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A Spy’s Art
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Archain Road served as a direct path between Phelos’s outskirts and the palace, cleanly cutting the capital in half. It was wide, glorious, and the only tar-paved road in the Archaic Kingdom—the second poorest of the ten. Such a distinction would hopefully change for the better with the induction of a new king. Fortune sat on the kingdom’s horizon.
A sea of people drowned the entirety of Archain Road, stretching out of sight and into the suburbs. A massive stage blocked the main gate of the palace grounds. Toth Brench, known as the Amendment Order’s Chief Merchant before the regime’s upheaval, sat in an elegant chair near the back of the stage. Next to him sat the former Chief Officer and Toth’s closest ally, Wert Lamay.
At the front of the stage, a young man addressed the crowd. He wore a scarf in the middle of summer, distinguishing himself as Prince Sigmund and the rightful heir to the Archaic Kingdom’s throne ... but who said anything about this ceremony being “right.”
Standing to the side, Tazama, a blue-haired, dark-skinned woman in burgundy robes, her blue eyes currently a deep red, recorded Sigmund’s speech. And somewhere in the distance, Jina and Halluci—two Dev Diatia whose purpose was to counter the Jestivan—were broadcasting the speech to citizens via holographic displays that hovered above the crowds.
While the royal heads around the realm already knew who would hold the throne, the Archaic citizens did not. The time had come.
“I know what you all are thinking,” said Sigmund through a bullhorn, an ancient lent to him by the man who commentated the Generals’ Battle. “You’re questioning the absence of my crown. Surely, now that the fraudulent Amendment Order has been disposed of, I would follow in my father’s footsteps, correct?”
Sigmund paused, lowering the ancient as he gazed across the silent masses. Toth leaned back in his seat, his elbow on the chair’s arm as he watched the young prince.
Raising the bullhorn again, Sigmund said, “But let’s not forget what kind of man my father was. He made catastrophic mistakes that put our kingdom in the position it is now. And his father—my grandfather—may have had a grasp of foreign affairs, but even he didn’t have the trust or respect of his own people.
“And I fear I don’t have what it takes to act as king. Like my fathers before me, I am flawed. I proved that when I sided with Chief Arbitrator Grandarion and Senator Rosel during the Gravity Trials. That decision alone worsened everything, and then I ostracized the only two men who had fought for a decision that would’ve avoided the disastrous night of Rhyparia NuForce’s failed execution.”
Sigmund turned toward Toth and Wert before addressing the crowd again. “Therefore, this kingdom should belong to a man worth more than most royal heads. Ladies and gentleman, I present to you your new leader, King Toth Brench.”
Toth stood up to cheers few and far between, which allowed a smattering of boos to creep through. He buttoned his suit with one hand as he approached the front of the stage, pulling at his tie’s knot in the process. He wasn’t bothered by the crowd’s lack of enthusiasm; he had expected it.
Toth shook Sigmund’s hand before turning to the people. Eyes slowly raking the crowd, Toth nodded his head as he said, “I won’t wear a crown. It does not belong in my possession, nor do I expect to be glorified because of a garment that sits on my head. Instead, I’ll gain your trust by the meaningful actions I’ll take to better your lives. I’m allied with some of the most powerful and wealthiest individuals in Kuki Sphaira.
“The True Light alliance cannot hurt you. The combined strength of the newly formed Lamaylian Army, led by Wert Lamay—now known as Proxy to the King—and the Dark Realm royal heads: Dev King Storshae, Power Queen Gantski, Still Queen ...”
A mass of wings swarmed into the sky in the distance, stopping Toth mid-sentence. At the same time, Wert shot out of his seat. Falcons scattered into the air, soaring higher and higher. This wasn’t a freak accident, rather the act of a woman who had once been imprisoned in the palace’s dungeons. Toth had wondered what had happened to Spy Pilot Ophala following the uprising.
Glancing downward, Toth sought out Elyol Brekton, Garlo, and Dev Warden Gala, who were stationed in front of the stage. They each gazed back toward him. The instant he nodded, they took off toward the disruption with a battalion of Lamaylian soldiers in their wake.
Toth tried to recollect himself, but his nerves were now on edge ... Ophala Vevlu was still in the capital.
