He rode all through the day and night, and early on the second day he came to the fork in the road. Gazing at the city of Phalesia below, spanning the wide curve of its harbor, he saw a scene of utter normality. Fishing boats dotted the blue water and galleys headed out on a day’s patrol. The walls on the landward side showed little activity, while within the boundary the clay-tiled roofs of the houses clustered around the winding streets and alleys, obscuring the everyday movements of the city folk. He could see the agora hugging the embankment and the glistening structures of white marble around it. The largest of them – the lyceum – stood proud and tall. The peaked roof of the library crowned rows of sturdy polished columns. The sight of the city made him finally realize he was back in Galea.

Tearing his eyes from Phalesia, Dion took the right-hand fork, following the high ground. As he passed farmland on sloping hills at his left and rugged pastures with clusters of milling goats on his right, the ground began to climb.

Two farmers stood by the roadside ahead. Rather than working, they were grumbling, arms folded over their chests as they looked at something below.

Reaching them, Dion suddenly reined in. He felt the blood drain from his face.

The farmers were looking at a large military encampment, evidently muttering about the rapacious appetites of soldiers. Taking in the size of the camp, Dion saw red pennants flying above tents.

He realized he was looking at the army of Xanthos.

Nikolas had brought his army where it would be close at hand if it was needed in Phalesia. With the Shards protecting Xanthos and the sun king’s desire for the Ark of Revelation, everyone thought the Ileans would come for Phalesia.

After all, Xanthos could be assaulted only if Phalesia fell first.

Dion could even make out his brother’s flag, crimson bordered with black, rippling in the breeze as it flew above a large tent. Down in the city he realized he could see red-cloaked soldiers manning Phalesia’s walls, side by side with warriors in blue.

Xanthos was undefended.

Fear taking hold of his heart, Dion slipped off the horse and cried out to the farmers. They turned, surprised, and saw a haggard young man in foreign clothing, dragging a horse by the bridle as he ran toward them, calling out and waving.

‘You have to send word to the army, to Nikolas, son of Markos! Can you hear me?’ Dion’s voice rose in urgency. ‘Xanthos is under attack! You have to do it now!’

‘Eh?’ said one of the farmers, an old man with a pinched face. ‘Who are you?’

‘Dion, son of King Markos, the brother of the commander of that army down there. Do you hear me? Xanthos is under attack!’

The two farmers exchanged bemused glances.