The brown-scaled noble rose with a disapproving snort, creasing his turquoise finery as he did. He bowed, and swiftly exited the room.

  Ezerkal sighed, shoulders sagging the moment he heard the door click shut.

  It was the fifth ‘friendly’ diplomatic visit of the day, though every single one of them had been everything but.

  The young diplomat was draped in similar finery to the man who had just left, though his attire was a mixture of regal purple and stark carmine. His body was a varied palette of green, the shades progressively darker the closer to his heart and chest they became. He possessed curled slivers of crimson across his eyes to mark his noble caste. He was rake-thin and tall, and though good living in his youth had once put more meat on his bones, it had vanished with recent stresses. He was curiously rather grateful; although it had left behind a scrawny frame, and his hide taut to his bones, he believed it portrayed a dignified appearance, one more in-keeping with his eyes, a pair of sunken, yet insightful beads of red.

  He sat at a stately desk of rosewood, in a cushioned but otherwise simple chair. The desk itself was quite sizable, but its usable space was much reduced by stacks of parchment, open ledgers, leather-bound tomes, and the singular quill with three pots of ink spread out across its smooth surface. Despite the clutter, he made sure the item he was most proud of; a small bronze plaque that read Vizier Ezerkal Zerkash, Voice of Zerkash, was clearly on display. Across from the desk, one now annoyingly angled to one side, were a pair of high-backed, padded chairs for visitors to sit in.

  Directly behind him lay a pair of large windows that flooded his office with natural light and provided the only source of Illumination. On his left, a series of over-stuffed bookshelves were crowded against the sandstone wall. Shelves bowed under the weight of books and scrolls, each filled with historian’s accounts, philosopher’s treatises, his own ledgers, and perhaps too many works of the cartographer-come-novelist, Xervun Sallah. A grand map of the world filled the wall to his right, created in such excruciating detail, it would be considered a work of art in most homes. His was covered in crests, pinned notes and annotations.

  He straightened, pressing his back against the chair, and made himself slightly more presentable. The door did not stir when he glanced briefly towards it.

  Blessed with a reprieve from the flow of disgruntled emissaries of house Krie and its contemporaries, Ezerkal attempted to return to what he felt was more important work. He picked up a bundle of letters; a confirmation document from some Ferrakar steel merchants, a report from Consul Aiur, and a scathing condemnation of recent events from the High Priestess, sent from some holy conclave in the capital.

  He tossed them rather unceremoniously into a drawer, and pulled over a half-written missive in careful script. He poised his quill over the fresh roll of parchment and began to read over his own words.

  And there it remained.

  The quill scratched impotently at the air. Minutes drifted past as the appropriate phrasing eluded him. A dead-end sentence. His emerald brow furrowed with frustration, and he glanced repeatedly across the desk at the discarded drafts of this same missive. The stack currently sat at five.

  He sighed. Normally the eloquent prose would flow forth in waves, but today he could not order his thoughts on the page and he knew he would be unimpressed with his efforts when he came to read over them later in a more detached frame of mind. He often enjoyed his fire-side readings of an evening, be it his own work or one of the myriad volumes from his shelves.

  Ezerkal squirmed in his seat, its cushioned back becoming increasingly unbearable as his irritation rose.

  Every attempt had ended in some dead-end sentence, a grammatical mistake, or handwriting that was frankly illegible. He knew it had to be worded, formatted, and written perfectly. The nobles upstream in the holy capital of Setara were ever mercurial creatures. They had been known to dismiss profitable ventures and alliances following the most minor perceived slights to their power or prestige. However, it was still utterly unlike him to be so inconsistent, to make such simple mistakes.

  These constant ‘visits’ from disgruntled diplomats and emissaries from other houses were to blame for ruining his focus, Ezerkal decided.

  Damn Ra’ven and his greed, Ezerkal thought, pressing a balled-up fist against the table. He had written more declarations of war and subsequent peace treaties in the two years since the man had become Archon than he had in the rest of his career combined.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  His thoughts continued to drift away from his writing, fluttering to his image of what politics in the holy capital and places beyond were like, of cities where close friends had gone to forge easy treaties and trade negotiations. He thought how wonderful it must be. Why, he’d received a letter recently from an old friend who was living in a manse overlooking the sea in Veldun far to the west. The sea! Supposedly it stretched on forever. He was a well-educated man, but he struggled to picture such a huge body of water in his mind’s eye.

  He sighed and closed his eyes, cursing his own rampant imagination. He was here, not some coastal paradise. He had to deal with the fallout of this recent offensive and that meant writing this missive. They needed to forge strong alliances, or any alliance really, before the few friends Ra’ven had left them with finally decided it was time to abandon house Zerkash altogether.

