Before attending the clandestine school we dead-raisers call the lyceum, as all men from prominent families must, I’d suffered the maps and history lessons of a primary education. But unlike the Ouvarnias perched in the flamboyant city of Pelliul, or the politician-churning House of Lotgard, I find such learning only useful now to pinpoint my own family’s prominence.

Rehleia is a knotted peninsula, like an afflicted fist stuck out on a withered arm. Pushing east and connecting Rehleia to the Other Lands is our Red Isthmus—named so for the rivers of blood that had once flown from its narrow hinterland down into the sea.

At this east our lands meet the world of Azad, a desert kingdom littered with pit fires and bulb-topped minarets built low to the sand. Above Azad: Serabandantilith, raped by Azad and Rehleia once they figured out that ceasing their own war allowed for the pillaging of their weaker neighbor. Azad took the land. Rehleia took the people and the gold. The former mixing with the dark Suelans, beefing up Rehleia’s much-celebrated slave class.

A few years after the Rehleian Years of Peace had officially commenced, trade began over the Red Isthmus, sweeping aside all its broken swords and lances.

And as far as Rehleia is concerned, the House of Ordrid’s stronghold is here in Nilghorde. On a city hill above the brick wilderness, our family keep looks over the western sea. In this jagged crown, stowed in some charnel nook, the great Maecidion had finally died.

It was long argued over: when he, rightfully the most infamous of the province’s celebrities, actually discorporated. His form was kept together, I was told, but despite diplomatic transactions with the demonic, means of animation still slowly seeped from the flesh as it rose from bone.

Most of the estate was already in the possession of Maecidion’s most esoteric clutch: sisters Ophelia and Lialifer, cousins to my mother, and Morfil Ordrid, whose entire life had been dutifully in the shadow of his Lord and pedagogue. But that didn’t stop the vile throng from attending today. All were in accord; given just a goblet by his wishes held the highest prestige in this society others dare called foul.

The air was a kennel’s warmth, sinking down us and settling on the floor. The room itself was but stone and shadow, both made known only by a ring of dull candlelight. In this ring’s center, attendants pulled chairs out from under the other, bites were delivered and tended to, and murmurs slithered amongst the bequeathings yet-to-be.

The barrister—looking as if batting away thoughts of being skewered—readied himself and continued reading the last will and testament of Maecidion the Virulent.

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