Gripp Galas looked away, south down the road. There was frost in the air itself, glittering like the falling dust of shattered stars. On this night, cold as it now was, he could well imagine the sky cracking with all the sound of thunder, until the darkness descended, a storm to take the world. ‘I’d not jar that man’s pride.’

Anomander was silent, still studying the stars.

Gripp Galas cleared his throat. ‘Milord, how is it you know of Kharkanas? Unless you but recently returned there—’

‘The High Mason knows the trembles of the frozen earth beneath our feet. More to the point, he is close to Grizzin Farl. These Azathanai walk their own roads of sorcery, it seems. In any case, each question I think to ask is in turn answered.’

‘Yet… not the one concerning Andarist?’

Anomander seemed to grimace. ‘A question I chose not to ask.’

But… why?

‘Gripp Galas, your refutation of my gift to you breaks my heart. But even in this, how can I not see my own wounded pride? The faces of both friend and enemy, it seems, offer us a mirror to our own, each in its time, each in its place. Should we not acknowledge these similarities of accord, and so find humility against our righteousness? How many wars must we fight before we ever draw a blade? The answer, I now think, is beyond count.’

‘Mother Dark would not see her lover torn from her arms, milord.’

‘No, I would think not, Gripp Galas.’

‘Then, shall we stand in Urusander’s way?’

‘Gripp Galas, where is your wife?’

‘At her western keep, milord, where she gathers the highborn. She vows they will stand with you. And with the Hust Legion—’

‘Hold little faith in the Hust,’ Anomander said. ‘Convicts have no reason for loyalty. Were I among them, I would frame a curse for the moment of our need, and for every howl of my sword I would show defiance, until the iron itself shatters. No, old friend, if they are to have an instant, united in their congress, it shall burn with such refusal as to sear our souls.’

‘Then, milord, we face a grave battle.’

They stood, unspeaking. Overhead, the stars cast down their unblinking regard.

‘Dracons Keep is a burned ruin,’ Anomander said. ‘Destroyed by magic, at my invitation. Gripp, has this newfound sorcery touched you?’

‘No, milord, and I am thankful for that.’

‘I fear I must one day search it out and claim it for myself. Yet another shield, another skin of armour.’

‘But not yet.’

Anomander shrugged. ‘Neither propensity nor proclivity finds me, alas.’

‘One would think, milord, as a benison befitting the First Son of Darkness, some sorcerous power would be incumbent.’

‘When the title proves less a gift than a curse, I am well relieved that nothing attends it.’

‘How will we face it? On the field of battle, when Hunn Raal unleashes his magical arts?’