CHAPTER ELEVEN◄CHAPTER TWELVE►CHAPTER THIRTEEN

In spite of the calamities of the civil war that swirled around Siva, the royal capital of Shaleth was an exception, save for when the rogue duke and his rebels had brought war to its doorstep during the time of Phaziah Ishigar’s grandfather. The celebration of that victory was actually on the agenda for the High King today as he stepped into private viewing box at the Arena of Idoqa, Shaleth’s grandest track for Rakvah racing that showcased the pompous, greedy nature of the Sivathi nobility and upper classes, with a many privileged middle class attendees and the odd commoner who’d found their way in or had won their tickets in some lottery.

The arena itself had been named for the original matriarch of the Ishigar dynasty, High Queen Idoqa, carved of the finest alabaster that could be found on the planet and its infield planted with the most lush oasis grass that could be acquired. She’d been a patron of the sport and one of the first female Sivathi to make a name for herself as a breeder and owner of many famous racing Rakvah in a realm that was dominated mostly by wealthy Sivathi men and nobles. Granted, her money and royal power had given her a leg up in that regard, so her image as a “pioneer” in erasing barriers was a bit flawed, and even in doing so the classist state of the whole sport and its culture had always been the real barrier that needed to be eroded away. All the tracks of Siva, the owners growing rich off the breeding and winnings, the decadence in the stands and the infield of drunken Sivathi as far as the eye could see—it was one of the ultimate signs of privilege and power over the lesser castes, and Phaziah Ishigar and his underlings would have it no other way. The very idea of even sharing this sacred tradition with the common masses and slaves was laughable.

Yet, the common folk and slaves were expected to pull their weight in making it operate, even though all the festivities were strictly forbidden to them, save for the exceptional few who’d won their way in. The stable hands of the Rakvah were all common Sivathi, many of whom had taken the jobs under the reason that they’d never even touch such a business in their lives otherwise. The slaves were relegated to the more mundane tasks of cleaning the arena and its grounds, serving the guests, and so on.

But not all who were there today were there to revel in fun and games. The High King’s newest acquisition—a male Rakvah named Gefo’s Shimmer—was on schedule to be raced for the first time today, and with it came a whole new staff, breeders, and more. What he’d anticipated to be a purchase to flaunt his royal prestige, just as his ancestor Idoqa had done, was going to cause him more problems than he could hope to take on, all stemming from the hasty acquisition he couldn’t be bothered to look into on his own time.

Such matters like his wife, his generals, and admirals were what occupied his time. They’d followed him here on even such an occasion as this. No sooner had the noble king strode into his private box in the arena, his wife and the always snarling Kruva had followed close behind. The reptilian pet was gnawing on some chew toy in barbaric fashion; a total insult to the grandeur and civility that should have been the monarchy, but Zoba Ishigar insisted on taking it with her everywhere she went.

Teth Grisha, the general who’d failed in uncovering the hidden Confederate forces of Lathga Province, recoiled a bit in fear as Kruva nipped at him when he lingered too close, quickly scurrying to the side of the High King along with the new commanding officer of what was to be the renewed strategy against the southern pole, Gavrioth Josavak. Unlike the short, sniveling general of the backwater of Lathga Province, he was a stoic, stern general who’d been put in charge of shoring up defenses in that very place, as well as Yerusa Province, the strongest realm that bordered the Confederates in the south. A multitude of service medals and ribbons adorned the breast of his tunic, the shoulder boards of his uniform striped and outranking Teth Grisha by a whole three grades. The High King knew that he had placed a man of much higher standing in charge of salvaging the disastrous offensive that had taken place, and that Teth Grisha was just along for the ride. His assurances that he could redeem himself by helping in restructuring retreating forces had only been a promise to shut him up and appease his incredibly shallow nerves in the hope that he’d avert the High King’s wrath. Seeing him so fearful of his wife’s nuisance of a pet only proved that point.

“There’s still no word on my daughter,” the High King whispered to General Josavak, making sure the lowlier Teth Grisha did not hear. He still only entrusted his loyal nobles, the lifeguards, and a select few generals with the secret. “It’s been days since I’ve dispatched my lifeguards.”

