Rustamzadeh, the Celibate or the Eunuch, lingered for a while in thought, a goblet resting in his hand while his wife Sasha ate a piece of elephant, as he weighed the drama unfolding before him.

  It had been thoroughly entertaining to witness the royal family’s confrontation. The Mehrān clearly wanted war—it was as obvious as the midday sun. And the Queen Mother… well, Zara was not the type to back down when someone bared their teeth at her. She was more than ready to bite back, and with plenty of venom to spare.

  He leaned back a little further on the divan, fingers drumming slowly on the carved armrest. He reviewed everything calmly, without hurry.

  He had twenty thousand men under his banner: not the finest in the empire in terms of raw quality, but they had been a far more trained army thanks to constant drills and exercises. He had no illusions—practice and real combat were two very different things—but they were disciplined, well-equipped, and most importantly, loyal to his house above any crown. Add to that nearly a hundred mages, ranging from priests of the Eternal Flames to arcane warriors who answered to his gold and his word. It wasn’t an army of conquest, but it was more than capable of breaking the back of anyone foolish enough to set foot on his lands—and in a civil war, it could allow him to control the northern trade routes.

  His alliances were more defensive and commercial than military: the guilds of the southern routes, the merchant houses of the ports, two or three minor clans that owed him old favors. Together they could add another 5,000 men to his numbers if needed. Nothing that would let him start a war on his own, but more than enough to survive one… and to profit handsomely while everyone else bled out.

  He was not a man given to adventure or the fleeting glory of the battlefield. War, to him, was bad business: high risk, high cost, and in the end it almost always benefited those who fought the least. That was why Canada had grown rich—fight little but visibly, then collect the profits.

  And yet… he was genuinely amused.

  Because amid all this chaos there were two people who, for once, interested him far more than any crown or banner.

  One was the companion of Prince Cyrus: Ariadna… or Ardeshir. Status: initial feminization. Boy turned into girl. (Reversible). At first glance she still looked like a boy: short, practical haircut, firm posture, broad shoulders, direct and rather undelicate gestures. She looked like a tomboy forced into elegant feminine clothing. During the party it was clear she preferred to stand, arms crossed, and her gaze was far too sharp and assessing for someone her age to pass as an ordinary girl.

  The other was the companion of the hashshashin heir. They had infiltrated as mid-tier merchants. He looked at the Young Man of the Mountain—the only ones who could never deceive him or infiltrate his ranks thanks to his own skills—and saw: Mariane… or Marcus. Friend turned by accident. (Initial feminization. Reversible). She also looked like a boy at first sight: short, somewhat messy red hair, sharp features, slender but straight-shouldered body, and a way of walking that reminded one more of a trained young man than a girl. She wore masculine mountain-style clothing adapted—long tunics with a high belt and layers of dark fabric—but carried them with the same rough naturalness a warrior wears light armor. During the party she stayed in the shadows, leaning against a column, posture relaxed yet alert, as if she were far more comfortable watching than participating.

  He was curious about that far more than about politics.

  The civil war would take another 4 or 5 years… he could predict it with considerable certainty.

  But the most curious thing was that he had seen the exact same thing twenty years earlier.

  The party continued with that tension hanging in the air: the Queen Mother killing Kavan with her eyes while he ignored her with all the patience in the world, narrating epic tales of battle.

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  Rustamzadeh rose calmly, as though he had simply decided to stretch his legs. No one paid him much attention; it wasn’t unusual to see him moving among the guests.

  He walked over to where the supposed merchants were—the ones everyone knew weren’t really selling anything. He greeted them with a wide smile, shoulder slaps, and friendly lies: “It’s been too long!”, “How’s business?”, “Did you bring anything new from the southern routes?” He talked prices, silks, spices, safe roads… all while his eyes discreetly scanned the group.

  Then his gaze settled on the red-haired girl trying to blend in among them.

  He lowered his voice to a murmur only she could hear:

  “Hello, Mariane… or Marcus, whichever you prefer.”

  The young man froze, eyes wide with surprise, breath caught. Rustamzadeh didn’t wait for a reaction.

  “You’d like to be a boy again, wouldn’t you?” he said with the same calm tone. “Let’s talk outside.”

  Without giving her time to answer, he turned naturally and kept walking.

  He made a short circuit through the hall, using his reputation as a sword genius so people instinctively stepped aside without it seeming deliberate. He greeted a couple of nobles in passing, exchanged empty pleasantries, and then approached the Queen Mother.

  He inclined his head with exactly the right degree of courtesy.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, voice serene. “My congratulations to the prince on his birthday.”

  Zara returned a warm, smiling look and gave a long, polite reply. Cyrus stood beside her, still wearing the expression of a boy who didn’t quite understand where he was, but fully confident in his future as Shah. And next to him, Ariadna—or Ardeshir, depending on how you looked at it—remained silent, arms crossed, brow slightly furrowed beneath the dress she clearly hated wearing.

  Rustamzadeh turned his head just enough for their eyes to meet.

  “You’d like to be a boy again, wouldn’t you?” he asked quietly, almost as if commenting on the weather. “Come outside.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He simply offered the Queen Mother a small bow, smiled with that courtesy that never reached his eyes, and walked calmly toward one of the side doors leading to the garden.

  He waited quietly, seated on one of the stone benches in the side garden, back against the ivy-covered wall. The night was cool and the noise from the hall arrived muffled, like a distant murmur.

  It didn’t take long before the redhead arrived—or redhead, depending on how you looked at it.

  Mariane/Marcus lunged without warning, twin daggers in hand, fast and lethal. She was, after all, one of the empire’s blades. Rustamzadeh didn’t flinch—more than one had tried to kill him before—but she was hashshashin, trained from childhood, and by age ten they were already quite deadly. The attack was clean, direct, aimed at throat and heart in a single motion.

  Rustamzadeh didn’t even stand up.

  With a single movement of his left hand he caught the wrist coming down, turned his palm slightly, and using her own momentum, disarmed her in a snap. The dagger flew and embedded itself in the dirt several paces away. With the same free hand he pushed downward and dropped her to her knees, seemingly without effort.

  But she wasn’t alone.

  Almost simultaneously, the true heir of the hashshashin—the real “Young Man of the Mountain”—emerged from the shadows behind him. A coordinated strike: front and back at once. Not a bad plan.

  Rustamzadeh didn’t turn.

  He simply slid two fingers to the edge of Mariane’s wide trousers, yanked a long, tough thread from the seam in one precise pull. In less than a second the thread became a weapon: he wrapped it around the heir’s wrist as the boy came down on him, pulled hard and twisted his body. The young man lost balance, weapons falling from his hands, and before he could react the thread hoisted him up like a puppet.

  One more motion and the heir ended up hanging upside down from a thick branch of the nearby tree, tied like a hunted animal. Mariane, who had just tried to get up from the ground, received the same treatment: the remaining thread whipped around her in a blink and left her immobilized beside her companion, both hanging head-down, faces red with fury and shock.

  Rustamzadeh brushed his hands as if dusting off lint and sat back down with the same calm as before.

  Then the others arrived.

  Ariadna and Prince Cyrus appeared walking along the torch-lit path. They stopped a few meters away, staring at the scene with a mixture of disbelief and bewilderment.

  Cyrus opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Ariadna, on the other hand, crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow, clearly sizing up the situation.

  Rustamzadeh returned their gaze with a small, almost lazy smile.

  “You arrived just in time,” he said quietly. “Looks like the conversation is going to be… livelier than I expected.”

  He looked at all four of them, then released the two hanging from the tree.

  “Before I tell you how to fix your little problem… may I know how the two of you ended up as girls?”