The lidless eye of Nurua, the god of day, summer, fire, and love, glared down upon the stone city of Dilshad, baking the rosy orange-red volcanic rock further and making waves of heat rise in shimmering veils into the periwinkle sky. For Dilshad’s residents, it was just another day – indeed, it was actually cooler than was normal – and so they ignored it, going about their usual day.

 

Children played in the broad, criss-crossing streets that Guardsmen patrolled, looking strong in their colorful tunics and metal helms. In the markets that occupied the major squares, merchants of Pyyrus, Beathan, and Tracrine descent alike called out what their wares were and what they would trade for it to people old and young alike as they strolled by the canopied stalls, the light shining off jewelry and buttons alike. At the twin rivers that flowed around the city, spanned by bridges and plied by fishers, women and girls traded stories and gossip as they pulled buckets of crisp, clear water to supply their homes, often shouting above the battle cries that rang out from the drill fields on the opposite bank, where Guardsmen and commoners trained in the arts of swordplay and archery.

 

That was not to say the Pyyrus ignored the clear presence of their patron deity – far from it. Of all the gods that made up the High Trinity, it was Nurua that constantly made himself known to all people. Amongst the Pyyrus, Nurua was said to make his blessings of happy marriages, true love, and favorable harvests as obvious as his curses – made up of lust, sour relationships, and poor crops that could ruin an entire kingdom.

 

It was foolhardy to ignore the gods, even if they were not part of the Trinity. The Pyyrus had learned this lesson from the cradle, and never did they forget that it was rare for a mortal was given a second chance after offending them. So they kept to their simple ways – as opposed to their northern neighbors and rivals, the Beathan – and as the years slipped by, they were favored. The harvests of their northern settlements had a constant surplus, and ever since Rya’s War nearly three hundred years before, there had been no major conflict between them, the Beathan, and the Tracrine. The training of all their children to become warriors was more a precaution than a necessity for their survival; they were simply upholding one of the many proverbs they lived by: “Better to over-prepare and be proven wrong, than to under-prepare and face the same truth.”

 

There was relative peace swathing the land, now; the only real excitement beyond marriages and festivals these days was when Pyyrus children made the far-too-common mistake of trying to ride the flows of Mount Forge to the south before their skin had thickened to withstand the heat of the lava (those that survived their flirtation with Krition, Lord of Death, inevitably become strong adherents to the rule “Experience is the most powerful teacher”).

 

So there was a great amount of bustle and whispers as one of the messengers of their people – face ashen despite his black skin – rode through the main roads of Dilshad on a straight shot for the palace of their monarchs, forcing people to move aside as he galloped by. Messengers normally rode their horses on a special set of roads built for their exclusive use, if only so they did not disturb traffic in the city proper. For them to neglect those thoroughfares meant the news they carried was too important to waste time going through the main channels – or was so urgent that it could not be restricted to a certain place.

 

The hooves of the messenger’s horse clattered on the stone as he carried his master to his destination, finally being cut off as the rider reined him in his steed before dismounting before the palace steps. Palace was only used in regard to its size – the original builders had made no attempt to make it as grand as the dwellings of the Beathan royal family, save for shaping the rock more artistically than most other homes in the region were. The first king of the Pyyrus had been a man of his people, and he had been determined that those that followed him to the throne would never forget where the true source of their power lay. The only hint that the brusque building was more than it seemed was the heavier, almost oppressive presence of guards in the square that lay before it.

 

The messenger had barely hitched up his horse on a post and begun heading up the stairs when another man, wearing the red and brown tunic of the Guard Captain for this section stopped him. “What is your business, Blackbird?” he asked, calling the smaller man by the generic name that he and fellow messengers were called throughout all the territories. He knew the Blackbird had a name, but the captain normally wasn’t the one dealing with them. His counterparts on the Blackbird roads – they were the ones that could remember the names of their relays.

 

The Blackbird himself – wearing the headdress of raven’s feathers that gave him his title – glared furiously at the Captain. Did he not understand the urgency of the mission he had come upon; that his neglect to ride on the Blackbird Roads meant that his message was far too serious to dally on?

