Giza entered the opulent counsel chamber that sat at the apex of the Palatial Pyramid. A solid mass of crystal, easily the size of a peasant’s hovel, had been carved into a pyramid shape and topped the tip of the structure, sending shards of rainbow hue into the glowing interior. Six of the Wisened waited with the patience of the dead at their judicial bench, located above and behind the thrones of King Raza the Forty-Seventh and Queen Patra.

The Wiseneds’ faces were as lined and leathery as dried hydreeds, and between them, they shared a whole head of shocking white hair. Small wonder, since the youngest of them was a few hundred years old. They never failed to remind Giza of the mummified remains of monarchs past who lay in temperature-controlled chambers in the catacombs far beneath his feet.

In addition to their intricate and traditional attire, King Raza and Queen Patra wore inquisitive expressions and an air of suspended judgment. Still, the commander knew better than to relax. His body ached from the torturous climb, but his heart ached even more.

“Commander Giza,” King Raza commenced, “I expected you to be indoctrinating Manolith youth in Front Tier by now. I’m certain there is a good explanation for your presence here in Agrilon.”

“I offer no excuses, Your Highness,” Giza replied, bowing his head. “We failed.”

Silence descended momentarily on the chamber, and Giza felt himself grow small and unsatisfactory. He was not just a warrior who had lost a battle. Those eventualities were to be expected. No, the dregs of his defeat went deeper to a confidence counterfeited, a trust betrayed. He and Raza were friends. In their carefree childhood, they had been almost inseparable, until they had been set upon their respective preordained paths. And Giza knew the worst was yet to come.

Raza remained compassionately quiet. The Wisened showed no signs of life. Instead, it was Queen Patra who called him to account.

“Perhaps you underestimated the fury of a people defending their homeland,” she said.

Giza bristled, but he wasn’t surprised. Patra was of the land, having been born and raised far from the cultured and cloistered environs of Agrilon and, therefore, had a deep-seated feudal streak when it came to the defense of one’s domain. To say that her family farmed would be a gross understatement.

Aziz, Patra’s father, was the guardian of vast lands that stretched as far as the eye could see. Likewise, their land was a legacy that stretched back generations, steeped in pride and tradition. But Aziz had not been content to rest on his laurels. Under his stewardship, the family’s reputation had grown as surely as they grew produce that was the envy of all of Indira, so much so that King Raza the Forty-Sixth had knighted him Aziz the Cultivator.

Aziz had taught young Patra that her dominion over nature meant that she was a protector of the world, not a superior being who lorded over it. So great was the humility of Patra the child that she remained unaware for years that she was the most beautiful flower her father had ever produced. But word of her fabled beauty had spread like the glorious light of morning until the day, shortly after she had blossomed into womanhood, a contingent from the capital came to harvest her. Giza respected her, not only as an insightful and seasoned sovereign, but as a farm girl who wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.