A Peace of Steel: Legends of Myr

By Matt Kalesnikoff

How does a pacifist overthrow a brutal tyrant? As Rodok Ordreg's strangling grip on the Republic of Stalius grows ever tighter, Mikale Talode—a prominent member of the peaceful order of the Cereb'Ani—must gather allies to remove the violent dictator from power. But he is determined to find a way to do so without bloodshed…

 

Can a band of rebels stand against the strength of the Steel Republic? After their village is destroyed, sisters Julielle, Tamara, and Gwen find themselves on the run, hunted. As they meet the Band of the Green Wood—lead by the enigmatic and charismatic Reaban—they must make a choice whether to continue to run or to make a stand… possibly their last.

 

Will an old soldier seize his opportunity for glory and power? Henrik Tronbul has grown complacent in his comfortable posting at the edge of the Republic. But with the urging of his friend—the enemy General his forces are meant to defend against—he may have found an opportunity to return to the capital and claim his own piece of the Republic, at the point of his sword if need be.

 

A Peace of Steel will pull you into the sword and sorcery world of the Legends of Myr, where chaos is erupting across the continent: tyrants and rebels rising and falling, ancient magic and beasts being reborn, friendships and family bonds tested and torn. Join a dynamic cast of compelling characters as they fight for their lives and forge a new world from the rubble of the old.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matt Kalesnikoff
• Release date: Apr 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223384069

Book preview

LEGENDS OF MYR

A Peace

Of Steel

Matt Kalesnikoff

Legends of Myr

A Peace of Steel

Copyright © 2023 Matt Kalesnikoff

All Rights Reserved

www.legendsofmyr.com

Cover art by Christos Karapanos

www.christoskarapanos.com

ISBN-13: 978-1-9994199-1-2

For Abigail and her sister

CHAPTER 1

Tears rushed down her cheeks as Gwen stumbled through the knee-deep snow, threatening to freeze on her skin in the frigid air. A horn sounded behind her: they had found where her tracks left the trampled pathways of the village and entered the forest. It was not a surprise, as her legs struggled to plow through the freshly fallen powder, leaving clear trenches behind. She had seen little choice but to flee into the trees, however.

Her breaths were ragged; the cold, crisp air moving sluggishly and uncooperatively in and out of her lungs. Without even time to grab her boots, her feet had protested immediately, the cold stabbing like needles into her skin. That pain had been replaced quickly with numbness, which she knew to be worse. If she could reach the bridge… she was not certain what salvation the bridge might be able to offer, but it was a destination on which she could set her mind and hopes, at least.

The growls and shouting were getting closer; they were on her trail now. She knew they would catch her in mere moments, but she did not know what else to do but run. Daring a glance behind her she saw the trench she was slowly creating in the snow, weaving among the trees and deeply reddened by the blood dripping from her shoulder. In the distance she could see the glimmer of armor lit up by the sun fighting through the foliage against the backdrop of billowing smoke coming from the village. They would struggle more than she through the snow, encumbered by their heavy armor, but if the soldiers were close enough to be seen, the tigers would be closer; their white and black fur making them invisible against the snow and brush.

Suddenly Gwen emerged from the trees and had to dig in her bare heels to prevent herself from tumbling over a sheer cliff. A hundred spans below, the Nor river churned and raged around jagged rocks, its waters too swift to ever allow ice to form. Gwen cursed, her tears falling harder. The ancient stone bridge spanning the chasm was off to her left, too far to be reached. In her panic, she had misjudged her course.

She heard a snarl behind her but did not turn to look at its source. There was no need to look: she knew, and in that instant knew the decision which faced her. Without more than a blink of hesitation she raised her foot out towards the edge of the cliff. Better to meet her death in the icy waters of the Nor than at the hands of the Staliusian soldiers, or the vicious jaws of their tigers.

The blink of hesitation was enough, however, and Gwen was struck from the side by a pouncing, snarling beast. They toppled to the ground together, Gwen’s left arm and leg dangling tantalizingly over the edge of the cliff. Desperately she struggled to roll herself over the precipice. She needed only to wriggle a little, and surely she and the beast would tumble to the frigid waters rushing below. Taking one of the savage monsters with her would at least be a small victory she could savour in her final moments as she plummeted to her death. But the beast held firm, its front paws pressed heavily against her chest, choking her breath, as its hind legs anchored them both securely to the ground.

