“The turbulent history of the Isles of Dust reads like a fever dream of endless conquest and betrayal between Loratha and Demis. In 71, Admiral Daris’ iron will brought the islands under Demis’ control, birthing the first Dust mines from virgin soil. Yet by 78, Councilwoman Ysolde of Loratha—that mistress of shadows and whispers—had stolen them away with nothing more than carefully poisoned words and midnight promises. The islands’ fate turned again in the blood-soaked Battle of Sturm’s Eve in 129, when General Ilgrin’s fleet painted the waters red to reclaim them for Demis. But even this victory proved fleeting. Loratha’s masterwork of vengeance, the ‘Night of Silent Bells’ in 142, saw daggers replace diplomacy. And so the Isles remain—eternal prize in an endless game between two giants who eye each other across the bay, like wolves circling wounded prey.”

  – Caelin Thorne, The Tides of Power: A History of the Isles of Dust

  Drip.

  Lithas watched as yet another drop of murky water hit the rough floor of her cell. A patch of dirt made slightly more gleaming than its surroundings, for a moment. For a time, she had tried to count the drops. Drip, drip, drip. Marking at least some kind of progress during the never-ending twilight of her incarceration. It had not been long before even this meager form of passing the time lost its appeal to Lithas. Now she just waited. Waited for the inevitable change that she knew would come. Had to come, at some point. The world always changed, and it did not ask for permission.

  Drip.

  Steps. From the direction of the stairs. Would this be it?

  The flickering torchlight painted the cold stones of her cell in an eerie chiaroscuro as a pair of guards rounded the corner. No word lost on her. One of the guards—surly-looking fellow with a grizzled beard—produced a bundle of keys and started to unlock her gate.

  Lithas felt torn. Torn between the welcoming absence of mockery from her captors and the desire—the need—to speak with another human being. Anyone. Anyone at all.

  They opened the gate. Before Lithas had reached a decision, she was abruptly ushered out of her cell. From the gloom she had grown so familiar with to walkways bathed in sunlight, streaming in from elongated windows. Her eyes, long accustomed to the darkness, squinted against the sudden intrusion of brightness.

  Her two guards, expressions unreadable beneath the severe lines of their helmets, steered her through winding corridors, rough hands gripping her arms with unnecessary force. She felt herself growing angry with her own weakened body, that it cost her so much just to keep up with the soldiers.

  Lithas was not sure what to expect from this excursion. Another audience with Imran? Had the fleet arrived? Or had they decided it was safer to just kill her? What was not on that impromptu list in her mind was the rather secluded chamber, nestled deep within the fortress, that they now reached after their brief but brisk walk.

  She stepped forward, aiming for the door. Only to walk into the outstretched arm of one of the soldiers. The man peered down haughtily at her, lips forming a thin line. “The councilman wants you to see your little friends before we sail for Loratha. They’ll stay here. You behave and they might still be here when you come back. If you come back, that is.” He emphasized his words by spitting on the thick carpet. Behind her, his companion snickered.

  Lithas forced herself to remain calm and fixed her gaze on the soldier in front of her. Not saying a word, not nodding, just staring. She held his gaze until he finally averted his eyes, suddenly very interested in the damp stone wall that lined the corridor. Lithas allowed herself a small nod of satisfaction before she proceeded into the chamber. Behind her, the door closed again.

  As she stepped into the room, a gasp nearly escaped her lips. There, amidst rich tapestries and furnishings that seemed grotesquely out of place in the ruined city—Demis’ remains had been all too visible through the corridor windows—were the faces she had so yearned to see.

  Avila, Kellen, and Kael sat huddled amongst the large cushions. Relief and worry wared on their faces as they watched her entrance. I must look truly awful, Lithas thought. Despite the circumstances, she allowed herself a small, rueful smile, the gesture feeling almost foreign on her lips. When was the last time she had smiled? Her eyes quickly found Kellen. And then the bandaged stump where his arm used to be. Her newborn smile wavered on her lips.

