The towering walls of P’otes-tat Ulti somehow seemed infinitely more threatening in the dazzling light of day. Their dark stone construction was ominous, hinting to secrets, menace and all-encompassing power within. The tallest peaks were sharp and stabbing as though intending to puncture the serene turquoise blanket of sky above, and the thick fortress of fence around the property beckoned in the blackest souls while simultaneously warding off intruders. A silhouette of the castle-like structure would have indicated not a castle at all but a metropolitan skyline, as there was absolutely no symmetry and a broad variance of shapes and sizes to be found. The Elder City was incredible in its own right, but, for all intents and purposes, it was a terrifying place for anyone but the spare few who had taken to its cavernous rooms and winding corridors as their home.

P’otes-tat Ulti had been the same as it was before me now for many, many years—over a millennium, in fact—and, thus, it did not escape my notice that something was extraordinarily out-of-place. I stood just inside the gates separating the grounds from four of the eleven Albaterran kingdoms with the exquisite and acclaimed doors boasting entrance in front of me, but a vessel unnatural both to P’otes-tat Ulti and to A’li-uud culture in general drew my attention. It was parked in the western courtyard, its matte silver legs disturbing the otherwise smooth emerald grass. Oblong and beastly, the spacecraft was adorned with intricately-patterned protrusions and strips of violet light that blinded me more than the relentless glare of the white midday sun. I knew by sight alone this was not an A’li-uud ship, nor was it human, but I could only theorize that I was looking at a Novain cruiser. If my hypothesis was correct, I was surprised. Zuran had intimated the captain of the Novai had come, and the craft was distinctly lacking in the regality or finesse one would expect from a dignitary’s transport.

Reluctant to linger much longer outdoors and now teeming with curiosity about the purpose of the Novai visit, I hustled from the gates toward the doors. They were closed, as they always were save for entering and exiting Council members, but they were flanked by two P’otes-tat Ulti guards I had come to recognize not by name but by face.

“Elder Venan,” the one on the left greeted, inclining his head. The other mirrored the gesture of the first in respect, and I returned the nod with one of my own. They reached for the thick, head-sized loops and pulled, admitting me into the narrow foyer that opened into the Council chamber.

The chamber was as dank in its appearance as the exterior of the castle. Its perfectly round shape should have offered a sense of intimacy and comradery to those within, but any semblance of comfort provided was nullified by the reaching walls that rose tens of stories overhead. Instead, it left one to feel as if they had been dropped to the bottom of a subterranean pit. The distant ceiling appeared not to be a ceiling at all but a great circular orifice through which the sun or stars above could drop down and scoop up anyone it so desired, though I knew the ceiling actually to be glass rather than nothing at all. The swarthy stones of the curved walls were the same stones of the floor, which granted the illusion that they were interchangeable and gravity had no place in the sacred room.

Eleven high-backed seats resembling thrones more than chairs were placed in a neat circle spanning the circumference of the chamber, each an equal distance from the next and none closer to the center than the other. In their construction, the thrones were identical, but the Elders to whom they belonged had added trinkets and adornments over the years to represent both their time serving on the Council and their kingdoms as a whole. My own seat still reeked of my predecessor and revealed nothing of me, as the patterned cloth draped over the back and strings of golden beads dangling from both arms were the imprints of the late Elder Kharid.

As I entered the chamber and sought my chair, I was surprised to note the absence of over half the Council. The Elders at the rearmost portion of the circle, Rex and Dane, leaders of plains-kingdom Campestria and mountain-kingdom Montemba respectively, were sitting and chatting amongst themselves, and the aged Maquarian Elder Ma’ris had occupied his own throne, but the rest were empty. I slid myself onto my chair, placed two over from Rex, and clasped my hands in my lap without speaking. In the secure privacy of my bedroom back in Ka-lik’et, it was easy to dismiss what I imagined would be strong disapproval for my hair. At the heart of the Elder City, however, I was highly alert with anticipation.

My anticipation was not long unjustified. From across the circle, Ma’ris narrowed his eyes at me, and, in his bubbling garble of diction, he barked sharply, “What has happened to you, boy?”

Rex and Dane’s attention was drawn to me by the sudden call, having not noticed me upon entering as they were deeply engulfed in their conversation. My immediate inclination was to hang my head and fall back further into the shadows sweeping over my chair, but I stopped myself. I had taken the steps necessary toward releasing myself from the prison of Elder approval, constantly toeing the line, and it would not do to backtrack now.