 

He squashed his annoyance down to the size of a pea within him, making his voice as calm as possible as he addressed him. “Our King himself has sent me on this errand to the Queen, urging me to reach Dilshad at all speed, and to ignore the roads my kin usually do step upon. Now stand aside, Captain, for Ohanzee’s words linger on my tongue, waiting to be spoken to our good Queen Pyralis.”

 

 

“I shall follow you within,” the captain said stubbornly, and once again, the Blackbird fought down his irritation with protocol.

 

“Very well, then,” he said finally, containing his vexation to his heart. Without another word or a glance, the messenger pushed by the taller Pyyrus and finished his ascent to the palace doors, allowing the gold-trimmed Palace Guards to open the pair for him and the Captain. Porous stone gave way to glassy obsidian tiles as they crossed the threshold, the black mirror-like rock clicking beneath their boot heels as they walked through the entrance hall at a dignified pace, moving to the Great Hall where their King and Queen held court with their family, warrior leaders, and the commoners that dined with them at night.

 

Another pair of Palace Guards opened the doors to the Great Hall, bowing to them as they passed by into the tall, pillared room. Nine and forty filled the room, some standing to hold their conversations, others sitting in neatly-arranged chairs carved of ebony wood. The murmurs of their discussions faded as they saw the Blackbird enter, striding purposefully towards the dais at the back; only the musicians in the corners, sweetly oblivious to the world around them, continued to play their instruments, singing songs of love and war and death to the people that now had their attentions drawn elsewhere.

 

They were Pyyrus, one and all: the tall, proud race with skin like a dragon’s thick black scales, with hair like spun strands of night cascading down their backs. Their feet were sheathed in boots, but were they to be removed it would be revealed that their feet were long and lacked heels like a feline’s, never setting the backsides of their feet on the ground. Fast and bounding, with lean, powerful muscles, keen eyes, ears, and claws like a cat – there were none that could match them on a battlefield, at least as far as the Pyyrus were concerned.

 

The woman seated upon the dais, in her elegantly-carved throne, was whom the Blackbird was treading to. Pyralis was currently engaged in conversation with the tall High Priestess of Nurua in Dilshad, Candice, but it did not take long for them both to notice the newcomers to the hall. Candice respectfully moved off the dais; with the thrones of the Queen’s husband and only child currently empty, her sudden absence left it painfully vacant.

 

Pyralis waited, her back straight and eyes level, for the Blackbird to reach the five steps that led to her platform. The crown that marked her as part of the royal family lay nestled upon her short hair, her heart-shaped face swathed in a translucent scarlet veil. The color of blood went beyond her veil, traversing the loose, bell-shaped sleeves of her shirt. Her breeches were not as billowy as her sleeves, but they still gave the illusion of a skirt being worn when there wasn’t one. Unlike most Pyyrus, she did not wear boots, or even shoes: she displayed her power and strength by daring to go barefoot, letting the thick soles of her feet step on the heated rock and sand outside the cool palace walls.

 

The claws on her toes peeked out from the folds of fabric as the Queen addressed the Blackbird, who led all else in the now-silent hall in a bow of respect. “Hail, bringer of news, swift-footed Blackbird. From whom do you carry salutations and words?”

 

Rising to his feet and meeting her gaze, the Blackbird replied. “Queen Pyralis, may the Trinity bless you. The one who has bidden me to carry words upon my tongue was the King himself, hailing mine and mine mouth between Dilshad and the house of his brothers, at the city of Magenar. He bade me to carry his speech across the land until he came to your throne; to ignore the Blackbird roads and to not stop our race until I and my horse had come to the heart of Dilshad and to you. As I speak to you, Ohanzee and his party ride homeward, with the speed of Nurua’s hounds in the sky, urgency lending them wings.”

 

“Surely my husband would not send such a message unless something serious drove him to it,” the Queen murmured, her dark eyes flashing. “Tell me, Blackbird, what has caused Ohanzee distress enough to make you fly across the land to my throne?”

 

“It is the Princess, m’lady,” he said to her, voice grave. “She is gravely injured.”

 

Shocked murmurs raced through the listeners like wildfire as Pyralis became rigid at the news of her daughter. Behind him, the Blackbird could sense the Captain that had escorted him inside was shocked and surprised at his news, and he felt absurdly smug. Now he understands.

