Raem clenched his fist to remember that night years ago, the night he had learned that his own wife and daughter were ill. He had caught them shifting into dragons deep in the city cisterns, hiding their shame in darkness.

I will find you someday, Anai, my dear wife, he thought, trembling with rage. I will bring you back to me, my daughter, my precious Laira. And you will suffer.

Raem slid his khopesh though his belt. He walked away from the decapitated corpse, leaving his servants to clean up the mess. His sandals whispered against the cobblestones, and he inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of blood mingling with the aroma of fig trees, palms, and grapevines. As he moved through the courtyard, men and women bowed before him: nobles in garments of silk, silver disks, and gemstones, their feet clad in sandals; priests in flowing black robes hemmed in gold, their beards long and curled; and eunuch slaves in loincloths, metal collars around their necks. Only his soldiers did not bow; they stood between the columns that surrounded the courtyard, holding round shields and curved blades, and bronze helmets hid their faces.

Bronze, Raem thought, admiring the gleam of sunlight upon the metal. The humble, seaside tribe of Eteer had discovered the precious metal only a hundred years ago. Within a generation, their primitive tools—made of flint and wood—had vanished. Now Eteer was a great city-state, its sphere of power spreading across farmlands, the coast, and deep into the sea—the greatest civilization in the world, a light in the darkness, law in chaos, might rising in a weak world.

And soon I will rule this kingdom.

He stepped between two columns, leaving the courtyard, and craned back his neck. He stared up at his home.

The Palace of Eteer rose several stories tall. Blue bricks formed the bottom tier's walls, inlaid with golden reliefs of winged bulls, rearing lions, and proud soldiers in chariots. Columns lined the upper floors, carved of indigo stone, their capitals gilded. Balconies thrust out, holding lush gardens of palm trees, blooming flowers, and vines that cascaded like green waterfalls. Upon the palace roof grew a forest lush with trees and birds. This palace was the greatest building in the world, a monument of life and power.

And all it would take, Raem thought, is a single dragon to burn it. And so no single dragon must live.

He approached a towering stone archway, its keystone engraved with the winged bull—the god Kur-Paz, protector of the city, a deity of plenty. Cedar doors banded with bronze stood open within the archway, their knockers shaped as phalli, symbols of fertility and fortune. Leaving the courtyard, Raem stepped through the archway and into a towering hall. A mosaic spread across the floor, depicting sea serpents wrapping around ships. Columns supported a domed ceiling painted with scenes of cranes and falcons. As Raem walked, his footfalls echoed.

When he passed by a limestone statue, he paused, turned toward it, and admired the work. He had ordered this statue—a likeness of himself—carved only last year. The stone prince was an accurate depiction—tall and broad, clad in ring armor, the face stern. The jaw was as wide as the forehead, and small eyes stared from under a great shelf of a brow. The head was bald, the chin protruding. Raem was a towering man, and this statue—life-sized—towered over most who walked by it. The shoulders were wide, the arms thick—a body built for the battlefield, a body the god Taal would approve of. Though fifty years of age, Raem kept himself strong, training with his blade every day. He had seen nobles go soft in their palaces, far from battles and fields, pampered with endless feasts, plays, and other luxuries of wealth. Raem refused such decadence. He would keep himself as strong as the gruffest soldier in his kingdom's army.