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 litter, 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 retracted, and the gates groaned inward on greased metal cogwheels, slowly revealing a scene of splendour.

Soldier-mages drilled in formation, 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 her.

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. 

Other impossibilities crowded the skyline, built as casually as if gravity were only a suggestion. She had seen these marvels daily since accepted into the Magekadeh, but her breath still caught with unease and admiration. 

Each day they passed a darkened archway in the eastern wall. Within it was constructed an immense cage, bars of glittering inscribed metal bespelled 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.