Free Veiled Empire by Nathan Garrison

without hesitation.
    “ . . . simply don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
    The words came from a familiar figure: General Masri Genrasco, the daeloth commander of all forty thousand troops stationed in the prefecture. She was dressed in the typical armor of her kind: thick steel, jagged, meant to appear imposing in stark shades of black and red. Blond hair curled toward her jawline, looking odd, as ever, against the mahogany skin all daeloth possessed. On the back of her neck and hands, scales glittered in azure globelight.
    Prefect Hezraas stared her down. A feat, considering how short he was, even for a mierothi. Whatever retort he had planned died on his lips as he swung his gaze towards Mevon. “About time you got here.”
    “Honored one.” Mevon bowed his head, then forced Jasside to her knees and stepped in front of her—a formality indicating that she was unimportant and could wait until more pressing matters were discussed. “I hear there’s some trouble?”
    The prefect barely glanced at Jasside. “Your penchant for understatement is ever amusing, Daere.”
    “What’s going on?”
    Masri nearly growled. “It’s the voltensus. Someone . . . destroyed it.”
    “ What? How is that possible?”
    The general looked searchingly at Hezraas, who flopped down onto his cushioned throne. The prefect fidgeted with his embroidered silk pants. He grumbled under his breath for a few moments, rage evident in his eyes. “We don’t know,” he said at last.
    Mevon frowned. The voltensus was a crucial part of Mevon’s job, for without it, there was no reliable way to detect sorcerers who were casting without a legally purchased Sanction. Of more immediate concern, though, was the fact that he thought the things were indestructible.
    Clearly not.
    “I see,” Mevon said eventually.
    “It gets worse,” said Masri. “We sent almost two full battalions in to contain matters, but over the course of two days, we lost contact with my field commanders.”
    “All of them?”
    Masri’s face went blank, a sign, Mevon knew, that she was struggling to rein in her fury. “Every last one.”
    “I’m sending most of our remaining forces,” Hezraas said. “The bastards will find themselves in an ever-tightening cage.” He pounded a fist on the arm of his throne. “They will not escape us!”
    Mevon frowned at the prefect for his childish display. Feeling the pressure from Mecrithos, are we?
    “Also,” Masri said, “we’re fairly certain these insurgents have a cadre of powerful sorcerers with them. So, we’ll need you to—”
    “You presume to give me orders, daeloth?” said Mevon.
    The general’s eyes widened as she casually dropped a hand to the shortsword at her hip.
    “This is my order,” said the prefect. “And you’d better deliver. Both of you. All eyes are on us, and if either of you screw it up . . .” Hezraas hissed, spraying spittle through gritted teeth. “Just know that whatever price I pay will be magnified tenfold to you.”
    Mevon eyed Masri coolly, a look she returned, but they both provided Hezraas with an expected nod of understanding and obedience.
    “If I am to go,” Mevon said, “then I take it the rumors concerning my peers are true?”
    “What have you heard?” asked the prefect.
    “Only that they’re missing. What’s happened to them?”
    Masri and Hezraas shared a silent glance. Slowly, they turned back to face Mevon, and for the second time he heard those infuriating words: “We don’t know.”
    Mevon clenched his jaw. Too much coincidence. All of this reeks of a guiding hand. Someone has been planning these events for a long time. He felt his eyes instinctively drawn down and behind him. She couldn’t have had anything to do with it, right?
    “What do we know about our enemy, then?” he asked.
    “Next to nothing,” said Masri. “But I did receive a brief commune from a lieutenant. He died only moments after beginning his message, but he did manage to