* * *
Elyol and his unit split away from Garlo and Gala as they each headed for different areas of Thriskia, one of Phelos’s outlying sectors. With everybody occupying Archain Road, the city felt like a ghost town. Streets and buildings were mostly deserted. The only civilians still in the sector were tavern owners. If Ophala ran, she shouldn’t have been able to blend in with a crowd, but the sheer scope of this city made spotting her impossible. Besides, as a spy, one of her greatest skills was her elusiveness.
“Comb the sector, search every building!” Elyol barked, sending soldiers in every direction. He studied the third and fourth floor windows of the taller buildings, searching for any hint of Ophala’s location. Typically, he’d pinpoint open windows, but in a place as poor as this, none of the windows had glass or shutters in the first place.
As he stood in an intersection, his staff of lava in his hand, a woman stepped out of a nearby tannery. “Are you looking for the birds?” she asked.
Elyol slowly tilted his head down from the sky. “Yes, a flock of falcons were spotted about ten minutes ago.”
“It was the strangest spectacle,” she said. “I saw them soar above the buildings from two blocks over.”
“That way?” he asked, pointing a finger to the west.
She nodded. After ensuring they weren’t falling victim to a misdirection ploy, he thanked her and scurried down the road. Turning left at the second intersection, he found a road bordered on both sides by old chapels—a street that had never left ancient times. Why hadn’t it been torn down or renovated centuries ago? Religion was a primordial practice only seen in the Prim Kingdom. The rest of Kuki Sphaira had abolished it during the first few centuries of the Known History timeline.
Elyol slowed his pace, feeling a shift in the aura around him. Goosebumps ran down the back of his neck and spine as his gaze absorbed every inch of his surroundings. This was why such practices had been forbidden so long ago. There was even a man and a tale that depicted the dangers: Gatal Accus, The First of Five. And now, over a millennium later, the effects still lingered.
The chapels were taller than most of the buildings in Thriskia. Stained glass windows, most of which were now broken, ran across their walls. Outside of the homeless, they had likely been uninhabited for centuries.
A pair of soldiers appeared at an intersection up ahead. “Give this block a thorough search,” Elyol commanded. “I have reason to believe this is the spot.”
The two women headed down the street, then stopped, reaching up to rub their eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Elyol asked.
“The light is blinding, sir,” one woman replied, trying to open her eyes, only to quickly shield them again. “It’s like the sun is sitting directly above us. How are you standing there so casually, sir?”
Elyol gazed up. The sun may have been bright and unforgiving, but that was typical of the Archaic Kingdom. This street was affecting the two soldiers differently than it did him. “Never mind,” he said. “Search elsewhere.”
As they disappeared around the corner, Elyol stared at a nearby chapel’s domed roof. The paint had eroded completely, leaving a surface of worn wood. His gaze dropped to the main doors. One was open, the other shut. As he approached them, black and white splotches on the dirt street caught his attention. A scattered trail of bird droppings, he realized. Glancing back at the building, he noticed it came from the direction of one of the building’s shattered windows.
He bolted up its steps and through the front doors, bypassing rows of pews, until he reached a staircase along the side wall. He skipped two steps at a time on his way up. Once at the top, he headed in the direction of the shattered window. Slowing as he entered the room, he stared at what was pinned to the far wall.
Elyol gave the room a quick inspection for any kind of threat before he finally crept across. His body shuddered upon reaching the severed hand—nailed to the wall as if it were a framed painting. The fingers curled inward, loosely grasping a scroll. Retrieving the paper, he untied it. A brown feather fell to the floor as he read the message:
Every painter’s masterpiece begins with a single stroke of the brush. The same rings true in the art of a spy.
Elyol’s gaze flickered up to the hand that belonged to Wert Lamay. They hadn’t been sure who the culprit had been. Under the impression that Ophala wasn’t someone capable of such an act, they’d believed it to have been one of the three Passion Assassins: Himitsu, Horos, or Fane. Perhaps such an assumption was wrong.
They were dealing with a different version of Ophala. The Spy Pilot had hardened into something as merciless as her adversaries. And she was willing to paint the entire canvas red with the blood of her enemies.