  But she would not let that deter her. Lithas strode toward them, drinking in the sight. They were pale, not exactly clean. Bodies bearing the strain of captivity. She was sure that Imran had chosen this room specifically to contrast them with the riches that had been. Nothing was left to chance with that man. She swore to herself that it was an image she would carry with her.

  Avila rose to greet her. The older man’s usually vibrant energy was subdued but not completely extinguished.

  “We were worried about you, Lithas,” Avila said quietly, while he searched her eyes.

  Lithas squeezed his shoulder before she took a seat, flanked by Kellen and Kael. Somehow, she found their company comforting—a beacon of familiarity amidst the chaos. “I’m alright,” she reassured them. The lie left a bitter taste on her tongue.

  “You should really worry about yourself.” She paused and sighed heavily. “The Isles of Dust... Demis... they’re all under Lorathan control now,” she explained, as steady as she could manage. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded rough. Unused to speaking in full sentences. Speaking so much at once. “Imran Delos wants me to convince the Seeress to acknowledge these... acquisitions. He came to see me personally.”

  Lithas noted the grim expressions that looked back at her. Not many cheery faces these days. At least not on their side.

  “I’m to be transported to Loratha with the fleet, once Fleet Admiral Vespera arrives. I think we’ll leave very soon… and you’ll be kept here as hostages, to ensure my good behavior.”

  A thick, oppressive silence followed and cloaked the room.

  Lithas watched her words sink in. Observed Kael’s knuckles turning white where his fingers clenched the fabric of his trousers, Kellen’s lips thinning into a tight line, and Avila’s still twinkling eyes observing her in turn.

  “Lady Lithas,” Kellen started in a mere whisper. Lithas was shaken to hear his voice. A ghost of the warrior he had once been. “How have they been treating you?”

  Lithas held his gaze for a moment, swallowing the bitterness that welled up in her throat. “As well as they might do with a captive, I suppose,” she finally managed, voice wavering just slightly. “Better than I would’ve expected from Lorathans, to be honest.” She offered him a weak smile. It did little to ease the deeply etched concern in Kellen’s features.

  “And you?” She turned her attention to Kael and Avila. “How have they been treating you?”

  “Food is scarce now, but it always has been,” Kael shrugged, his eyes avoiding hers. “Otherwise, they leave us alone. Mostly. As long as we don’t cause trouble. We’re tasked with clearing out the rubble. It’s tough work but it beats sitting around doing nothing, I suppose.”

  “It’s not the treatment that troubles me, Lithas,” Avila nodded. His gaze had become distant, as if he was no longer standing in Demis. “I’ve lived a long life. I’ve had worse. No, it’s the unknown. The weight of what’s to come, the uncertainty... it’s like a beast lurking in the shadows.”

  Lithas let her eyes wander as well, gaze sweeping over oil paintings of a battle at sea. Dark, swirling clouds embracing sleek ships that leaned into the wind. Kael broke the silence. In her mind, she still could not reconcile the young soldier with the energetic kid who had accompanied her during their journey to this place. Matted dark hair framed a face that seemed to have more lines than she cared to remember.

  “These people in gray robes during the battle… they weren’t from Loratha, were they?”

  Clever boy. “I have... my suspicions,” Lithas admitted cautiously. “I believe they were Elevated, that much seemed clear. But you’re right, I don’t think they came from Loratha. Their powers... I know some of the more powerful Lorathan Elevated. This was different. Far too potent for any unknown Elevated lurking in the back row.” Kellen clenched his remaining fist and Lithas was transported back to the battlefield. Blood. Screams. Terror.

  “But who they were, where they came from,” she shook her head, lips pressed into a thin line, “I simply don’t know. Not yet. But if we survive this, I will find out. Believe me.”

  Jaw clenched, Kael nodded. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but eventually stopped short, his gaze averted.

  Avila, on the other hand, had remained quiet during the exchange, eyes still seemingly focused on a point far beyond the room’s walls.

  Lithas frowned. The man could not shut up lecturing them about every rock from Sariz to here and now he was silent? “Avila, you’ve traveled far,” she said, with more than a hint of suspicion in her voice. “Do you have any idea who they could be?”