In front of her face she could see only teeth and muzzle, both reddened with fresh blood. As a froth of blood and spittle dripped from the tiger’s mouth onto her face, Gwen found herself screaming.

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Julielle woke up sluggishly. Her back ached from her fitful sleep on the minimal hay-filled pad which had been supplied to them. To her left, Tamara was sleeping as restlessly as Julielle had been moments before, twitching and groaning in her sleep. She was likely having similar dreams filled with screams, burning homes, and gnashing teeth: the dreams barely worse than the memories which filled their waking thoughts.

Gwen slept to her right. Unlike Tamara, she did not move. She had not moved since the guards dragged her into the small room and dropped her on the thin sleeping pad. Even while Tamara and Julielle treated and wrapped her scraped and frost-bitten feet and gashed shoulder, Gwen had done little more than groan. As she had dozens of times over the night, Julielle held her hand near her sister’s nose and watched for the rise and fall of her chest, to ensure she was still breathing. A light exhale drifted over her hand, and Julielle sighed in relief.

There were no windows in the room, but the faint light which entered around the ill-fitting door and through gaps in the rough plank walls suggested the sun was beginning to rise. The large stove which sat in the corner of the room had burned down, leaving just the soft glow of coals, and allowing a harsh chill to permeate the room.

Steeling herself against the cold, Julielle slipped out from under the coarse blanket and made her way to the stove. She took several small sticks from the stack of wood nearby and pushed them into the coals. Blowing first into her hands and then into the stove she managed to reignite a small fire. Feeding in a few larger pieces of wood she closed the door and basked in the growing warmth for a long moment.

As the fire grew, its light spread slowly across the small room, shining off the faces of several women who were looking in her direction. The room was filled with a dozen women, laying side-by-side in two rows against the walls. Most of the women were still sleeping, but some began to stir. A couple faces she recognized caught her eye for a moment as they woke, while others opened their eyes to simply stare through the ceiling. In addition to herself, Tamara, and Gwen, there were five women from their home village of Norvad who had been forced into this room the previous night. The other women she did not recognize and had offered little conversation or explanation. Their eyes were sunken, their cheeks gaunt: Julielle suspected they had been here for a while, wherever here was.

Faint crying could be heard from several of the women. Closest to Julielle and the stove was Helena, whose eyes glistened as she met Julielle’s gaze before quickly hiding her face. Julielle knelt beside Helena, laying a hand on her shoulder in an attempt at comfort she did not feel herself. The pair had grown up together, played as friends in their youth.

We will be okay, Helena, she offered weakly.

How can you believe that? the woman responded, not looking.

We are alive, are we not? That is something, at least. All you can ask for, at times.

We are. But what about... the ones who are not? My mother, ... my sister? Your father, and so… many of the other men? Helena’s words were broken by loud sobs.

Julielle’s own eyes ached from the tears she had shed through the night for her father and the others. The attack had come so suddenly, they had not had the opportunity to mount any meaningful defense: not that their farm tools and a few rusty swords would have meant much against the soldiers and tigers. The image of a tiger standing over the twitching body of her father as red flooded the ground would be burned in her memory forever.

But many other images of her father were also burned in her memory forever. Images of a jovial smile and a welcoming embrace. Images of a strong man standing before the village council. Images of a younger, determined face striving to hide his own devastation as his three young daughters looked to him in the wake of their mother’s death. Those were the images she focused on, as she saw reflections of the fear and uncertainty which she had felt then in Helena’s eyes now.

Being alive means we have options: we have a future. That was taken from the others, but would they want us to abandon ours as well? Would your mother want you to simply give up and lay here?

A horn sounded outside. Without hesitation the women Julielle did not know rose from where they lay with an urgency and energy which did not match their emaciated appearance. They moved towards the door and out without a word. As the last woman passed through the doorway she looked back, noticing the confused expressions of the new arrivals. Her tanned skin and dark hair stood out in contrast to the other women, marking her Zemiltari.

Roll-call, she said quietly. You must come. She did not wait for a response.

Julielle looked to Tamara, who was sitting up and looking her way. It seemed most of the women were looking her way. Slowly Julielle rose. Best to see what we are facing, what this is all about, she declared, walking to the door. The other women, except Gwen, who remained unchanged, followed her out into the cold morning.

