Gareth looked around at the crowd, curious to see their reactions. As a whole, the people seemed to be enjoying the show, but one young man stood out to Gareth. He frowned up at Egil as if annoyed. That was certainly odd, but what really caught Gareth’s attention was the familiar deep red cloak hanging from the man’s shoulders. He’d seen the same one gracing the stage not half an hour ago.

When the Oracle’s actress looked the young man’s way, he made a funny face, the kind Gareth might make to get Ofelia to stop crying. The actress quickly averted her eyes, mouth turned down at the corners like she was fighting a smile.

The narrator laughed, and before Gareth could look away, his eyes met Gareth’s own. Even from that distance, Gareth was struck by how dark they were – dark and cold. He was clearly human, but there was something decidedly other about him, in the same way the Oracle was other.

Gareth couldn’t say which looked away first, but when he finally refocused on the play, he found he had missed a large part of it. He’d heard the story enough times to know what had happened – Egil investigated the plot, discovered it was conceived by the King’s own brother. Though heartbroken over his uncle’s betrayal, the prince promised to help Egil stop him, and together, they’d laid a trap for the traitor. Gareth refocused on the play, trying to ignore the strange chill of the narrator’s eyes on him.

Egil fought the uncle with choreography that danced across the stage. At the fight’s climax, the uncle stumbled, Egil held his hand out, and a shower of sparks shot out from some contraption in the stage floor. Spectators in the front row jumped at the sudden light, but soon cheered.

That was another thing Gareth loved about Egil stories – their magic. The sheer impossibility of them. They were a break from reality, where magic didn’t exist and never had, where achieving the impossible was only ever a dream.

With the uncle’s defeat, the show was over. Gareth, Isobel, and Ofelia stayed for the curtain call, but by unspoken agreement, they were all done for the day. On their way out of the festival, Isobel asked, “Are we meeting your sister for dinner tonight?”

“I believe so,” Gareth said. “I’ll drop by the island and check. Ofelia, would you like to come and say hello to your Aunt Moira?”

Ofelia blinked at him.

“I think it’s nap time for this one,” Isobel said, smiling down at the six-year-old. “And myself as well.”

“I’ll see you back home, then. Hopefully with Moira in tow.”

Gareth kissed Isobel goodbye and watched her and Ofelia disappear into the crowd. He stood still for a moment, letting the movement of the crowd part and flow around him, still thinking about heroes and history. Finally, he turned and walked toward Unity Island, remembering the more immediate intrigue: the urgent telegram Unity received from Illyon.

Gareth passed through the iron gate onto the Great Unity Bridge, pausing halfway across to lean as far as he could over the wall. He didn’t fear the old stones giving way beneath him; they’d stood for two thousand years and they’d stand for two thousand more. Beneath his hands, they were cold, weathered, and solid.

Hungry black water churned below, the bridge arching high above it, untouched. To Gareth, this bridge marked a passage between worlds. Above, below. Unity, Gallontea. The change started somewhere after the third set of lamp posts; Gallontea fell behind and the bridge stretched ahead until all that remained was Unity, standing alone against a gray sky and an ocean that stretched on without end.

Those who lived elsewhere referred to the two places synonymously – Gallontea meant Unity and Unity meant Gallontea. But anyone who’d seen both places couldn’t possibly think them the same.

Physically, “Unity” referred to an island roughly the size of a small city located off the coast, set apart from the mainland to create an illusion of impartiality. Unity was more than that, of course – a governing body made of a collection of provinces spanning the continent. And even where Unity wasn’t in control it was.

But Gallontea was just a city – one that fell under Unity’s banner, same as countless others.

Gareth passed onto the cobblestone streets of the island, winding his way to the massive building that housed the courtroom and representatives’ offices. Pale sunslight lit the foyer inside, hazy beams that greeted Gareth with tender touches. Some of the crowd from the conferences still lingered here, grouped in clusters and speaking in whispers. Those nearest Gareth looked over as he entered, their conversations cutting off, resuming as soon as they realized Gareth was no one important.

Gareth tried to overhear the whispered conversations as he slipped past but caught only pieces.

“-All the way from Illyon,” one man said to his friends.

At the next group, a nympherai whispered, “It’s the alfar King. I hear he’s sick.”

Passing a third group, Gareth caught only one word: “Orinians.”

By the time he’d passed security and reached the end of the hall, Gareth’s curiosity blazed brighter than before. He hurried up the wide staircase to the representatives’ offices. At the top, the hallway split off in three directions, one for each of Calaidia’s species. The hallway straight ahead was widest and tallest; Gareth doubted even the tallest dragons reached the ceiling there. They didn’t grow much taller than draft horses, usually.

The hallways to the right and left stood at a more reasonable height. Gareth turned left, toward the humans’ offices.

He didn’t make it far before the sound of muffled voices stopped him in his tracks. They came from behind the closed doors of a typically-empty hearing room. He approached and stood on the tips of his toes to peer in through one of the narrow-paneled windows.

