In a distant land, the ball of fire in the sky had set, and the night now revealed a constellation of stars. Atop a tower of books and scrolls, twenty high-ranking scholars sat at a long mahogany table.

  “Bring it out,” Ryo ordered in a stern voice.

  A book—handled with care and thick leather gloves—was gently placed at the centre of the table. The book was rotting. It stank of decomposing flesh. An ear protruded from its cover, flinching on occasion.

  An especially wise—or perhaps simply old—scholar opened the book to its final page and recited: “Tryl. Void. Tred.”

  The others at the table, aside from one, were clearly unsettled and struggled to maintain their scholarly composure.

  “Crown. Absent. More?” a scholar inquired.

  The language the book was written in was not ordinary—much like the book itself. It was an ever-expanding log of actions and events, specifically those pertinent to the world. The language, at least as they had inferred after all these years, functioned more as variable identification than as a means of communication. Combined with the bleeding ink and the disgusting state of the pages, interpretation proved almost impossible. Anyone capable of reading even a single output would be considered a modern augur.

  “The Crown still appears to have no subject,” a scholar interjected. “What’s going on? The coronation has taken place. We know the king is crowned—look here.”

  He flipped through his notes.

  “Yes. A spy present confirmed that the king, though not physically present, does appear to exist.”

  “What good is that?” Ryo replied. “They have a king—we know that. But why doesn’t this thing?” He gestured toward the book with evident disgust. “Know it?”

  At the far end of the table, a woman with raven-black hair and an unreadable expression asked to see the book.

  She examined the pages. In an instant, a new line surfaced, as though rising from beneath the parchment.

  “Aen. Seriol shift. Cairnreach. Aen. Cairnreach shift. Seriol,” she read aloud.

  “Presence: Seriol to Cairnreach. Presence: Cairnreach to Seriol.”

  “It appears that someone—or something—briefly appeared in Cairnreach from Seriol and then returned. That is incredibly strange.”

  More lines resurfaced below. The same elements appeared again, but in a different order.

  A presence had left Cairnreach, entered Seriol, and returned to Cairnreach in an instant.

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  “Another anomaly,” she continued. “It appears two individuals are involved in this act of translocation. I doubt, however, that the king has anything to do with it. Aen is used—meaning presence—but he himself is never referenced in this book. Void would have made that plausible.”

  “Isn’t that just great?” Ryo shouted. “We have a non-existent king wielding one of the most powerful weapons in existence, and now two people hopping through portals in the same kingdom.”

  “I say we make use of our current espionage,” he continued. “Assassinate him. End this.”

  “I agree,” the woman concurred. “If only to test the waters. We have nothing else to go on.”

  “You heard the lady,” Ryo said. “And don’t concern yourselves with strength. Send someone gutsy—brute force won’t be of use here.”

  The raven-haired woman spoke once more.

  “I’m sure you are all aware of the planned heir—the boy named Seraphiel. He is incredibly useful. His death has not been recorded, so I presume he lives. I doubt, however, that he would be allowed to remain in the castle under this new king. Look for a one-eyed boy wandering near the castle. The common grounds, perhaps.”

  She withdrew a book from the belt at her waist. It resembled the magician’s, hers bore no eldritch inscriptions also, unlike the envoy who perhaps needed its assistance—only a symbol was present.

  A brain, impaled by spikes, translucent fluid spilling from its ruptured surface.

  She placed her hand on the book’s cover, gliding a fingernail across it. Perhaps she enjoyed its texture—or more likely, she was considering whether it would soon be of use again. In recent times, it had been all but useless. She had no need to draw upon its abilities.

  Everyone took their leave from the table except her.

  She sat silently—then suddenly collapsed forward, her head crashing into the table.

  Ryo sat in his chambers, preparing the orders he intended to execute the following day. He would dispatch his most valiant to assassinate the false king, and prepare another force to retrieve Seraphiel himself. He feared what the king might do—though curiosity gnawed at him. He wished to be present in the kingdom, but felt safer remaining in the common district, where only plebeians roamed.

  He poured purple, burning wax onto an envelope and stamped it with a seal.

  A raven.

  Back in Cairnreach, Seraphiel found lodging in a small hotel thanks to an especially magnanimous elderly woman. She pitied the poor child’s make-believe story of being a royal, clearly perceiving his instability. She could not, in good conscience, allow him to wander the streets alone and hungry.

  In Feria, Noro examined a brown hair beneath a microscope, searching for anomalies or traces of hallucinogenic substances that might explain his tactile hallucinations. He extracted skin from his arm and examined it.

  Nothing.

  Just a strand of hair—and needless self-harm.

  Still, he could not simply pretend he hadn’t felt what he felt. He resolved to set out for the capital in search of the envoy.

  The book’s ear quivered violently.

  Guards on watch informed the scholars, who reopened the book as a new line surfaced:

  “Cairnreach. Yugo. Mor.”

  In Cairnreach, one thousand of something unspecified was no more.

  The ear shook profusely.

  It began to bleed.