  The old man watched her cautiously, as if considering his next words with care. “You know,” he slowly began, “I didn’t get a good look at them from inside the inn. One thing that seems certain, however, is that Loratha shouldn’t have had the spare firepower to overwhelm Demis so quickly. The Belt balances carefully.”

  Lithas pursed her lips but said nothing. She did not think that was the whole story. Avila knew—or at least suspected—something. But she judged her chances of teasing out that knowledge now to be slim.

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  After a prolonged pause of her trying to read Avila’s eyes, Kael abruptly rose and paced to the window. His gaze seemed lost in the city, which now teemed with reconstruction efforts. “If only we could have done something... anything...” he murmured, a helpless edge creeping into his voice. “All these dead people. I still see them every time I close my eyes.”

  Avila turned his attention to Kael, eyes softening with understanding. “Nobody could have saved them. They were crushed by greater events. We did what we could, Kael. It’s what we always do. You remember that, no matter what happens.”

  Lithas, taking her cue from Avila, stepped up to Kael. “And that is exactly what we’ll continue to do. As long as we’ve got something to fight for—as long as we breathe—there’s hope.”

  Her gaze hardened as she took in her companions. As she pictured her other retainers, locked up somewhere in the dungeons of this ruined city. “I’ll find a way,” she vowed, voice low but determined. “I’ll come back for you.”

  Kellen finally looked up with a face that was a shadowy web of creases. The man’s voice was a whisper, barely discernible amidst the crackle of the dying fire in the room. “It’s not you coming back that I worry about, my lady,” he confessed. “It’s what world we’ll be in when you do.”

  Lithas blanched. Avila prevented her from saying anything as he stepped up to her. He reached out and placed his hand over hers, a gesture filled with warmth. “Lithas,” he added, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “take care. I’m sure we’ll see each other again. After all, what’s a good story without a reunion?”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to do anything more than that.

  Back to her cell. Back to her dirty cot. Back to the nightmares of fire and blood.

  But the next day came—just as it always did.

  At dawn, or what she thought of as dawn anyway, Lithas was abruptly roused by the harsh clang of her opening cell door. She was getting used to this by now. The same pair of guards that had led her to her friends the previous day were back, faces yet again obscured behind helmets.

  A different route this time. They led her through dimly lit corridors in the west wing and—once they came out into the open—through well-lit yet equally depressing streets toward the docks.

  Blinking against the sudden glare, Lithas took a moment to adjust.

  Again, she noticed the peculiar absence of people on the streets. Hiding out at home, waiting for things to normalize. Contrast that with the harbor. Apparently, the Lorathans had besieged the harbor during the battle, effectively bottling in the Demisian fleet. But the rapid fall of the walls had meant there was no need to storm or even bombard the harbor. Except for some signs of fighting—like suspicious stains on the wooden planks—and the occasional bandaged worker, it seemed like a normal day at Demis’ harbor.

  If one ignored the great number of black-and-red ships laying at port.

  The fleet had arrived. The docks were bursting with activity. Soldiers rushing about, arranging supplies and gear, as sailors busied themselves with preparing the huge vessels for departure.

  Amidst this organized chaos, Lithas spotted two figures that seemed to be their destination. A tall, imposing woman in richly embellished admiral’s attire, dark hair streaked with silver and sloppily tied back. Nose broken, and not only once. Fleet Admiral Vespera, no doubt. The woman who had led Loratha’s conquest of the Isles of Dust. Famous for her strategic prowess, and, as some whispered, infamous for her ruthlessness in pursuit of victory.

  Standing next to her, of course, was a more familiar figure—Imran Delos. Always Imran Delos.

  His sharp features were set in an expression of calm authority today, piercing gaze overseeing the activity around the docks. She had overheard her guards whisper that his family had sat on Loratha’s council since generations. Lithas held no love for the man. Would delight in seeing him crushed, in fact. But she also understood that, in Imran’s game of power, concessions were made of necessity. Not choice. And, right now, her necessity was to ensure the safety of her people.