 

“What has caused my child to suffer so grievously, swift Blackbird?” the Pyyrus Queen asked, and her words silenced the court.

 

“Ohanzee was loath to speak long of her wounds, as she was suffering as we had spoken together. What I know is only that their hunting trip went awry in some way, and while the beast of Krition that caused her injury was quickly sent out of this world, it had left its mark on her leg.”

 

“How far are they until they return to Dilshad?” she demanded, fingers gripping the armrests of her throne tightly enough to turn her leathery hide pale.

 

“They are not far from here, m’lady; they should soon wind their horns.”

 

No sooner had he spoken did the clear, urgent notes of Ohanzee’s hunting horn, in chorus with several other horns, ring outside the palace. The cries of the people outside the walls built over them, crying greetings to their King and queries of what had befell them to make his party ride home early, quickly gained the attention of all the court.

 

Pyralis was on her feet in a flash, stepping down from the dais and crossing the floor with a quick pace just short of breaking into a run. The Pyyrus parted to let their Queen pass, then moved together to follow her.

 

Barely sparing time to thank the Palace Guards that opened the doors for her, Pyralis bounded across the obsidian floor, no longer trying to remain dignified. To herself and the world around her, she was no longer the Queen of her people, for all she was concerned; she was just a mother fearful for her child.

 

The doors that marked the verge between the palace and the outside world flew open on her bidding, and the soles of her naked feet quickly met hot, blistering stone. Her pain was ignored – she had a warrior’s heart, as her people all did, and such mild pain was not worthy of her attention – as she watched the twenty or so horses be halted in the square in front of the steps. An uneven mix of men, women, girls, and boys made them up: in particular, a young man and woman, just shy of becoming such people in the truest sense of the words, were alighting. The male youth was tall, with scarlet hair – a rarity amongst of their people; one much blessed by his people – wearing a quiver of arrows and a bow about his shoulders and a sword on his hip. The girl was raven-haired, but with a kinder face than her male companion, though the long scar that had torn her thick skin gave evidence to her fighting spirit. The boy was Tahmal, the girl Keira – children of Pyralis and Ohanzee’s friends and captains, Gaenor and Brand, and close companions of her own daughter.

 

Yet the Queen took this in all in a flash, for she only had eyes for her husband as he dismounted from his grey charger, large and strong arms wrapped the girl that he had been supporting in his saddle. Ohanzee’s garb was not as elaborate as Pyralis’ costume, though that was mostly because he had been riding. His tunic and breeches were simple in design, but the embroidery of gold that ran along the seams gave evidence of his high status. His expressive face, normally set in a look that suggested both good humor and seriousness, was now simply serious and worried, cradling his daughter in his arms as he strode up the steps to meet his wife coming down them.

 

“Oh, Fiamettia,” the Queen sighed, gently stroking her daughter’s face; her features was twisted into a grimace of pain as she tried not to pass out from the agony their hard and fast ride had inflicted on her cruelly-bent right leg. It had been splinted, in an attempt to spare her some agony on the race to Dilshad, but even the best splint could not have made her journey easier.

 

“How bad is it?” Candice asked, at their side before they could bid her to come. The High Priestess was the best healer in the city; if Fiamettia was to have her leg fixed, they would have sought her out.

 

“Bad,” the King said, shaking his head in their little island of discussion. Around them, courtiers, city-folk, and hunters were surging like a massive sea of life, crying out directions, questions, greetings, stories to each other. “The blood bear she had stumbled into managed to bite down on her foot before she killed it, so we don’t know what state her bones are in. Judging by how hard it was for her to remain conscious during the ride back, I’m guessing several breaks in her foot, ankle, and calf.”

 

“Why did you not consult the High Priest of Magenar for this?” the priestess asked, her brown eyes flashing angrily as she looked the King right in the eyes. To his credit, he did not flinch or hesitate as he replied. “We were closer to here than my brother’s city when my child was injured. Better to get the aid of the best when we were closer to home.”

 

Accepting this reasonable explaination, Candice gently moved Fiamettia’s half-awake body into her arms; despite their slender appearance beneath her robes of deep orange, they were much stronger than they appeared. “Come,” she said to the monarchs, sweeping back up the steps towards the palace. Fiamettia’s parents followed, a prayer in their hearts for her to be able to help their princess and child.