“We’re ready to respond at a moment’s notice, your Highness,” General Josavak said, curling his lip upward in disgust as he felt Teth Grisha nudge into him as he bounded away from the Sila in the queen consort’s arms. He nonchalantly shoved him away out of earshot as he continued the secretive details of the discussion with Phaziah Ishigar. “The conscriptions that you’ve ordered are being sent to Yerusa Province as we speak to prepare against the attack we expect from the Confederacy, according to our spies in the Confederate Congress, in addition to diverting many of the retreating forces there. But we’re not neglecting Lathga Province, either. A secondary line of defense will be assembled there by remnants of our retreating armies, ready to be unleashed when the anticipated Confederate attack comes—and fails. When they fail, we shall push southward again and take Halaj Province once and for all. But the bulk is in Yerusa, mustering in the provincial capital of Vathora.”

Teth Grisha had caught the tail end of the conversation, specifically kept out of the words regarding the High King’s daughter, as he was too low in rank to be privy to such things. Hoping to make a case for himself and his good deeds, he added on to what he had heard, wanting to make it seem as if his secondary front mattered. “General Josavak is quite right, your Majesty,” he said as he followed the High King to the viewing window of the private box, looking out to the track below as he idly picked a few cheeses and meats of the tray of a passing slave, stuffing his face with the stuff. “My forces in Lathga Province have already formed a defensive line and are receiving remnants of the retreating Crown Army. We’ll be ready to counterstrike as soon as we are instructed.”

“It will be a battle of titanic proportions should they try and thrust themselves against that place,” the High King said, eyeing his wife out of the corner of his eyes as she wandered off to socialize with several other noblewomen, going on and on about the latest decor of their homes and palaces, court gossip, and bragging about their own fashion. “Not only on the ground, but in the skies as well. Every passing day I fear that the colonial brethren of the Confederacy’s ally on the moons of Sagathra will send their navy against is in an attack. I’m half inclined to think that it will happen in concert with their move against Yerusa.”

“The admirals are on full alert as well, High King,” the general said, observing the field of Rakvah, their riders, and the spectators as Teth Grisha continued to eat gluttonously beside him. “And rest assured, in the extremely unlikely event that we were to be defeated, our losses could be counteracted in short order, unlike the Confederacy. We don’t even have to win a battle in the heavens. We only need to damage them enough to the point where we can eliminate the threat of them ever attacking again, or better yet, enabling us to waltz in and retake the moons of Sagathra for ourselves. But they first need convincing of even attacking us in a decisive naval battle at all. They are still wary of conducting such an operation against us, but we fear that they’ll be emboldened by a move against Yerusa. It is all yet to be seen.”

“Or they’re convinced by some delegate of the Confederate Congress to make a move,” Teth Grisha said between a mouthful of food. Though an annoyance, he was right in this statement, and the High King couldn’t ignore it. Some representative of the enemy could make a case for the allies of the Confederacy on Rovoth—the anchorage of the practically stationary navy—to come forth and wage a battle against the Crown of Siva over the planet itself.

Phaziah Ishigar sighed to himself as he mulled over all these thoughts, feeling overwhelmed to some degree. This was supposed to be an occasion when he could relax and enjoy himself at the races, yet all the troubles of the war followed him here as well, not to mention the anxieties of not having an update from the lifeguards on the status of his daughter. Doing his best to set them aside, he began to fill a plate from the banquet table, piling it high with Kethra fruit, breads, and fish caught from the moon of Tirag. As he began to eat, the High King’s eyes settled on the stables where the Rakvah stood. He smiled at seeing the rider and stable hand hard at work preparing Gefo’s Shimmer for his debut race. It was one thing to see the Rakvah fully armored on parade in his unit of household troops, but to see the beast in its pureness, draped only by its saddle and desert silks, brought a pleasure all its own that could not be matched. If only he could hear what was transpiring down below.

The lowly stable hand, a gray furred Sivathi named Pakta, was off in the corner of the stall discussing something with the rider, the famed jockey Veth Kaia who hailed from the middle classes and sporting a spotted coat of black and cream. Both came from the north pole province of Jatha, the cousin to Halaj Province. Jatha Province was now a Confederate aligned region that the Crown of Siva was eager to retake in the near future, and Pakta and Veth Kaia hadn’t forgotten where their allegiances were placed before their home had fallen under Confederate control. At least, that’s what they wanted everybody to believe.

