Izzi strode purposefully through the courtyard between neatly kept trees. The nightjars pretended she could not see them in their hiding place for the day, and she duly pretended she could not see them either, or the little sand cat that was folded down onto its haunches in leaf fall, panting slit-eyed in the early heat.

Guards pulled back the heavy wooden gates and she started down the stone steps. After his usual slanted nod of acknowledgement, Hakim fell in close behind, daggers and scimitars prominent.

Even in normal times the narrow streets of Zakra were crowded with citizens and travellers, but now local tribespeople camped in the squares around the perpetual fountains, and refugees from even as far as the mines huddled in shadowed alcoves. 

At the sight of Hakim the throng parted. Izzi kept her gaze ahead as was proper, most pointedly ignoring the refugees who squabbled over the dole of bread and dates. She felt for them, but nothing she could do would help.

She climbed the forty wide stone steps behind Hakim, the morning sun already hot upon her shoulders. At the spy-port, Hakim presented her father’s official token, and discreetly slipped a coin through the grate. A brassy mechanical hand withdrew, and the gates groaned inward on greased metal cogwheels, slowly revealing a scene of splendour.

Soldier-mages, formed up in a precision parade, practised an intricate drill, scarlet and tan robes billowing as they chanted a battle-hymn, swords flashing in identical arcs. Izzi shied back for a moment at the sheer might of their display, but she felt a thrill of zeal—one day she might join their ranks, defending Zakra with such valour and skill. 

Beyond loomed the king’s palace, its vast halls and arches built for the passage of giants. Arrogant spires of ochre stone pierced the skyline, crowned with domes shimmering like polished jewels—garnet, amber, and blazing orange. She squinted, the dazzling swords and fiery reflections overwhelming.

One slender tower rotated gently and ceaselessly, suspended by some magian enchantment. It bore a glass dome, and figures moved within. She often wondered what it would be like, a life that could never be hers. 

Nearby, a cluster of towers was impossibly inverted, balanced on needle-thin columns of translucent crystal. They swayed in mesmerising synchrony, defying the natural laws that should dash them to rubble. She had seen these marvels daily since accepted into the Magekadeh, but her breath still caught with unease and admiration. 

Each day their passage led beside a darkened archway of the eastern wall. Within was constructed an immense cage, bars of glittering inscribed metal be-spelled to hold a legend. A rukh perched inside, back hunched against the top of the cage. Its wings opened briefly, immense feathers brushing the cage’s limits—each brazen plume longer than Izzi was tall. A gust, pungent with the scent of stale feathers and captive rage, made her cough, her eyes watering. The bird’s golden stare speared her with terror—she could not look away until it blinked.

Alongside the palace’s reflection pool, ebony towers spiralled upward like the horns of devils, almost daring to reach the height of  King Shahram’s palace. At their bases rigid formations of brass automatons stood, metal sentinels with faces frozen in expressionless masks. Though they appeared lifeless, occasionally a polished head would twist fractionally, soullessly tracking her movement. 

Beyond shimmering hedges an expanse of enchanted gardens rose. Stories whispered of luminous blossoms drifting gently on perfumed breezes, vines coiling languidly of their own accord, and mysterious, orange-furred beings suspended from branches by serpent-like tails. Seeing the wonders wrought into the architecture, these tales were easy to believe. She yearned to wander those paths, but venturing where she had no business meant certain death. Hakim strode purposefully, and she quickened her steps to match his pace, pulse racing. 

No matter how wondrous the surface, she always needed courage for what awaited beneath.

Ranks of motionless automatons flanked the entrance to a low stone building beneath one of the black towers. Izzi felt their empty gazes follow her. Hakim, forbidden to enter, would return at the fifth afternoon bell. He gave his familiar slanted nod and a wry smile, but could not hide his quiet relief at being permitted to retreat. She responded with her usual forced grin, steeled herself, and stepped through the warded archway.

She inspected the regularly changed carvings and silently mouthed the correct words. A stone staircase became apparent, and she started down into the Magekadeh. As a trained novice, she knew how to choose the correct path through the shifting labyrinth, and descended confidently even though the light failed. She ignored the few acolytes rushing on errands, forcing them to swerve around her, but deferred herself when a partly visible creature drifted though, chanting guttural whispers.

Izzi felt the oppressive weight of stone above, the immense knowledge and power of the Magekadeh—but refused to let herself feel small. She knew her mother’s wild, desert-born sorcery could easily outmatch the rigid, ritual-laden magic of the magians, with their endless emphasis on discipline and precision. Still, she was learning, and that was satisfying—infinitely better than the alternative: the dull, restrictive studies for young women at the fire temple.

The usual training hall was dark, as always, but she had no trouble finding Beena and Nele beside an intricate sandstone column, their faces dappled with triangles of sunlight from the prism-fed light-wells. They stood apart from the other clusters of students, their conversation hushed but animated. 

“Omid is not here, I notice,” little Nele was saying, her large clear eyes darting about, never still, missing nothing. They caught Izzi’s for a moment, blinked in recognition, then flitted away to resume their scan.

“Yesterday he failed to attract any wiles at all,” Beena said. “If I don’t step up today, I might go the same way.” She shuddered and closed her deep-set dark eyes for a long moment. The words remained unspoken, but they all understood—if Beena was sent down it would be the second time, and that was it. If she couldn’t perform, she was no more useful to the king than any other refugee. And being a Kyth in the land of her enemies, her future without this chance was bleak.

“It won’t come to that,” Nele said. “You squeak like a mouse, but you fight like a fennec fox.”

Beena smiled at that. “I just don’t have the ears.” 

Izzi saw her ears were just the right size—poking just a little through her heavy hanging black hair. Beena caught her staring.

“What, no backhanded compliment today Izzi? What is wrong with you?” Beena’s tiny mouth was twisted into her usual smile of pinched-off humour.

Izzi forced out her own smile. She saw Nele’s gaze dart away again into the darkness, then those huge eyes closed to slits, and Nele moved into a defensive position, one they had all been taught early, muscles and mind ready. It looked slightly amusing on her small frame, but seeing her in action always wiped away any smiles.

“If Beena is a fennec, then you are a meerkat Nele,” Izzi whispered. She’d been vigilant from the moment she’d entered,  though trying to seem relaxed. A different kind of preparedness.

Mogh Kalu never came in the main entrance, though Izzi knew no other way. Every student stood tense and wary. Nele had sensed something, but his appearance was never simple. The weight of expectation seemed to suck a vacuum in the air, like the in-draw before a sandstorm, and Izzi was not sure which way to face. Then the pressure released directly above them with a snap, and the air began to spin with increasing speed, until it ripped open with a howling banshee shriek. Floating tokens appeared, whirling above the training floor like embers caught in an updraft, gleaming opalescent sigils of light. It was an unspoken rule—there were never enough. Slow meant done-for. Izzi leapt for a sigil.