  But what about the people of Sariz? What about people like Hakon? Were they not worthy of her protection as well?

  As Lithas and her entourage approached, Delos turned to face them. His cold eyes met hers. “Lady Lithas,” he greeted her with a hint of amusement. “So great that you were able to join us on this day.”

  She forced herself to remain calm. No need to antagonize anyone today, Lithas. Just play along and wait for your opportunity.

  “A pleasure,” she replied, forcing the corners of her mouth into a polite, if empty, smile. Then her gaze shifted, taking in the formidable-looking woman beside him. Vespera’s presence was like an icy draft cutting through the brackish dock air. “Admiral,” Lithas acknowledged.

  The woman eyed her dismissively over her crooked nose. “Welcome to the Seafire Sovereign, Elevated. We’ll make a brief stop at the Isles of Dust, then it’s onto Loratha,” Vespera said. The woman’s voice was sharp as shattered glass. She smiled, but it never reached her storm-gray eyes. “You have a further destination, I understand.”

  Just as Lithas was about to respond, a chillingly familiar voice echoed behind her, “I must be the luckiest man alive! Our paths cross again, my lady. The chaos of the battle already seems like a distant memory, doesn’t it? I’d almost forgotten you. Haven’t seen you since, in fact. Have you been hiding from me?”

  She did not even need to turn around. Briefly closing her eyes, Lithas took in a deep breath. “Grave,” she greeted, voice carefully neutral, “I see your taste for theatrics hasn’t dulled. I’d hoped you would have already had the chance to return to a doubtlessly loving family in Loratha.”

  He chuckled, a deep, haunting sound that carried on the sea breeze. “No, no. While our dear Imran here sets sail with you, I’ll be settling into my new role here. Someone needs to govern this place, after all. Have you seen how badly they take care of their city?” He shook his head in disappointment. “Of course, I hope poor Demis won’t miss our councilman too much.”

  “Indeed, a true tragedy for Demis,” Delos commented dryly, paying little attention to his Elevated. “My lady, we’ve got a tide to catch and letters to exchange at the Isles. The winds of change seldom ask for permission. Neither do they wait.”

  Lithas gave a curt nod. Not that she had much choice but to embark on this twisted voyage with her captors. But each journey held its own possibilities, and who knew what shores Imran Delos’ winds of change might lead her to. Especially if it took her away from this sands-cursed cell.

  Not that she would have ever expected the shore she had end up on this last adventure.

  “Well then, your journey awaits. May the winds be in your favor,” Grave spoke and a cruel glint entered his eyes. “And don’t worry about your friends, I’ll keep them entertained here.”

  “Grave,” Lithas said, barely above a whisper. Her eyes burned into his with an intensity that stilled the burly man momentarily. “The next time we meet, it won’t be as governor and captive. It will be as equals. And then we’ll see who tames the beast of chance.”

  With a final, piercing look at Grave—and before he could offer a snide response—Lithas turned on her heel and followed Delos and Vespera onto the waiting ship.

  Only to slip and fall into the muck of the harbor.

  Behind her, Grave laughed. Lithas’ face burned, rage clouding her vision. Whatever you do, she thought, don’t look back. With a last vestige of self-control, she forced herself to get up, shake off what mud she could, and stagger onto the deck of the ship. Careful not to give Grave any opportunity to let her stumble again. Behind her, mercifully, Grave’s laughter was soon swallowed by the clamor of the docks as the fleet readied itself for departure.

  The Sovereign was a colossal ship, like a mountain rising from the sea. Standing on her deck was like climbing up a viewpoint, as if surveying the land in a valley.

  Lithas saw the dockworkers below her, milling about like ants. Around her worked scores of soldiers and sailors, preparing for cast-off. Nobody seemed to pay her much attention. Imran Delos seemed to be so confident in his hostage play that she was unguarded for the first time in what felt like a very long time.

