“Arn Bastell, heretical paragon of the Everlorn Empire,” Arn proudly declared. “I believe you requested my presence in this far-flung corner of the Crystal Sea?”

The hint of a smile cracked the older man’s leathery features.

“That I did. Come in, Arn. I’ve been most eager to meet with you since the first letter from Onleda reached my domicile.”

The home may not have seemed special from the outside, but inside was finely furnished and belied Thorda’s obscene wealth. Arn passed through the entryway to a den with a roaring fireplace. Couches and chairs were spaced about a small table in the center. Arn plopped into a chair that groaned in its struggle to handle his weight. A frown crossed his lips.

“Is something amiss?” Thorda asked.

“Amiss? Nah. Missing? Yeah. Whatever your strongest drink is, I want it, and then I want your second strongest to wash it down with.”

“I will see what I have.”

Thorda exited to the next room. Arn used the absence to close his eyes and steady his breathing. The ground quivered beneath him, and his stomach, normally solid as iron, fluttered like a frightened animal.

It was only three months, he told himself. Real sailors spend almost a year at sea. You can handle this.

Three others silently joined him in the den, a young man and two women, and they said nothing as they took their seats. They were concerned about his presence, not that he blamed them. He probably stank like a pigsty, and there was little hiding his paragon background. In return, he eyed the three, judging their abilities. The taller of the two women seemed promising, her body well honed with muscle. The shorter and stockier woman struck Arn as someone belonging more in a kitchen than on a battlefield. Their dark brown hair matched Thorda’s, and he held little doubt they were sisters. As for the boy, if he was out of his teens, it was only barely. At least he had some muscle on him. He could perhaps be useful if he knew how to swing a sword.

Thorda returned carrying two bottles. He set both on the table before Arn and then turned to address the others.

“Everyone, meet Arn Bastell, a former paragon turned traitor, and the last key member of our band. Arn, this is Prince Cyrus, my older daughter Stasia, and my younger daughter Mari.”

Arn did a poor job of hiding his disappointment.

“So is this the elite gang of rebels I heard so much about?” Arn asked. “Two girls and a young brat? Consider me unimpressed. Hells, that one looks like she couldn’t run a mile, let alone fight an empire.”

“Watch your tongue,” Thorda snapped. “You speak ill of my daughters. Each can count paragons among their victims.”