It had been late in the evening when they were brought in, with Julielle in such a state of fear and confusion she had not paid attention to her surroundings as they were herded like cattle by the shouting of soldiers and snapping jaws of tigers. Now she took the three steps down from the door and took a moment to look around. She and the women who were gathering around her stood in a long lane between mirrored rows of shacks matching that which she had just exited. From each shack poured a line of women who all streamed past her. Most bore the same sunken, lost eyes. Seeing little alternative, she joined the flow of ambling bodies. Something grabbed her hand, and Julielle looked to find Tamara at her side, a scared expression across her face.

The alley through which they walked ended at a wider avenue, where women from yet more lanes of shacks merged into a large throng heading the same direction. The avenue opened into a large courtyard. The courtyard was rapidly filling with women walking purposefully, forming clean lines and blocks similar to the formations of soldiers. Julielle caught sight of the Zemiltari woman and led those with her to join she and the other women from her shack. The woman nodded to her, silently ushering the new arrivals into place, forming three rows of four women—less one, a space left where Gwen should be.

Any attempts to ask questions of the other women were harshly hushed, so Julielle occupied her time looking around the courtyard. Opposite her and the rows of shacks behind her was a long, low structure, which looked much better constructed and maintained than the other buildings. Around all the open space she could see loomed an imposing wooden wall, dotted with tall towers. The wall and towers could be seen over the long building, and stretching back to disappear behind the rows of shacks. Atop each tower stood two soldiers with bows, those within range of the courtyard watching alertly with arrows nocked. Twenty paces inward from the wall lay a line of rope, held at knee-height, and between wall and rope paced a large white tiger on either side of the courtyard.

More soldiers dotted the perimeter of the courtyard, their armour and the tips of their pikes glinting in the morning light. At the front of the courtyard a soldier stood on a raised platform, a tiger sitting at his side and lines of six more soldiers, arms crossed in front of them and swords on their hips, on either side of the platform. Five of these thirteen soldiers at the head of the gathering, including the man in the center, had their standard blue tunics striped with black: a symbol recognized and feared throughout Stalius. Five soldiers of the Tiger Brethren, at least, Julielle thought to herself with dismay, for that certainly meant at least as many tigers.

The man on the platform raised a horn to his lips and blew a long, low note. As the note died out, so did all other sound in the courtyard. There had been no conversation, but even the quiet sound of shuffling feet and hushed weeping seemed to stop. The dozen other waiting soldiers spread out, surveying the groups of women and calling out numbers.

Doma One, twelve, shouted one.

Doma Fifty-Six, twelve, shouted another from further down the line.

Doma Thirty-Two, ten.

Doma Twelve, eleven.

A gruff soldier wearing the blue and black reached their group, scanning the faces of the women without seeming to actually look at any of them.

Doma Twenty-Seven, eleven, he shouted into the air. This seemed to get the attention of the central officer, who had not moved until now. He stepped down from the platform. The tiger stood to accompany him, but he made a motion with his hand and the beast settled back down.

He made no rush to reach them, walking leisurely with his hands clasped casually behind his back as more numbers were shouted down the line. The soldier who had counted them did not move on, staring through them as though they were not there as he waited.

Eleven, Brother Kontel? the arriving man asked, his eyes scanning the women as he did his own count. There are to be twelve in Doma Twenty-Seven, are there not?

Yes, sir, Brother Cratt.

Where is the twelfth? Brother Cratt asked to no one in particular. There was a long stretch of silence, which seemed to echo through the courtyard as the other soldiers had finished calling out their numbers. As Brother Cratt took charge of the group, Brother Kontel moved on, calling out the remaining numbers in his column; Doma Twenty-Eight, Twenty-Nine, and Thirty, each with twelve.

The women in the group kept their eyes down, offering nothing. Julielle must have been the only one to meet Brother Cratt’s eyes, as he honed in on her. Where is the twelfth? he asked again, a hard edge coming to his tone.

She is not well. She is resting, recovering from her injuries, Julielle offered, thinking of Gwen.

The soldier seemed to think for a moment before responding. You are new arrivals. You have not yet learned our procedures. All must attend rollcall. If this woman is not well enough to attend, perhaps we should take her to the infirmary until she regains her strength?

No! the Zemiltari woman spoke up quickly, seeming to surprise herself with her outburst. She recovered from the surprise and continued, They are new, they do not know. She will attend the night call, for certain.

