Night finally settled over the Bovera estate, the warm air hinting at a harsh summer to come. The songs of tree crickets echoed back and forth as the sky darkened, the crescent moon just above the horizon. It had rained earlier that day, and the ground was still damp.

  Standing outside of his manor, Bisconti Bovera looked up at the crescent moon. The late spring heat had finally eased as night fell, bringing with it swarms of insects. Tugging at his shirt to fan himself, he waited patiently as his brother approached. Tulka had finally returned from the Great Shrine.

  “Tulka, welcome back!” he said warmly, stepping forward and pulling his travel-worn brother into a tight hug. “How did the meeting with the Great Shrine go?”

  “The meeting went well,” Tulka replied. “I’ll tell you everything once we’re somewhere secure. Let’s go.”

  “Later, later,” Lord Bovera laughed, pulling back to examine his brother more closely. “First, you’re taking a bath and putting on clean clothes. We’ll talk after.”

  Tulka glanced down at his dust-covered clothing and grimaced. “Thank you, brother. It would be nice to get clean first.”

  Turning to the small, elite group of guards who had traveled with him, Tulka raised his voice. “You are all dismissed. Clean up, get food, and sleep. You have the rest of the week off.”

  The guards cheered as Tulka waved them away and headed towards the manor.

  “I’ll go get cleaned up,” he said over his shoulder. “Where should we meet up?”

  “The small chambers,” Lord Bovera said. Tulka did not particularly like the grand hall.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I’m done,” Tulka promised, disappearing into the manor.

  More than an hour later, Lord Bovera impatiently waited in the small chambers, sipping wine while he tried to keep his mind from imagining what had happened at the Great Shrine. In front of him was a large plate of food, the contents slowly going cold.

  If Tulka doesn’t get here soon, the cooks will have to reheat the food, he thought. Tapping his fingers on his wine glass, he looked up as the door opened.

  “Sorry for taking so long,” Tulka apologized as he stepped into the room and closed the door. “The warm water almost put me to sleep.”

  “Don’t worry about it, eat, eat!” Lord Bovera said quickly, waving his hand as Tulka sat down. “It’ll be better for both of us if you eat first. I’ll fill you in on what you missed in the meantime.”

  Pausing, Tulka slowly nodded. “I am hungry,” he said, reaching for a fork and knife. His every movement was controlled and deliberate. No matter how hungry he was, he never rushed—a self-imposed rule created to temper his self-control. However, this rule could be broken in times of war.

  Watching his brother eat, Lord Bovera took another sip of his wine before speaking.

  “After talking with Leora, Baura, and Para, I managed to convince them that the best way to resolve the situation was a duel between Baura and Para. Leora agreed to judge it alongside me. It will be held in the northern region of Ruscell. It was the only neutral location everyone accepted.”

  “That makes sense,” Tulka said between bites. “Lord Leora’s and Baura’s lands are northwest of Ruscell, while Para’s territory lies to the east. It’s a fair midpoint.”

  He took a sip of his wine. “Is Lord Galra joining us? And did Lady Ruscell give her blessing? We will be fighting on her lands.”

  “Galra will not join us; his lands are too far away, and he claims his body is still too weak from his duel,” Lord Bovera said. There was a hint of distrust in his voice. “As for Lady Ruscell, she didn't give us her permission, but with Leora's friendship with her, it should be fine. If she complains, we’ll have Leora speak to her.”

  Reaching across the table, he took an apple, ignoring Tulka’s raised eyebrow. He continued. “The duel will still take place on the date we agreed upon. That gives us around a month to prepare. The rest depends on how your discussion with Father Linus went.”

  Chewing slowly, Tulka swallowed, wiped his mouth, and answered. “When I brought up our plan, I expected resistance. Instead, they seemed almost excited. They even agreed to send someone to deal with Lord Leora.”

  “Someone to deal with Leora?” Lord Bovera exclaimed, sitting upright. His face scrunched in thought as he stared down at the half-eaten apple in his hand.

  “Yes. They promised to send us an Arcane Master.”

  Lord Bovera leaned back, gathering his thoughts, then picked up his wine glass and drained it. “Now, why would they do that?” he murmured. “There are only a handful of Arcane Masters on the continent—and they’re willing to send one?”

  “They have direct orders from Saint Santius to assist us, no matter the cost,” Tulka reminded him. “But you’re right… something feels off.”

  Nodding, Lord Bovera started to think out loud. “What were your exact words before they became excited? Are they more interested in Leora or Baura? Or something else entirely. Perhaps conflict between the Great Houses?”

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  “They didn’t openly react,” Tulka said. “But when I mentioned Lord Leora, the way his eye twitched… I’m certain he sees him as an obstacle that needs to be removed.”

  “Leora?” Lord Bovera mused. “Now that's interesting. He’s known as the strongest—and most honorable—of the Great Lord. But if he’s in conflict with the Great Shrine… Does he have something on them? Or is he blocking their influence from spreading into Vanura?”

  He poured another glass of wine for himself.

  “We need to investigate whether Leora has something on the Great Shrine. If we end up opposed to the Shine, having damaging information could be invaluable. Tulka, once you’ve settled in, I want you to look into Leora. Find out why he’s at odds with the Shrine.”

  “Yes, brother.”

  Standing, Lord Bovera smiled faintly as he turned towards the door. “I’ve had too much wine. I’ll retire for the night. Good night.”

  “Good night, brother.”

  As the days grew longer and the weeks slipped by, the promise of a scorching summer proved all too true. The once-muddy dirt roads quickly hardened like stones under the constant footfall of traveling men. All around, the cries of cicadas filled the air, falling silent only when a hot breeze that offered no relief drifted by.

  Mounted on his magnificent war horse, Lord Averell Baura led his army southward—one hundred cavalry members and two hundred foot soldiers. Their destination lay in the lands of Ruscell.