“I am quite well, actually,” I replied as calmly as I could. “How are you, Ma’ris?”

“Surely, you have had an accident.” Generally, Ma’ris was a good-natured A’li-uud with a mild sense of humor, but he was ancient by anyone’s measure and unwaveringly old-fashioned. If any member of the Council would take genuine moral offense to my hair, it was him. “Did you catch fire while you slept?”

Dane shifted in his throne, and I was unable to read his expression in my peripheral vision, but Rex was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and a wide smile on his face. Rex was very much like Zuran: slightly arrogant, eternally youthful, and adventuresome. He did not shy from conflict, and he preferred to view life through a comedic-colored lens. Unlike Zuran, he also had a solid grip on the responsibilities bestowed upon him and thought of others before himself, but it was his similitude to my twin I observed at the particular moment. There was no judgment or disapproval in his features, merely hilarity for the uproar we both knew would soon ensue.

“I did not,” I told Ma’ris. “I cut my hair.”

“Purposefully?” Though it was a single word, he sounded as if he had a mouthful of marbles and I had to digest what I heard before fully understanding.

With a single nod, I said, “Yes.”

He swelled. Ma’ris was a large individual to begin with, broad-shouldered and round-waisted, but his deep inhalation ballooned him to bizarre proportion. The beryl robe sash around his middle strained, the collar spread from his sternum to his clavicle, and his globed cheeks nearly swallowed his nose and mouth. I had seen him highly affronted before, but this was an acrimonious display of which I had never imagined him capable. The peaceable, diplomatic Maquarian seemed on the verge of bursting where he sat.

“Do you understand what you have done?” he hissed, the syllables warbling through his clenched teeth. “Have you the slightest comprehension of the disrespect you show our race?”

“I have spent my life exhibiting nothing but the utmost respect for our race, and every other we have taken upon ourselves to mentor and harbor,” I spat back. My temper was rising at a rate alarming even to me. I was beginning to feel more and more like my brother with each passing day, and this was only another symptom.

“The past is irrelevant when you choose to spit in its face in the present,” Ma’ris returned.

I snorted despite myself. “You are alone in such thinking, Ma’ris. A visit to Dhal’at would prove to you as much. My citizens see me for nothing more than my past, and only my recent past, at that.”

“Is that why you have chosen to make such a horrendous decision as this without consulting the Council?” He spoke hotly, but he was still as composed as an Elder ought to be. I, on the other hand, was not.

“It was unbeknownst to me that I required your endorsement before making personal choices,” I snapped.

Rex’s shoulders were shaking with laughter now, and Dane was insistently prodding him in the shoulder in a failing attempt to calm him. I ignored both as Ma’ris snapped his head forward and peered up at me beneath discerning eyelids. “This is a political statement, then,” he said, the revulsion evident in his tone.

“This is my liberation from the darkest days I have lived.” I no longer needed to try to remain calm; the calmness coursed through me like blood, flowing through my veins and soothing the rile within. There was no argument to be had. It was too late to turn back, and if the Council felt I needed to surrender my seat as punishment for my decision, so be it. I would have done the same regardless of my political status. “Undoubtedly, you recall those days well, do you not? It was you, along with the rest, who prolonged them beyond tolerance, after all.”

Ma’ris made a small, rumbling snarl of a sound and tossed his head. Clumped, pearlescent hair that appeared to be dripping wet even in the dimness of the chamber whipped the high throne back before settling over his shoulders.

“We shall see what Vi’den has to say,” he retorted icily.

As if on cue, the one of the doors opposite the chamber’s entrance swung open, and Vi’den strolled into the circular room with the rest of the missing Elders following closely behind. Most failed to notice me or my hair, instead beelining for their seats, but a few glimpsed me briefly before doubling back for a second startled glance. I cared not what they thought. Though the Council claimed itself to be an equal and united power, it was widely understood the Council began and ended with Vi’den, though the understanding was hardly of his doing. If there was one Elder since Kharid’s passing whose approval I sought unendingly, it was Vi’den. If there was one Elder since Kharid’s passing I most feared disappointing, it was also Vi’den.

His eyes flicked around the room, white orbs shooting from one face to the next, until they met mine. I saw him gaze upward at my scalp, and I watched the corners of his mouth turn down. My fingers curled around the arms of my chair in apprehension for the strife to come, but, to my surprise, he did not speak. Instead, he simply continued looking around the circle until everyone was seated and silent.

Then, without traditional preface, he said gravely, “I ask you to welcome Captain Arguute Hett.”