Brother Cratt stepped in front of the Zemiltari woman, so close she would need to crane her neck to meet his eyes. Instead, she dropped her gaze to the ground, her shoulders slumping as the moment of confidence left her.

Ensure she does, foreigner. If not, perhaps you and this other woman will accompany her to the infirmary. Brother Cratt turned on his heel without looking to anyone else and strode back to the platform. The surveying soldiers had already returned and reformed their lines. As he returned to his place on the platform beside his tiger, Brother Cratt scanned the assembled women one more time before blowing another short note on his horn. The women in the courtyard immediately dispersed. Most turned to return to the shacks—Doma—from which they had come, while a few groups moved towards the larger building. Julielle’s group was one returning to their Doma, and Julielle fell in beside the Zemiltari woman.

Gwen is not well, she said to the foreign woman. Maybe she should go to the infirmary. The woman grabbed the front of Julielle’s shirt—little more than a rag she had been forced to change into upon arrival—stopping them both and causing the flow of women to need to part around them. Tamara was walking at Julielle’s side and stopped with them.

Never the infirmary. None return from the infirmary. The fear and intensity in the woman’s eyes eliminated any further questions from Julielle’s mind.

Alright, not the infirmary, Julielle said, lowering the woman’s hands. The woman nodded and returned to walking back to their Doma. Julielle and Tamara followed.

As they entered Doma Twenty-seven the women who had been there before were already changing from their heavier night clothes to lighter clothes: matching rough, pale grey breeches and shirts, each stitched with a ‘27’ over the breast and at the hip. The Zemiltari woman indicated to a shelf near the door bearing piles of the garments which the other new arrivals were pawing through, evidently looking for pieces at least approximately the correct fit for them.

Thank you, Julielle addressed the Zemiltari woman, extending her hand. My name is Julielle.

Nika. The woman looked at her extended hand with confusion before finally grasping it awkwardly.

Jul? a quiet voice came from behind her. Turning, Julielle felt a wave of relief as she saw Tamara kneeling beside Gwen, who was weakly propped up on one elbow, attempting to drink from a ladle of water held for her by Tamara.

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Tamara stretched her back as she stepped into Doma Twenty-seven, trying in vain to work away the aches of the day. As new arrivals they had been assigned to attending the stretch of gardens on the opposite side of the courtyard and its long, low building—the guardhouse and barracks, they discovered. The guards had sneered at her and the other new arrivals, wondering aloud how they had earned such easy work and promising harder labours to come.

Julielle was already in the Doma tending to Gwen, who was now sitting up.

The horn sounded, announcing the evening rollcall. Tamara and Julielle looked to each other and to Gwen, concerned, as she had not yet been able to rise and walk.

Gwen, you need to come with us, Tamara said, crouching on the other side of her sister. Together she and Julielle lifted Gwen to her feet. She winced in pain and recoiled as they tried to leave her to stand without their aide.

Come on, we need to go, Julielle lead, taking Gwen’s weight back onto her shoulders. The three shuffled out of the Doma and into the alley, joining the flow of women towards the courtyard. Slowed by carrying Gwen, they were among the last to arrive, stepping into place with their Doma as the second horn blew and the soldiers dispersed to begin their counts.

Brother Cratt was watching them from the platform as the count carried on, and stepped down to approach them at the same time Brother Kontel reached them and made his announcement of Doma Twenty-Seven, twelve.

I do not count twelve, Brother Kontel. I count nine, and one bizarre three-headed beast. Brother Cratt glared at them coldly. You must stand independently to be counted. I will not have three-headed beasts in my camp.

Tamara looked to Julielle, who nodded sadly. Slowly, as gently as they could, they lowered Gwen’s weight back to her own feet.

Be strong, Gwen. You must stand. Tamara whispered to her sister, willing that Gwen could muster the strength and understood the importance. It seemed she did, as Tamara could see the familiar look of stubborn determination come across Gwen’s face, burying the pain she was feeling. Julielle and Tamara each took a half-step aside, leaving Gwen to stand on her own. Tamara could see the tears welling in Gwen’s eyes, but she stood straight, holding her head upright: looking forward into the distance.

Brother Cratt waited a tortuously long moment before speaking. He watched Gwen closely, clearly willing her to collapse. Nika, glancing over her shoulder from the row in front of them, was the only other person who dared look their direction as the courtyard had again fallen into silence.

