All through winter the sense of anticipation grew. There were riots in the streets, quickly stamped down by the garrison but becoming more and more unmanageable. Palemon was always spoken of but never seen. They said he was pale-skinned and that he commanded more than a hundred tall warriors, men who wore strange armor of steel links and carried huge swords and axes. A dozen mysterious foreigners in robes traveled with them, carrying staffs that could banish darkness with a spoken word. These people came from across the sea. They were from the lost nation of Aleuthea, destined to reclaim Malakai, for it was the Aleutheans who built the city long ago and now they wanted it back.

Then, when spring came, Agathon’s scouts raced back to tell him that there was a large force advancing on the city.

The force wasn’t as big as he’d originally feared: less than a thousand strong. A decade ago, before Agathon’s time, the clans had rallied and four thousand tribesmen with wooden spears and tall bows had assaulted Malakai and been soundly defeated. The desert men were fierce, but their weapons, not to mention their discipline, made them no match for Ilea’s trained soldiers. Wrapped in cloth to ward off the sun’s rays, they would face trained swordsmen wearing leather armor and holding triangular shields linked closely together. The city’s garrison was far larger than it had been ten years ago; they now had twice their enemy’s numbers, as well as the strength of the city walls.

Nonetheless, Agathon was afraid.

The foreigners were an unknown element. The city was primed for revolt. And in battle, someone always died. Agathon was smart enough to know that the first casualties would be those most fearful, the fighters with little experience. People like him.

Standing on the city walls, Agathon clasped his shaking hands together, casting a swift glance at General Dhuma to see if the veteran soldier had noticed. But everyone, including Dhuma, was gazing at the flat, yellow horizon, where the enemy had gathered like a thin line of distant trees. It was just before dawn, and the sun was steadily rising, washing the sky with purple and gold. The air was utterly still, filled only with the occasional cough of a soldier, creak of leather armor, or whisper of men talking in hushed tones.

Agathon scanned along the line of defenders gathered on the battlements, trying to take comfort in their numbers. Nearly two thousand men prepared to defend the city. Standing four or five deep, bows, spears, and swords at the ready, they were all staring in the same direction. Drawing in a deep breath, incredibly conscious of his heartbeat, Agathon inspected the defenders in the other direction. Were they all as terrified as he was? If they were, they didn’t show it.