Inside sat the human Magistrate and all fifteen species Representatives, three from each of the five Unity provinces. Gareth had known them all since childhood, but at the end of the table stood two people he didn’t recognize. They were all angles, wiry and sharp. Instead of Unity robes, they wore rich suits with bright accents, made in a style Gareth had never seen in Gallontea. He’d only seen clothes so elegant on research trips to Alfheim.

Something about them struck Gareth as familiar. The woman, especially. Her hair, spun like delicate threads of gold, hung in waves around her and fell to her knees, but it failed to hide the strength of her movements. She moved with the coiled grace of a stalking cat and glared at the Representatives, a fire in her gaze that threatened to melt anything in her way.

By contrast, the man beside her was cold. He judged the politicians from behind eyes blue like fractured ice and found them wanting. He had the same strong build as his companion, the same catlike grace. He said something in response to a representative’s comment, and Gareth noticed an old scar that stretched from his cheekbone to his jaw.

The two could be siblings. Gareth wondered who they were, what brought them here. He remembered the whispers of Illyon and alfar Kings he’d heard downstairs.

He didn’t notice his sister, sitting near the doors facing Gareth. He was too busy trying to read the scarred man’s lips to notice her excuse herself. As Gareth watched, the man looked up. Their eyes met and Gareth took a surprised step back, and that’s when the door opened into him. A burst of sound came with it, layered voices arguing, that cut off again as the door drifted shut.

“What are you doing here?” Moira whispered.

“Reminding you of your dinner plans,” Gareth said. “What’s going on in there?”

Moira glanced back at the door. Not even a full decade older than Gareth, she already looked haggard, hair graying and exhaustion dragging her movements. Unity’s conference season was always hard on her. “We’re almost done here; are you willing to wait?”

Gareth shrugged. “I’ve nowhere else to be.”

“Wait for me in my office, then,” Moira said, passing Gareth her keys.

Moira returned to the conference room and Gareth continued on to her office, feeling strange unlocking it himself. Everything inside was exactly as their father had left it, except that a few new books sat on the shelves. Being here set Gareth on edge, dragged him back through childhood memories, so he poured himself a drink from the crystal carafe Moira kept filled while he waited.

He wandered to the window and watched the ocean crash against white cliffs.

When Moira finally arrived, Gareth was still frowning out the window. She didn’t greet him, just marched over, took the drink from his hand, and drained it in one go.

“Rough day?” Gareth asked.

Moira ignored him, dropping into her desk chair and burying her face in her hands. Gareth waited a moment before asking, “What happened?”

“Gareth,” Moira began. She lifted her head and fixed Gareth with an intent, considering look. “You’re loyal to Unity, aren’t you?”

Gareth blinked. “Of course.”

“Good. If I recall, you’ve visited Orean before, haven’t you?”

“Uh,” Gareth said, eloquently. He disliked discussing Orean with Moira – their views differed drastically on the subject. Orean was independent from Unity, and Unity didn’t like it. Never had. Moira shared Unity’s opinion on all things, but Gareth was fond of Orean. Under Moira’s hard stare, he conceded, “We visit in the winter sometimes.”

“You know it well, then?”

“Not well, but better than I know Gallontea. Why?”

“Oh, no reason, Gareth.” Moira sat back, tapped her fingers against her desk. “Orean came up in the discussion earlier, and I was merely curious.”

“Who were those people?” Gareth asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

“The Princess Nochdvor and her cousin, Leandros.”

“Nochdvor,” Gareth repeated. That explained why the woman looked familiar – she looked like her father. Gareth had met Amos Nochdvor once, as a child. He’d never forget. The alfar had been a vision, just what a young boy imagined a powerful foreign King should look like. “They’re alfar, then?”

“Yes, some of the last full-blooded alfar still alive. I’m surprised that wasn’t obvious.”

It was, in hindsight. Their sharpness, their grace. Gareth hadn’t been close enough to see the subtle features that would have given it away – point-tipped ears, long-fingered hands. Remembering the conversations happening downstairs, Gareth blurted, “The King’s not sick, is he?”

Moira hesitated a beat before answering, “Not sick, no. Not as far as I’m aware.”

“So why were the Princess and Mr. Nochdvor-?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure. This isn’t something that can be kept secret for long. But whatever you hear, remember your promise of loyalty. Unity may call on you for your expertise in the near future.”

“What expertise? Can’t you just tell me-,”

“Not yet,” Moira said with a note of finality Gareth knew better than to push back on. “All in good time. Now, what did you say brought you here?”

“Dinner.”

“Right. I’m terribly sorry, Gareth; I don’t think I’ll make it tonight. How about sometime next week instead?”

“Sure, Moira,” Gareth promised, seeing himself out. In the hallway he leaned back against Moira’s closed door, his mind fighting to understand the implication of her words. It was getting him nowhere, so he eventually pushed off the door and started the trek back to his hotel.