  The heat bore down mercilessly on them, causing him to grimace as sweat gathered beneath his armor.

  Should I allow the soldiers to take off their cloaks? He wondered for the fourth time today, but dismissed it, shaking his head. The cloak was part of their uniform. And discipline mattered.

  “Father, was the South always this hot?” Quillon asked, fanning himself as he reached for his water-skin. “I don’t remember it ever being this unbearable.”

  “The South has always been hotter than the North,” Lord Baura replied, frowning. “You don’t remember it this way because we usually visit in the fall, after the harvest. Do you remember what I told you about fall?”

  “Yes, Father,” Quillon answered, his tone making it clear he had heard this many times before. “Most wars and raids happen right after the harvest, when the grain has already been gathered. If invaders attack earlier, there’s nothing to steal.”

  “But?” Baura prompted.

  “In the past, some mountain tribes attacked ten days before the harvest,” Quillon continued. “They harvested their own crops early, then attacked us to burn our crops.”

  “Why?” Baura pushed.

  “They didn’t want our grain. They wanted us to abandon our lands. If we did, they could move down from the mountains and establish a stronghold.”

  Nodding in approval, Lord Baura smiled. “I’m glad you’re taking your studies seriously.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Quillion said, but hesitated. “But those same studies are telling me we’re walking into a trap. Lord Para and Bovera are not honorable men. If even half the rumors surrounding them are true, they’re responsible for countless deaths and suffering.”

  Seeing the concern on his son’s face, Lord Baura burst into laughter. “Son, I know this is a trap,” he assured him.

  “Then why accept this duel?” Quillon asked. “Ria’s assassination was clearly orchestrated to prevent her from telling us something important. This duel feels more and more like a setup.”

  “The reason that I don’t fear the trap is because of that!” Lord Baura said, gesturing to the top of a hill.

  At its peak stood Lord Drake Leora, mightiest of the Great Lords.

  “No matter what schemes or underhanded methods Ulric or Bisconti devised, in the presence of pure strength, it does not matter.”

  Quillon stared up at Lord Leora, then asked. “Father… are you certain that, together with Lord Leora, we can deter them from attacking us unprovoked?”

  “Attack us?” Lord Baura laughed. “In fact, I would welcome it. With our combined forces, Drake and I could cripple both Ulric and Bisconti! Even if Galra crawled out of his castle to join them, we would still crush them.”

  He straightened in his saddle. “Now go. Set up a temporary camp with your brother. Put Yansen in charge of the foot soldiers… that boy needs to keep his mind occupied.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Smiling as he watched his son ride off, Lord Baura guided his horse to where Lord Leora was waiting. Reaching the top of the hill, he took a moment to survey the Para and Bovera camp that was set up beyond the hill. It was slightly larger than he had expected, but nothing out of the ordinary—the temporary tents scattered across the field, turning a patch of green into one of gray and white.

  “Averell! You took your sweet time!” Lord Leora’s booming voice carried across the hill.

  Laughing heartily, Lord Baura turned his horse and rode quickly towards his friend. Swinging his leg over his horse, he jumped off and pulled his friend into a crushing embrace.

  “Drake, you old cat! Looks like you got here before I did! How do Ulric’s and Bisconti’s forces look!”

  “Old cat? I don't want to hear that from a fat pig like you!” Leora shot back, grinning. “Have you gained more weight since the last time I saw you? Ulric and Bisconti brought two hundred cavalry each, making it four hundred in total. I brought three hundred, with your hundred added in, we’re even on horseback. But with your two hundred foot soldiers, we’ve got the advantage on foot.”

  “Not counting our individual strengths,” Lord Baura chuckled, slapping Leora on the back.

  “True. In a melee, Ulric will be severely handicapped,” Leora laughed.

  Mounting their horses again, the two Great Lords rode towards Leora’s camp and made themselves comfortable.

  “If the weather keeps up like this, this winter will be the warmest we’ve ever experienced,” Lord Baura remarked, accepting the cup of water from a servant.

  “The southern lands are just warmer than you’re used to,” Leora replied with a laugh. “In fact, I think this winter will be colder than normal.”

  Blinking in surprise, Baura scratched his head before changing the topic. “How are your children?”

  “I brought Karl with me. He's helping my brother. You'll meet them soon. As for my daughters, Tricia and Edium, they’re doing well. They’re ruling while I’m gone.” Leora smiled. “Once this is over, we should have Quillon and Tricia’s wedding. Where is he?”

  “I agree, we’ve stalled for too long,” Baura said. “I sent Quillon and Viarop to set up camp. I also brought my nephew Yansen. They should be here shortly.”

  As the two old warriors talked, laughter drifted in from outside the tent.

  “That should be them now,” Leora said, smiling. “Averell, do you remember? We were just like them once. Now I'm going bald, and you're fat!”

  Laughing as Leora theatrically patted his own head, then his stomach, Lord Baura waved to the four young men who entered the large tent. “Looks like our sons have found each other.”

  Reaching the Great Lords, the youths bowed deeply.

  “Lord Baura.”

  “Lord Leora.”

  “Come here! No need for formalities,” Leora boomed, gesturing for everyone to sit. “Our family will soon be tied by marriage!”

  “Where’s Yansen?” Baura asked, signaling a servant to bring them food.

  “He feels responsible for this duel,” Viarop, his second son, said, shaking his head. “He’s making sure that everything in the camp is set up perfectly.”

  Sighing in understanding, Baura turned to Leora. “When’s the duel?”

  “Tomorrow at sunrise.”

  Grinning from ear to ear, Baura felt his blood begin to boil. It had been years since he had a proper duel.

  “That’s perfect.”

  Sunrise could not come fast enough.