  He was two drafts deeper into the Setaran missive, and far deeper in the depths of his own thoughts, when the slow groan of leather made him finally realise he was no longer alone in his office.

  Ezerkal blinked as he slowly lifted his gaze, containing the sudden waves of paranoid stress washing over him surprisingly well.

  There, in the slightly crooked chair opposite, was a woman. She was leant back comfortably with one leg over the other and hands folded neatly together, watching him with a lazy calm.

  She was slightly short for a Saszrukai. Her lithe, dagger-slim body was wrapped in unassuming, though rather odd travelling garb that did not suit her elegant figure at all. Dark snakeskin leather bound tightly over simple, pale cloth sheathed her figure, and a dark hood of the same serpentine leather was paired with a cloth sand-mask hung around her neck. Her boots were thick and heavy, their soles encrusted with sand.

  Despite her rough clothing, her face was contoured like a work of art; high cheekbones, complimented by slim and pointed features that could have been made of marble. What gave him pause and added to his unease, was her utter lack of obvious caste marks. He had expected gentle arches of crimson or blue carefully augmenting each eye, but there were only blank scales of a subdued azure. His gaze was slowly drawn to the eyes themselves, glittering turquoise gems that shone with either a fierce intelligence or a deep-seated contempt for everything she looked upon. Or, as Ezerkal decided, was far more likely, both.

  “Am I disturbing you?” For now her voice was airy and calm, quiet yet clear.

  Ezerkal remained affixed to his chair, limbs tensed and frozen as he stared at the seemingly casteless woman, the implications of such a thing racing through his mind. He had heard only grim rumours, and avoided such creatures as a matter of course.

  Her head cocked to one side. “Am I disturbing you?” she repeated, a note of amusement creeping into her voice.

  Ezerkal breathed deeply, as his mind continued to race. “No. No, you are not.” He paused, glancing down at the parchment in front of him. “Another dead-end sentence,” he muttered. He pushed the unfinished writing into the growing pile. “But to what, and whom, do I owe the…pleasure?”

  The slightest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “My name is Syla. You can consider me…a concerned friend.”

  “I see,” Ezerkal said, though in reality he did not.

  She laid one of her elbows on the arm of the chair, resting her head delicately upon her splayed fingers. “What were you writing?” she asked, more a demand than a question.

  “A small missive to house Raan, why is that of import to you?” Ezerkal asked, his eyes shifting between the door and the figure seated in his chair.

  “I thought as much. I come bearing advice.” She smiled, though it provided no solace. “Though I am afraid it’s only to say that your time and effort there is misplaced.”

  “Why?” he asked, his confusion shifting to annoyance “What gives you such insight?”

  “House Raan are fully aware of the situation here, and want nothing to do with it, or you. They simply have not said so publicly. Not yet.”

  Ezerkal scowled. “Why would I trust you? If it has not been stated publicly, then how could you know?”

  Syla laughed, an intoxicatingly melodic sound that made Ezerkal’s fingers quiver. “How indeed?” She flashed him a dangerous grin. “As to why would you trust my advice? You don’t. I simply warn you of the inevitable outcome. So that when I am proved right, you will remember me.”

  “I think you’re memorable enough as it is!” he snapped, though in truth this woman was beginning to terrify him.

  Syla smiled in a manner that was anything but kind as she leaned forward. “Is it the castelessness, or the eyes?”

  The diplomat was taken aback by her tone. A long and uncomfortable moment followed until he finally recovered himself. “We’re getting off topic…Why are you really here? If your ‘advice’ is little more than a cryptic trick to make me remember you or smugly gloat about your oddities, there must be some other purpose.”

  “How astute,” she said flatly. “I come bearing information. Advice, yes. But most importantly, a proposition.”

  Ezerkal’s brow creased, this was all rather sudden for his tastes. “I see. But such things are never free.”

  She nodded knowingly. “Quite so, however I have a rather…” She paused, leaning back and considering her words, “…vested interest, in recent events.”

  “I’m afraid that does not provide much insight, nor answer my question.”

  “I suppose it does not.” Syla agreed. “I suggest you find some wine and make yourself comfortable. This will take some time to explain.”

  Ezerkal rose to his feet, moving across the room to retrieve an old bottle of wine hidden amongst the volumes against the wall. He felt Syla watching his every move as he shuffled back to his seat. He considered bolting for the door. The idea of locking her in his office and calling for the guard was appealing but his curiosity got the better of him instead. He lowered himself into his seat, taking a pair of glasses from a drawer in his desk and filling them halfway. He settled in, trying for a semblance of calm.

  Syla slowly ran her tongue across her teeth, cocking her head to the other side again. “Now, as I said. I have a proposition for you.”