Brother Kontel, what is the count for Doma Twenty-Seven? Brother Cratt’s frustration was plainly evident in his voice. He turned and stalked angrily back to the center platform as Brother Kontel repeated Doma Twenty-Seven, twelve.

Back on the platform overlooking the assembled women, Brother Cratt raised the horn to his lips. He paused for a moment, once again staring at the three sisters. Tamara could see Gwen’s legs shaking and the tears were now flowing freely down her cheeks, but she held firm. Finally the horn blew to dismiss the prisoners.

Tamara and Julielle moved quickly to catch Gwen before she collapsed to the ground as her legs gave way. Daring to cast icy glares at Brother Cratt, who had turned in conversation with the other Tiger Brethren soldiers, they began the shuffle back to their Doma.

CHAPTER 2

W e are not having this conversation, Mikale.

Sir, Mikale Talode began before clicking his teeth shut. He took a moment to breathe deeply, regaining his composure. He knew the honorific had no place among the Cereb’Ani, even when addressing the Otet—the leader of their Order. He was losing his composure, reverting to the deference imparted in him throughout his childhood by an overbearing father. Fingering the steel medallion bearing the symbol of the Cereb’Ani—a ring of seven interlocking circles—and re-centered himself before continuing.

Silvan, Mikale began again after a long moment. You are not blind to the damage Hi’ral Ordreg is doing to the people of Stalius. To our people. We can not simply stand by and let him destroy this Republic and its people.

The older man rose from his padded chair, stepping to the window near the top of the Cereb’Ani Temple, overlooking the city of Scrail. Through the window, over Silvan’s shoulder, Mikale could see the Steel Fortress dominating the sky; its cruel, jagged spires backdropped by the rugged mountains which encircled the city.

Mikale sensed a trickle of energy being drawn up from the Vein far below the Temple, deep in the earth, and channeled through Silvan. Lifted by the energy, a set of three steel medallions set on the table beside the window rose on their edges and began to spin slowly: an absent-minded habit of the Otet when he was deep in thought, though in this moment Mikale was unsure whether they were thoughts of consideration or frustration.

It is not ours to challenge the Hi’ral, Silvan said finally, almost to himself. The people look to us for guidance, for reassurance, for comfort. That is our role in Stalius. We are not dissidents; we do not stoke rebellion. Silvan turned, staring firmly at Mikale. There was no anger in his eyes, however. Mikale did not think he had ever seen the man rise to anger; he seemed incapable of the emotion. Mikale strove to embrace the Cereb’Ani Tenet of Stoicism as wholly as Silvan seemed to have, but despite his station he was still considered early in his training and frequently had to battle his own anger.

Silvan continued. You, Mikale, were named First Sage. It is your role to stand at the Hi’ral’s side and offer him guidance in the Seven Tenets. It is through this guidance that you may aide the people of Stalius. You must show Ordreg the value and potential of the peaceful route, of meeting his opponents with compassion and humility. If you are not up for the task, perhaps the others were correct, perhaps you were not ready for this responsibility. Mikale could not resist jumping as the steel medallions slammed onto the table, as though slapped down by an invisible hand. Well, Mikale… are you suited to the task, or must we name a new First Sage?

Mikale sighed. They had had a similar conversation many times. Silvan simply refused to understand the extremes Rodok Ordreg was willing to court in order to maintain and increase his strangle-hold on the Republic of Stalius.

I will have to do it myself, Mikale thought.  He had no intention of violating the Tenets and had hoped Silvan would help him find a path within their limits to bring peace and calm to the people of Stalius. But if the Otet refused to truly acknowledge the danger and damage being wrought by Ordreg, it appeared Mikale would need to find that path on his own. Unfortunately, that would require remaining in close contact with the Hi’ral as First Sage. Of course, Silvan. I will continue my efforts to guide the Hi’ral in walking the peaceful path and observing the Seven Tenets. I am certain we will see positive progress soon. He offered a small nod, respectful without being deferential, and departed the chamber.

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Gods be damned, Mikale muttered a curse as he appeared in the darkened room, his eyes accustomed to the brightly lit Steel Council chamber he had just left. He had been certain he had left a candle lit before leaving to meet with Ordreg, but evidently, he was wrong. It did not matter, he was intimately familiar with the room—he had to be, to be able to Leap here. Still, he stepped from the slightly raised platform in the corner of the room and strode to the table beside his simple bed, where he picked up a piece of tinder. Not caring to bother with the flint and steel, he took his small stick to the hall. Immediately outside his door hung an oil lantern, burning low. He lit the tinder and returned to the room, transferring the flame to the candle. Two more candles, combined with the dim moonlight streaming in through the small window, sufficiently illuminated the room: it was not a large space.

