Medith set foot on the ornate steps, each rise like a ribbon of brocade, and asked in a steady tone, “Haidra, is His Majesty Ogathas’s given name actually Ogathas?”
Haidra denied it at once, her words like pebbles skipping on a pond. “Of course not. Osnath—that’s His Majesty’s true name. Ogathas is the inherited title, because he’s descended from the first king. Hence Ogathas the Tenth. He’s used to it. Only a handful know the real name. Now you’re among them.”
“Does His Majesty Ogathas also practice Regido?” Medith asked, the question popping like a spark.
“Uh…” Haidra fell silent, the pause thick as mist. Medith apologized, pride draining like spilled wine.
“Halt.” A figure waited at the stair’s crown, his black-gold armor darker than a moonless well, as if it could swallow all light.
Six raised scale-plates ridged his limbs, lending him the gravity of a cliff. His helm matched the others, a heavy mask that left only the eyes. What set him apart was the black-gold pheasant plume crest streaming from his crown to his waist like a night waterfall.
“So generals in this world carry plumes too?” Medith felt a sudden kinship, warm as a lantern in fog. She knew that feathered sign well; back home, it let allies find her on a storming field.
It also cowed the enemy like thunder over a plain. Hers had been pure gold, blazing like sunrise, and they called her the Golden-Whip General.
“That plume… it marks your station?” Medith eyed the helm clenched in Haidra’s grip, the plume so long it brushed the floor, yet it lost none of its beauty or command.
“How’d you guess?” Haidra’s answer flicked like a banner. “It’s the insignia of our Royal Guard, and something to boast about. On a battlefield, everyone’s dressed the same. This makes you stand out, and it looks good.”
“Oh! I see.” Milia and the others widened their horizons like windows thrown open. Medith had done something similar, once—issued capes to her senior officers, though she’d never made a special badge for herself.
Haidra shook out her glossy hair. A heartbeat later, the man at the top exhaled, a long breath like wind leaving pines. “Haidra, I heard you held back a tsunami?”
“It wasn’t me alone. Without Medith and her companions, the outcome would’ve been disastrous. She’s as bold and sharp as the rumors say.” Haidra introduced each woman by name, like presenting cherished blades.
“I see. My apologies. You should’ve been received as guests. Misfortune met you, and we even made you step in. On behalf of Sia City, thank you.” He dipped his head and tapped his forehead with a clenched fist, a gesture like flint to steel.
Haidra mirrored the motion toward Medith, the salute falling like a seal.
“Go on in. His Majesty and His Highness have waited a long time.” He stepped aside, his body parting like a mountain pass.
Inside, Medith dropped her voice to a willow’s whisper. “Hey, Haidra, who was he? And what does that forehead-knock mean?”
“He’s the Commander of the Erene Guard, my match stride for stride. His name is Hipo Medon, though we call him Starshaker Hipo—just call him Starshaker. He holds the Royal Capital. I hold the realm. He works within. I work without. As for the second thing, it’s not a head smash—it’s a forehead touch. A clenched fist means ‘with all my strength.’ To the brow means ‘with respect.’ Together it means, ‘I honor you with my life as witness.’ We only do it when we feel a respect that rings in the soul.”
“That’s close to our Ancestor Master’s rites… Is he strong?” Sais spoke through a curl of challenge, like a blade catching light; from what Haidra had shown, she still felt she could spar her to a draw.
“How do you think he earned ‘Starshaker’?” Haidra returned, her voice low as thunder under earth.
“Yah… did that lord really knock a star from the sky?” Phiby squeaked, eyes bright as dew.
“Exactly. The year the incident broke, he led the king’s host to crush the uprising and took the rebel chief’s head. The battle shook heaven and ground. In the northwest, there’s a ruined city—you’ll see a crater. He made it.” Haidra’s words carried a hush, like incense in a temple.
“I see… then—”
“Welcome, honored guests!” A bright voice rang through the vast hall, rolling like bells across a lake.
“Welcome, honored guests!” Two long ranks echoed it, a wave breaking in unison.
“Your Majesty, we’re unashamed of our charge. The journey’s done.” Haidra bent slightly, armor stiff as a carapace, unfit for deeper ceremony.
“Kailon pays his respects to Your Majesty.” Kailon didn’t kneel; he placed his right hand to his navel and bowed deep, then straightened like a spear.
Medith and the others didn’t overthink it. They all went to their knees. “Your humble servants Medith, Sais… greet His Majesty Ogathas!”
“Hm?” Ogathas clearly couldn’t parse why Medith did that, his puzzlement passing like a cloud’s shadow.
From the corner of her eye, Sais swept the hall like a hawk. Most faces were past their prime, slick with oil, their gazes greedy as flies on honey. She still wore her original alluring garb: a half-shown swell of chest, long legs in a half-kneel, white knee socks like fresh snow, and a miniskirt that revealed a sliver of rose-pale thigh.
The dream beneath that hemline flickered in and out, a forbidden sky between clouds; noble eyes bulged like fish.
“Tsk…” Sais let her disgust show, sharp as frost. These stares were nothing like the boys she teased for sport; the difference was a chasm.
The king on the dais heard the note of scorn. He looked once at Sais’s attire, then at the crowd’s ravening eyes. “They say sprite maidens are beauty made flesh, and Sais the Thornblossom has looks and form to make even sages gasp. Seeing you today, the tales don’t exaggerate. But Medith’s deeds astonish me more. The rabble’s first lust turned into a siege, and then you hunted them down alone.”
“Such skill and nerve—privately, even I admire it.” His single sentence fell like a gavel. The crowd snapped back to their senses and dared not stare again. They’d heard the Verdant Spirit Mountain affair most clearly and closest to the truth. That’s why they feared.
“Up you get, our heroes. You needn’t kneel to anyone.” Ogathas smiled, warm as dawn.
“Thank you, Your Majesty!” Medith rose like grass after rain.
“Why call yourself ‘your humble servant’? And why such a sweeping bow?” Ogathas asked, curiosity curling like smoke.
Medith had expected it. She repeated, word for word, how she’d answered the Queen then, her cadence steady as beads on a string. He listened and sank into thought, a long quiet like dusk. At last he said, “It does help a ruler forge awe, but over time it grinds away the bond between lord and vassal. So—”
“Your Majesty.” A strikingly handsome man spoke from the seat below the throne, voice rich as velvet. Skin like polished jade, tall and straight, gold hair spilling to his shoulders, sapphire eyes, a proud nose—every gesture carried a regal, imperious sheen.
“I think Commander Medith has a point. A lord is a lord. A subject is a subject. Heightening royal awe helps govern the people. If a king loses his gravitas, the pyramid collapses. I propose we include this in the court’s reform docket.”
“Mm… Sensible. We’ll add it per Prince Paris’s suggestion.” Ogathas’s face stayed unreadable, his decision calm as still water.
