1
EMERE
“Prince Emere.”
A familiar voice. One he hadn’t heard in some time, but a voice replete with good memories. He felt a rustling inside his heart.
“Prince Emere.”
There it was again. Emere opened his eyes. Or perhaps his eyes were already open? His surroundings came into focus.
Here were the plains to the south of Arland’s capital, Kingsworth. The bodies of Imperial legionaries and Arland’s militia, broken bits of weapons and banners scattered about. Blood splattered over receding patches of snow. In the distance, a four-legged beast of metal—the gigatherion Clarios—spewed violet smoke from its joints, frozen in motion.
And right before his eyes, her dragon wings spread wide, was Loran. Her body was covered in red scales, and an azure light burned in one eye. He heard a low, faraway beating like drums.
The word “princess” was on the tip of his tongue, but then he quickly remembered that Loran was now king.
“Your Majesty.”
He tried to bow on one knee to show his respect, but he couldn’t feel the ground. Or his knee. Or any part of his body, for that matter.
“Listen carefully, Prince Emere.”
“I am at your bidding.”
The words came from his mind and he spoke them, but where he spoke from, he didn’t know. Loran smiled. Even with fearsome scales covering her face and a blue fire burning where her left eye should be, her smile filled him with gladness.
“Why so formal? Have we not taken meals together and fought side by side?”
“Your Majesty is now a king. I am a mere man.”
“A councillor of the Imperial Commons and the brother to the King of Kamori is a mere man?” She laughed.
“My brother hardly deserves his title. I knew this but still wasted many years on him. And a councillor I may be, but in name only—what I truly am is a hostage from an unruly province, standing in for my aging sister.”
Standing in? Yes—he shouldn’t be in Arland at all, but in the Imperial Capital. He had been about to give a speech before the Kamori who lived there. It was only a few words added to what the Commons Council had already decided he should say, but he felt it was important to connect with his countrymen who were living so far away from home.
“Your Majesty,” he said to Loran, realization dawning, “do I dream?”
Ever since he was a young man, he had had mysterious dreams. The ancient Kamori believed that destiny could be foretold through dream visions like these. The wisdom of the Tree Lords, who had interpreted dreams and read fates, had been lost since the Empire’s invasion, but many still believed.
Emere believed. How could he not, when dreams of Loran had haunted him long before he met her for the first time in the Dehan Forest two years ago.
“If this is a dream,” Loran replied, “wouldn’t I be a figment of Prince Emere’s slumbering imagination? Which means you shall wake soon and forget me before breakfast.”
“How could I ever forget you?”
Tears came to his eyes. If indeed they were tears, or his eyes. The rustling in his heart turned into an ache.
Loran smiled. “Dreams are rather futile.”
“We of Kamori do not think so. Just as the astrologers of Marthia believed our fate lay in the stars, we believe there is destiny in our dreams.”
Loran still smiled. “Then I should tell you this now. Prince Emere, you must become king. That is your destiny.”
In an instant, she lost her wings and scales to become a small woman wearing Kamori clothing. On her neck was hert’laran—the tattoo of her clan—and over her left eye was an eyepatch of red cloth. She looked just as she had when they had lunched every day in the underground palace of Kamori.
“Destiny passes by those who stand still,” Loran continued. “Reach out and grasp that which awaits you, up there.”