  Behind her, they had already detached the gangplank. Apparently, the crew had only waited for their admiral to return to deck. Lithas began to wander the ship, feeling both lost and free. Soon, the huge sails above her billowed out, filled by a favorable wind. As far as she could see on either side of the Sovereign, more Lorathan ships followed suit. One by one, the fleet was on its way.

  As the wind carried them farther, the sight of Demis with her towering walls and sprawling docks became smaller and smaller, until it was a mere shadow of its former self on the horizon. Lithas kept her eyes on the receding city. It would follow her until the grave.

  The journey was uneventful at first, travel by ship always being more enticing in the imagination than in dreary reality. As with so many things, the beginnings and ends were spectacular. The rest, not so much.

  Each day, every day, the fleet cut through the sea like a bloodied knife, surrounded by the endless expanse of Sariz Bay under an ever-burning sky dome. Days melded into one another, marked by the monotonous routines of naval life. Even after the shoreline had vanished beyond the horizon, Lithas spent most of her time on deck, dreading the confines of her cabin. She would have slept under the stars if the stares of the sailors did not dissuade her. She figured Imran Delos would not be thrilled if she would be forced to incinerate his sailors.

  Yet their journey did not pass entirely without note. As the sun rose on the second day, a landmass appeared on the horizon. West, not east. The Isles of Dust.

  True to their name, the islands seemed almost lifeless from afar—a stretch of drab browns and grays, interrupted here and there by jagged rock outcrops. Supposedly, there were a few small cities scattered around the Isles, yet nothing of the sort was in sight. But Lithas knew differently. As any miner—or smuggler in Lithas’ case—knew, it was underneath this seemingly barren exterior that the true value of the Isles lay. Though miners and smugglers were not the only ones who knew what the Isles harbored. Lithas could feel it, in fact. Any Elevated approaching these scattered islands felt the same increasingly numbing sensation, as if the very air was bearing down on them. Dust was floating in the air, swirled up by the endless mining operations.

  She shook her head. This was not natural.

  As the fleet docked near a camp at shore, Lithas noticed a flurry of activity onboard. Documents and letters were exchanged. A platoon of Lorathan soldiers made their way ashore, while fresh men joined the fleet for the next leg of their journey. Leaning against the ship’s railing, she noticed a figure approaching her. Imran Delos.

  “Quite a sight, isn’t it?” he said, joining her in looking out to the island. “They might seem barren and insignificant, but these Isles... they’re more than just a clump of rocks in the middle of the sea. They’re power, wealth, control.”

  Thanks for the lesson, she thought, but did not say. Instead, Lithas nodded, not bothering to look at Imran. “All those things,” she agreed in barely more than a whisper, “And yet, to those who once called them home, it was just that. Home.”

  Beside her, Imran scoffed. “Home is wherever one can wield power and ensure stability. I seem to recall that you didn’t have such concerns when you sold me the weapons and armor that are made possible by these islands,” he pronounced with a smug expression on his face. “Sentiments make poor shields, my dear Lithas. And they certainly don’t conquer lands.”

  “And yet,” Lithas turned to face him, eyes brimming with defiance, “it’s those very sentiments that inspire people to fight, to reclaim what was once theirs. It’s the thought of home that fuels the resistance, not the promise of power.”

  Imran looked at her for a moment, puzzled, before breaking into a chuckle as he shook his head. “Such idealistic notions. Where are they coming from, so suddenly? Well, let’s hope they serve you better than they did the former rulers of these Isles. I’d advise you tread carefully in my empire, Lithas ak’Var.”

  She watched as Imran Delos slowly walked away, cloak billowing in his wake. Already in the process of waving over an aide. Managing his ‘empire.’ She scoffed. Truth was, she did not quite know herself where her newfound beliefs came from. All she knew was that the old Lithas—merrily selling weapons to both sides of a brewing conflict—repelled her now.

  She was done with these islands and their cursed gift to war.

  Around her, the sailors of the Sovereign were preparing the ship to resume their journey. Lithas pursed her lips, bidding silent farewell to the Isles that seemed to want her and her powers gone. She already directed her gaze to the horizon beyond.

  Next stop, Loratha.