's color with uncanny exactness. No doubt the soldiers had taunted this funny semblance of a man as he passed through the camp. The messenger strode forward with as much pride and dignity as one with such stubby legs could manage. He still looked absurd.

"I come with a message from the king's chief minister, Lord Morvath," declared the diminutive messenger in a surprisingly deep voice. Skylar thought he was trying hard to make his voice deeper than it really was.

"And what is his message?" replied Athylian.

"It is for Viceroy Aberforce," stated the messenger. "Where is he? Take me to him."

His tone bore a commanding edge, but Athylian brushed it aside like a fly.

"Viceroy Aberforce is likely out trying to save his own skin. I am in command here. You shall deliver the message to me."

"And who are you?" demanded the messenger.

Athylian rose slowly and leaned forward, planting his hands on the table in from front of him.

"I am your king. I am Athylian, true sovereign of the realm, Lord Protector of Ahlderon and the empire."

Athylian's eyes flashed their green flame as he pronounced these words. The messenger drew back, his mouth gaping in astonishment.

"Athy...Athyl...Athylian! But Athylian is dead..." stammered the messenger hoarsely.

Athylian nodded, a faint smile touched the corners of his mouth. He sat back down.

"I ask again, what is the message?"

The stubby man licked his lips nervously and mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

"Message? Yes...yes, of course."

He produced a tightly rolled parchment from his jacket pocket, cleared his throat and commenced to read.

The twelfth day of Lunis, year fourteen of His Majesty King Tarus the Great's reign.

Viceroy Aberforce

Kaladra, Haladras

Acting under authority vested in me by His Majesty, I demand immediate and satisfactory explanation for the riffraff army thou hast raised. Sources inform me that they are hostile toward the empire. Thou art well aware that the raising of an army is beyond the scope of thy jurisdiction and explicitly in violation of thy colony's royal charter. Furthermore, if indeed thou hast sown the seeds of rebellion among these amateur soldiers, thou art guilty of treason to the crown. For thy sake, I hope such is not the case. Thou hast twenty-four hours to offer an accounting of thine actions before I send down His Majesty's soldiers to forcibly dismantle thy pitiful forces.

Lord Morvath, Chief Minister, and Head Advisor to the king.

The messenger returned the letter to his pocket and stood, awaiting a response, which Lasseter did not hesitate to give. With Endrick serving as scribe, Lasseter dictated the following letter:

Chief Minister Morvath,

I regret to inform thee that Viceroy Aberforce has not received thine epistle. I command this army which thou hast so openly reviled. I raised it, it being my right to do so. For I am Athylian, King of Ahlderon, whom thou and that false king of thine conspired to kill. By my royal right, I command thee to surrender thy troops to me. If thou failest to do so, I shall be forced to meet thee on the field of battle. And I shall not rest till thou and Tarus art destroyed. Surrender now and let us spare the loss of blood. I am Athylian and I have returned to reclaim my throne.

Once the messenger had departed, Captain Arturo turned to Athylian.

"That should put the fear in His Majesty's chief minister."

"Yes," replied Athylian, "fear and motivation to act swiftly. This is an unexpected turn of events for him. He knows he must destroy me before I can gain greater support."

"Then you mean to go against him?" asked one of the commanders, name Drynn. "Would not it be prudent to wait a bit longer for Allega's aid? Perhaps we could somehow stall Morvath."

"Allega is not coming," said Krom coldly, "We all know that. Our dispatches never got through."

"We could send another—"

"Impossible," replied Athylian. "Morvath will not let any ships off this planet so long as we're arrayed for battle and I'm still alive."

"Then his majesty intends to fight...with such a small army?" asked Drynn.

"I don't see that we have any other choice, commander. Would you have us surrender? You, Commander Drynn, may surrender yourself. I have no need for cowards."

Drynn's lips tightened and his face reddened at Athylian's harsh accusation. He argued no further, only bowed curtly and sat back down.

Within an hour, Morvath's messenger stood again within their command post. The letter from the king's chief minister wasted no words. It outright denied Athylian's claim to power, stating:

I serve Tarus, the one true king of Ahlderon. Athylian is dead. King Tarus will not tolerate treasonous liars. Except I see evidence of thine army disbanding by morning, I will send my troops to do the job for thee.

Athylian dismissed the squat messenger empty-handed. It was clear neither side intended to submit to the other.

"Captain Arturo," spoke Athylian, his voice grave and his countenance subdued, "prepare your troops for battle. We fight on the morrow."

Arturo nodded.

A heavy silence fell over the war council.