Bengen would want his full report on the day’s meeting with Hi’ral Ordreg, and so Mikale sat at his desk, taking up quill and ink to write what he could remember of the man’s ramblings before they left his mind. Mikale had a keen memory; one of the reasons Silvan had been able to convince the council of the Cereb’Ani to appoint him as First Sage—the Order’s advisor to and primary contact with the Hi’ral—at such a young age. But more and more, Ordreg’s words were becoming angry rambles; flitting between topics so rapidly it was difficult to keep track.

His quill danced across the page as he wrote quickly. As best he could he rewrote the specific words used but was sure to at least indicate the specific points Ordreg had focused on—if such things were discernable.

As expected, Bengen entered the room in a rush, letting himself in with a quick, superfluous knock. He closed the door behind himself and adjusted his plain grey robes as he turned to Mikale. With his red cheeks and heavy breaths, he looked as though he had been running, or at least walking briskly. Certainly, he would not want to raise suspicion by running through the halls of the Cereb’Ani Temple.

I told you not to write things down! Bengen scolded, seeing what Mikale was doing. Mikale felt the slight surge of energy from Bengen and heard his muttered word as he Blocked the room from eavesdropping—a manipulation of the energy of the Vein, which prevented sound from passing through. The verbal incantation was not strictly necessary to create the Block, but was a useful tool to help train new initiates to focus and shape the energy of the Vein and its use tended to linger as habit. What happens if someone sees? Do you not think they might have questions of why you are recording the Hi’ral’s words?

Mikale sighed; this was not a new conversation. I have to write it down, he replied. It is how I best remember. If I try to speak it, I overthink my words, focusing too hard on the next one and forgetting the ones which come after. The words flow out better onto parchment. Besides, Mikale leaned back in his chair, looking at Bengen. do you not think it is suspicious that you come rushing to my room, then Block it? Surely you know the rumours about us?

Bengen waved his hand dismissively. People are saying we are bedmates. Let them, I say! It is perfect! If they think I am rushing in here for… that, they will not bother coming up with other explanations.

Mikale thought a moment and shrugged. Bengen had a point.

What was he on about today? Bengen asked, stepping closer to look over the parchment Mikale had been writing.

He is upset about Melkin, again.

When is he not?

Exactly. He is sending more soldiers there. ‘To bring peace and order’, he says.

Bengen groaned. Fuck, he muttered. Bring what peace and order? Those people are not doing anything! They are farmers and hunters. It is peaceful and orderly there, until the damned soldiers arrive.

He seems to think otherwise. Says they are causing trouble. But look here, Mikale pointed to a passage of the text he had written. He then jumps to talking about the work being done on his ‘Hall of Swords’. What in the heavens caused that connection in his mind?

Bengen shrugged. Most evenings followed the same pattern: Mikale would return from meeting with Ordreg and he and Bengen would analyze the Hi’ral’s words. They were not focused merely on the things he said—that was often simplistic and straight-forward, if erratic. More and more they were looking for connections between topics, trying to follow the paths the Hi’ral’s mind took. Maybe, they hoped, if they could determine the route he took to get to one topic, they could predict where he would go next, and how the pieces connected.

Though even if they managed to find the secret map of the Hi’ral’s mind, Mikale was not certain what they could do with it. The whole endeavor had been Bengen’s idea. Mikale hated Ordreg as much as Bengen did. Likely more, as his resentment grew deeper as he was obligated to spend more and more time with the man, seeing his petty, vile nature first-hand. But what could they do? Their oaths and the Tenets bound them.

We should bring in Deanne, Bengen said suddenly.

You would want to bring her into this. Imagine the rumours that would start if both of you came running to my rooms! Mikale laughed as Bengen blushed.

She is smart, Mik. Smarter than you, for sure. Perhaps even smarter than me.

Mikale considered. It would be good to have another person in their little organization. How do you know she is not loyal to him, Ben?

I just said she was smart, did I not?

That had seemed obvious, at a time. How could anyone with an ounce of intelligence not see through Ordreg’s façade? But Mikale was becoming less and less