Transfixed with horror and fear, Lord Boggond watched another spire of orange flame blaze against the night sky.

The Governor’s Palace burned. Its many windows blew open, their magnificent stained-glass shattering. The wooden structures inside cracked and crumpled, and the roof began to collapse.

His mother appeared in one of the windows on the third floor. She leaned out with her arms outstretched. “Molm, my boy, help me! Get me out of here!”

What was she doing in his palace? Why wasn’t she with Father at the estate? What was going on?

There was nothing Lord Boggond could do for her. The fire was too powerful, too out of control. The wind kept stoking it, spreading the flames. The building screeched and sputtered as the raging inferno engulfed wing after wing and floor after floor.

Lord Boggond couldn’t protect his mother from it, just as she’d been unable to protect her teenage son from whoever had poisoned him.

Wait! He wasn’t fourteen anymore—he was fifty-four now.

His parents were dead.

And this… this was a nightmare.

He woke up drenched in cold sweat, panting, and dazed from his vivid dream. As a result, he’d spend the rest of the day, and maybe even the next, feeling like his brain had been spun in a drum and wrung out. That’s what happened when he awoke from the dreaded nightmare—the same since he was fourteen—before the voice.

He sat up in his bed and rang for his manservant.

When he was younger, the dream would be slightly different. The family mansion would explode and go up in flames, and his parents would scream and writhe as fire consumed them. He’d howl, angry, helpless, and scared.

And unless he woke up at that point, he’d hear the voice. Mild and soothing, it would talk to him from inside his head, tell him he shouldn’t be afraid, that no harm would come to him, and everything would be fine.

Lord Boggond would calm down, listen.

The voice would speak to him of his future and his destiny. Of how he, Lord Molm Boggond, an heir to one of Xereill’s oldest and purest lines, was special. It would tell him he was fated to become a great leader and to ally himself with another great leader—his would-be mentor. Together, they would tame the chaotic galaxy and change it forevermore. During their exceptionally long rule, they’d mold and shape Xereill in a way that would be immutable. No one would ever erase their legacy.

His mouth dry, Lord Boggond fumbled for the switch of his bedside power candle. He couldn’t find it.

Where the hell is Shollin? What’s taking him so long?

After Lord Boggond’s mysterious poisoning at fourteen, he’d spent a week between life and death, unconscious. The dream and the voice started after that.

The first part was always the same—a fire from hell destroying everything Lord Boggond held dear—but the message the voice delivered varied. Sometimes, it told him what to do. Other times, what not to do. And on those rare occasions he hadn’t heeded the advice, it explained to him why that was wrong.

It was tempting to conclude that Lord Boggond was a rich-blood with a gift of clairvoyance. The first rich-blood on Hente in two centuries! But Lord Boggond didn’t want to jump to conclusions. The voice could also be a form of madness—a malfunction of his brain caused by the poisoning. Until he was sure, he was going to keep those dreams to himself.

Shollin knocked and entered Lord Boggond’s bedroom, rubbing his eyes and apologizing for his informal attire.

Informal, indeed. His manservant had dared to show up in slipper socks and a robe thrown over his nightshirt. Lord Boggond would’ve forgiven him for skipping the livery, but he should’ve made the effort to don his trousers, shoes, and a day shirt.

Shollin turned the lights on and handed him a glass of water.

Emptying it, Lord Boggond glanced at the clock on the wall. It was four in the morning. He might as well get up.

“Run me a bath,” he ordered, his irritation gone. “And tell the cook to prepare a light breakfast.”

Oh well, Shollin had arrived reasonably quickly, though not as quickly as he used to. Lord Boggond was a nobleman. He wasn’t going to harangue his aging manservant for his failings.

He’d just replace him.

Over breakfast, Lord Boggond perused Ultek’s latest report. It was little more than a compilation of hearsay and rumors put together by his spooks. Most of it was about an underground movement formed in the wake of Sebi’s escape and death. They called themselves the “Association.” Their goal was to prevent Lord Boggond from becoming Eia’s plenipotentiary and absolute ruler.