For a plot was afoot that the two had been scheming up for months now. They’d been so far removed from the rebel provinces of the poles or anywhere else after having been caught up in the racing industry for so long that they never could have hoped to assist the Confederacy of Liberation from inside Shaleth or its neighbors. At least, not until they’d cooked up this plot. As they lived there, they outwardly supported the machinations and decisions of the High King and his nobles, playing the part of obedient subjects. But on the inside, they had seen the worst of the Sivathi noble society play out in this sport, and being so near to it, they had chosen that today would be the day they took action where they could not assist the Confederacy otherwise.

Veth Kaia adjusted the straps of his flowing yellow and red silks—the colors of the High King’s house and Crown of Siva, trimmed with purple and shimmering gold—as the stable hand went about his duties, his eyes constantly scanning for anybody that might be listening too closely. Pakta was hard at work making sure the saddle atop Gefo’s Shimmer was tightened to perfection and that the buckles and leather shone in a manner befitting of the steed’s lustrous sounding name. He had to give the Rakvah every such appearance in the hopes that the High King would suspect that nothing was amiss—that the racing beast he’d purchased was out to win and add glory to his name, and not be an instrument just to get the rider close to him and his party in a treasonous assassination attempt.

In outward appearances, Gefo’s Shimmer accomplished that. The real treason was concealed beneath the folds of Veth Kaia’s silks, where a double-shot kinetic handgun was tucked away, forged in the criminal underworld of Gefo and smuggled into Shaleth for the treacherous deed.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen my home province, Veth. But our memories of it drive us to do what we do on this day,” Pakta said as he finished fastening the saddle to the Rakvah, picking up a brush and beginning to groom the finishing touches on the beast’s fur and mane. “I know you’re nervous, but this is the only way we can strike a blow where the Confederacy could otherwise not reach. We have to take this matter into our own paws, as covert supporters of the Confederates and patriots to our home in the northern pole. It’s our duty to help them, even if we’re trapped in the bourgeois realm of racing for the nobles. We must take this chance—how many who sympathize with the Confederacy like you do can actually get as close to the High King?”

“I know it has to be done,” Veth Kaia answered, leaning back against the stall door as he heard the names of his competitors and their Rakvah being announced as they were led to the starting gate. He was just waiting for Pakta to add the finishing touches to his mount’s presentation. Gefo’s Shimmer was the final entry of twenty, and would be called last. He clenched his fists and gently beat them against the stable door rhythmically, partly out of nervousness and partly out of wondering if it would be his last few moments alive “The Confederacy can withstand another assault against their home provinces after the Crown Army regroups. It’s the only way we can help them from inside the iron grip of Shaleth, by severing the head that wears the twin pronged crown.”

Pakta grabbed the reins of Gefo’s Shimmer as it threw its head to and fro, pawing at the ground beneath anxiously, as if the nervousness in the air was practically an extension of the beast itself. Once he’d calmed it, he resumed the grooming process. “And remember that we don’t do this solely to strike at the High King,” he told his comrade. “We do it for the memory of the millions of Sivathi—slave and commoner alike—who have shouldered the burdens thrust upon them by the Crown and its minions for thousands of years. You know your family’s history, Veth. You know the sacrifices your ancestors made to claw their way up from the common ranks and get you where you are now. Yet not all are as fortunate. More and more of the middle class like you are waking up to the injustices. Let this day be a spark to bring more of them into our ranks.”

Veth Kaia knew deeply of what Pakta spoke. The only reason he’d gained some fame and fortune as a racer of Rakvah was because his parents had been of common stock from the northern poles, who in the midst of a great famine, had sold themselves into slavery to finance his entry to the racing schools, knowing that in the crushing despair of hunger and poverty, such a gamble would be the only way out. He’d flourished in this capacity, becoming the greatest jockey in nearly a century and etching his name into history. But today his name would be remembered for a different reason, for he’d not forgotten where he’d come from or the unfair sacrifice made by his family to get him to this point. He hated the High King for that; he always had.

“Coming out now, number thirteen, Oasis, and rider Sindra Hefesh!” came the voice of the race caller over the loudspeaker of the arena, eliciting a roar of cheering from supporters. The two conspirators knew that it wouldn’t be long before their mount was called out, and their scheme would be in motion. The jockey wasted no more time, inhaling deeply as he stepped up to the stirrups of the saddle atop the back of Gefo’s Shimmer, getting ready to hoist himself upward. Pakta helped him into the saddle before clasping his handpaw in his one final time, knowing that it was now do or die.

