The king and General Lateef readily nodded their consensus with the commander’s harsh words. Privately, Zaethan agreed. The Gulgons, called mudmen for obvious reason, weren’t a substantial threat to the perimeter, but if the prydes didn’t push back, towns like Rian and Port Khmer would pay the price. However, it was also true that the Mirajii Forest had been in Gulgon possession when Orynthia first seized it.

“I agree,” the king confirmed. “As commander of my armies, I trust you’ll handle this swiftly for me, Nyack. As always.”

Zaethan watched a flicker of anticipation flash through his father’s onyx eyes before they waned back into deadness. For a moment, he absorbed the gravity of the king’s blanket trust in his father’s methods. With such a simple statement, the commander of the Orynthian forces was given permission to rain the terror of Darakai down on Hagarh, if he so wished it. Knowing too well the pleasure Nyack Kasim gleaned from wielding violence, Zaethan suspected he wished it very much.

Unlike any Darakaian before him, Nyack Kasim wielded a trio of powerful titles. Being the firstborn of his generation, he held the office of Haidren to Darakai by virtue of his bloodline and birthright. But in addition to representing the Darakai’s interests in Bastiion, Nyack had long reigned as Chief Warlord in the House of Darakai, the elected leader over their tribes. Last, in recent years, he had acquired the most powerful title of all: Commander of the Orynthian armies, which by royal decree enabled him to exercise nearly all the same privileges as Dmitri’s father, excepting the ability to declare war.

This trinity of authority had made the Ethnicam increasingly wary of Nyack Kasim of late. Zaethan could understand why—he too was uncomfortable seeing that much power in the brutal hands of his father.

His father instructed General Lateef to brief the king and the prince on recent developments in the other port towns, as well as the expansion of Orynthia’s naval fleet, currently stationed in Lempeii. Having already heard the information, Zaethan’s mind returned to Hagarh. The mudmen were superstitious wanderers, as Dmitri had stated. Superstitious, but rarely a group of aggressors. By nature, their community waded seasonally throughout the wetlands in migratory patterns, keeping to themselves. It was strange that they’d shift to the offensive without being provoked. Besides, who listened to the wind?

Just swamp-speak, he told himself. Nonsensical kakk.

“Zaethan. Report,” his father ordered across the wide table between them.

Clearing his throat, Zaethan launched into a standard report, commenting on the adjustments to the guard and changes to their training regime. After proposing an additional trading regulation to enforce within the Drifting Bazaar and Bastiion’s Marketown, Zaethan took a deep breath before concluding his summary.

“Lastly, my own militia, in addition to a handful of prydes monitoring the plains, have reported a series of Boreali cross-castes said to be missing or, if recovered, found dead. Barbarically, I should add. Those discovered were either completely drained of blood, or their bodies…their bodies desecrated. Most of them have been young children.”

He paused here, knowing he should stick to reporting only facts of significance. His father would perceive any emotion as weakness, and Zaethan hadn’t been named Alpha Zà over the Darakaian militia prydes for his ability to empathize.

“With such a clear pattern,” Zaethan continued, “I’m wondering if the al’Haidren to Boreal’s Ascension has inspired civil unrest among the Unitarian provinces. Perhaps the locals are lashing out against the y’siti influence?”

General Lateef and Zaethan’s father snickered contemptuously. No concern for the slain cross-caste children could be found in their eyes. Taken aback by their reaction, he looked to Dmitri, who’d gone pale as he processed the news. Yet the severity of the situation had only shaken one of the Thoarne men, as the king slowly mirrored his subordinates.

“That’s ridiculous,” his father dismissed. “The y’siti do this to each other. It’s just who they are. It’s more likely the Najjan have taken their witchiron and begun hunting down their own breakaways. Some punishment for abandoning the clans.”

“Probably gathering fodder for their next moon ritual,” the general spat.

“I’ve never known a Boreali to be so vicious…or vindictive, for that matter,” Dmitri added, scratching the back of his neck.

A mask of forced deference turned to the prince as Zaethan’s father tilted his head to the side. “And because you have not met every y’siti, my resources should not be wasted on the testament of a few,” he said, in the manner one might speak to a child, before adding a prudent, “Your Highness.”

“Father—sir, I urge you to reconsider. Kumo and Takoda have been tracking the incidents for months now,” Zaethan rushed on, pointing out the connecting trails across the map of Bastiion. “The most recent victims were discovered closer together these last three weeks, within the Proper.”

Zaethan risked raising his eyes to his father, hoping to effectively convey the importance of the deaths. He felt it in the nausea that came with the replaying pictures in his mind. The victims his pryde had unearthed—children barely into adolescence, shoved into the damp, forgotten corners of Bastiion’s twisting streets. Frail little bodies forever mutilated by horrific markings that ribboned their flesh to the bone. Their mixed lineage was only recognizable by the hair—darker than that of a full-blooded y’siti, yet significantly lighter than that of a Unitarian. Each victim outside the Proper had been found ripped apart, but those within mirrored the most recent boy discovered. Zaethan had held his tiny, limp hand as the pryde tried to make sense of the meticulous slits along his wrists, neck, and ankles. The cross-caste had been bled dry.

Zaethan managed to not throw up, before Kumo pulled the colorless, broken boy from his protective arms. He’d been no older than eight, perhaps nine years at most.

These were not meaningless patterns. It was only a matter of time before the killer grew bored of pale flesh, already the shade of corpses, and began to crave the children of Bastiion, painted in livelier skins of gold, bronze, and copper.

“I think my son has uncovered some alarming facts,” his father announced to the group of men.

Zaethan’s chest rose hopefully. The edge of his mouth started to lift at the rare moment of recognition.

“But since he allowed his pryde to become so distracted during these crucial months, by what are clearly misguided priorities, I’ve decided they would better serve our king where reinforcement is actually needed—at the border, near Hagarh and Port Khmer.”

Zaethan’s stomach dropped, as did any trace of his smile.

“Zaethan, you will remain at court. In my shadow as al’Haidren to Darakai, you must. Choose fifteen to go and five to remain in Bastiion. Bring me your list by tomorrow morning,” Darakai’s chief warlord concluded, letting his penalty settle heavily into the silence.