The report contained no names, no places, and nothing concrete.

Those people were careful. And too few to make a difference. Ultek’s secret police and their rats were working to learn more, including who funded the Association, if they were linked to Teteum, and how exactly they planned to fight Lord Boggond.

Will they back an alternative candidate?

Lord Boggond pushed his now-cold fried eggs to the side. A new—warm—plate was served at once.

Good. At least kitchen staff was more awake than Shollin. He took a bite.

If Achlins Ghaw decided to run, and the Association backed him, it would give Ultek a great pretext to arrest the reporter. Unless… unless Lord Boggond chose to do nothing.

Ghaw was widely admired for his courage and unrelenting search for the truth. That much couldn’t be denied. On paper, he sounded like a formidable adversary. But when Lord Boggond first saw him in person at a press conference many months ago, he knew Ghaw wasn’t governor material. Too skinny, too short, too gray-haired and gray-skinned, he dressed like a rural teacher and spoke in a winded, tobacco-ruined voice. He lacked the late Governor Iorasu’s legitimacy, Sebi’s charisma, and Dreggo’s academic influence.

In short, Ghaw wasn’t a serious threat.

Perhaps he should tell Voqras and Ultek to let him be for now. Perhaps he’d even let him run for governor. The move would prove to Lord Boggond’s critics and to the LOR Certified Observers that he wasn’t trying to gag the people’s voice or twist their arm.

As if “the people” knew what was good for them!

Finishing his breakfast, Lord Boggond headed to the briefing room where Voqras, Mahabmet, Yemella, Ultek, and Heidd were waiting.

After each of them gave Lord Boggond an update, Ultek raised the matter of the Gokks.

“What about them?” Lord Boggond asked.

“I’d like to question them with the truth serum,” Ultek said.

Lord Boggond frowned. “Why?”

“I suspect them of having helped your enemies, Your Grace—Areg Sebi and Etana Tidryn.”

“May I remind you, Chief Ultek, that Geru Gokk helped us eliminate them?” Voqras said.

Ultek shot him a nasty look. “May I remind you, Captain Voqras, that Geru Gokk had asked Etana for her hand in marriage? He helped us because he was hoping to save her.”

Commander Heidd squared his shoulders. “Whatever you decide, please remember the Gokks are the army’s biggest and most reliable supplier of level-one machinery.”

“So what?” Ultek shrugged. “If I prove they’d supported Sebi, we’ll arrest the lot of them, expropriate their factories and put someone new in charge.”

“It won’t work,” Heidd said.

Yemella shifted her eyes from Voqras to the commander. “Why not?”

“The Gokks’ workers aren’t tenured. Many—especially the most qualified ones—might quit. His business partners might be unwilling to work with the new guy. That would create a disruption, which could prove one disruption too many for the army.”

“The Gokks are a law-abiding family,” Judge Mahabmet said. “They may not be noble-born but their morals are above reproach.”

“So are mine.” Ultek stared into the judge’s eyes daring him to say otherwise.

Mahabmet shut his mouth and looked away.

Coward. Which was a good thing, Lord Boggond reminded himself. He needed cowards around him.

People like Mahabmet—still enjoying certain respect among the populace, but too scared to try anything against Lord Boggond—were perfect for his purposes. Voqras and Ultek were both extremely useful, but their lack of ethics was a double-edged sword.

It came handy when he needed them to do his dirty work. But it was dangerous, too. Voqras would do anything Horbell told him to do, even if it went against Lord Boggond’s interests. Ultek’s perverse hobby was becoming a nuisance. But, above all, Lord Boggond had no idea where their limits were. Or if they had any.

He needed more people like Mahabmet. He’d been under the impression that Commander Heidd was cut from the same cloth as the judge.

But for reasons he couldn’t quite pinpoint, he was beginning to doubt.