The path on which it led her seemed straightforward and short, solidifying her suspicions to certainty that the palace itself had been playing a game of cat and mouse with her. She stood before the great double doors in no time. They opened of their own accord, and Imogen blinked in the pool of pallid sunshine that flooded the entrance. Feeling only a little ridiculous, she turned to the mist hovering behind her and bowed. “My thanks.”

That same otherworldly curiosity, overlaid with a hint of approval, buffeted her senses once more. The mist rolled back on itself, disappearing into the palace’s gloom. The doors closed after it on a dull thud as if urging her kindly not to dawdle on the steps.

Imogen shook her head. What a strange place Tineroth was with its pale, immortal king, and ghostly caretakers. She suspected that by the end of her stay here, she’d learn that the reality of the city far exceeded the fantastic tales told.

Tineroth stood even more derelict in the unforgiving daylight. Houses and temples had fallen to ruin, leaving only the skeletons of arches and broken columns standing as markers of where they once stood. Walls had collapsed, spilling rubble into grand avenues from which flowering weeds sprouted between the paver cracks. The houses and businesses leading off the main thoroughfare into alleyways made the temples look pristine by comparison, their hollow carcasses safe havens only for rodents and the ever encroaching vines.

Her light steps echoed in the silence. Imogen didn’t so much mind the quiet as the continuous sense of being observed. She didn’t think it was Cededa. He didn’t seem the type to lurk once he assessed a threat, and she was no danger to him or those things he protected. Something else watched, a new entity with the same curiosity she sensed while in the palace. The soul of the city itself?

An odd thwapping sound broke the almost sanctified hush, startling her. A repetitive sound punctuated by harsh breathing and several grunts, it was the most noise she’d heard since coming to Tineroth, outside of her initial conversation with its monarch.

She followed it like a beacon, sidestepping piles of rubble and clambering over short walls until she reached a long rectangular field surrounded on three sides by levels of stone seating. In the center, the Undying King exhibited his battle prowess, and Imogen forgot to breathe.

Man-sized effigies made of woven straw littered the field, hewn into pieces. Those that remained standing awaited their fate as Cededa spun and leapt, swinging the long glaive with as much ease as if he wielded a feather. Rivulets of sweat streamed off his bare torso, carving shining lines into alabaster muscle and plastering his pale hair to his shoulders and back. His dark trews stuck to his legs, the damp fabric delineating the long line of thigh and calf. He was moonlight and grace, speed and power. To Imogen, he danced on the air, lighter than a butterfly, faster than a striking viper. The glaive’s blade shone in the sun as it sang a metallic song and clove its straw victims into pieces. The thwapping noise had been their dismemberment.