“Let’s go over the plan one final time,” Pakta said, looking up at the rider in his silken glory, holding the reins like some knight of the Crown from Sivathi antiquity. “The odds are three to one, so I know you’re winning this damn thing. What are you doing?”

“Winning the thing,” he said, reeling in the reins a bit as he felt his mount buck up anxiously a few times. “This one has so much pent up energy that I’m squeezing every last ounce of it out of him. We’re leaving the other Rakvah in the dust.”

“And when you win, then what?” Pakta asked, stepping forward to open the sliding doors of the stall to prepare for the pair’s entrance into the arena.

Veth Kaia patted his chest where the tiny snubnosed weapon was concealed beneath his silks. “We’re taken to the winner’s circle to receive the High King and his congratulations. He moves to shake my paw and bestow the desert rose blanket atop Gefo’s Shimmer, I reach out with my palm and pull the trigger twice. Two shots to the heart, my friend.”

“And then?” Pakta said with a smile as he opened the doors, the light of the Zaket suns filling the stall with their blinding light, coupled with the hooting and cheering of the crowd.

“May our ancestors deliver us from the chaos to come,” he said with a nod of his head, smirking slightly. Even though he knew he was jeopardizing his life in this crazed scheme, he hated the High King enough to go through with it, despite his nervous nature and reservations. If anything, Pakta, in his headstrong nature and willingness to go through with the plan without any hesitation, should have been the one to pull the trigger. But alas, he wouldn’t be able to get close enough to Phaziah Ishigar. Only Veth Kaia could do what needed to be done.

“I’ll be right behind you to take the reins from you to free up your paws to do all the work,” Pakta answered. “No sooner do you shoot, I turn the Rakvah loose with a smack to send him plowing into the crowd and cause confusion to cover our escape. It may not be enough to get us out completely, but it’s the only chance we have.”

Pakta grabbed the halter of Gefo’s Shimmer as he stepped forward, preparing to lead his friend into the destiny that awaited them both. Already they could both see Phaziah Ishigar standing at the head of his private box, the windows parting as the crowd cheered him wildly at seeing his new steed being ridden out to the track in its debut. They all knew the odds were heavily in the favor of the High King; practically every bet had been placed on his team, and the sheer distance at which the Rakvah was anticipated to win was going to be a testament to the power of Phaziah himself, showing just how far he could exert his wealth and power into winning whatever he so desired. The noble, upper, and middle class attendees all knew this to be true, and were drunk on the thrill of seeing the symbol of their strength over those beneath them blow the competition out of the water. Witnessing it, betting on it, simply being there—that was enough to satiate some, but not all.

For it would never be enough for those like Veth Kaia. He didn’t want it. Deep down, he hated it. He hated being a part of this whole enterprise that was nothing more than a frivolous contest of the ultra-wealthy trying to one-up the other with their best mount, while their worshippers marinated in the debauchery of drunkenness, gluttony, gambling, and sheer excitement of being “part” of the society that the Confederacy of Liberation despised.

The eyes of the jockey and his friend looked upon the rainbow of silks that adorned the other riders and mounts, representing the mightiest dukes and duchesses, the richest businessmen, and the most daring generals and admirals. All symbols of oppression in their eyes. The fact that Veth Kaia even wore the silks for all these years had rubbed him the wrong way, and now being adorned in the colors of the Ishigar dynasty was the ultimate insult. But he knew it had to be done. The disgust and shame of masquerading as a loyal subject to the High King would be washed away by the blood of the monarch himself. Both the rider and Pakta smiled to themselves as they looked at the High King up above, knowing that his time was short, relishing the fact that the power-mad Phaziah didn’t suspect a thing.

And he didn’t. He felt the glory wash over him as the race caller announced the name of Gefo’s Shimmer and Veth Kaia, representing the royal house of Ishigar as his people in the arena chanted his praises in unison. He was their god. He was the living incarnation of the Zaket suns. The priests and the temples that enshrined his image and that of his ancestors as gods and goddesses themselves were inconsequential. He was worshipped, and there was no question of his divinity. He was the only one who could intercede and interpret the will of the Zaket suns. It was all the people needed, and why any Sivathi could rebel against that, he did not know. That was why he wished to crush the Confederacy of Liberation, for desecrating his divine image, even though he’d already done that himself in the secrecy of his palace with Shiphra. He might not have achieved such a decisive victory immediately on the fields of battle, but at least he could do so on the sands of the arena today.

“By the light of the suns, look at that beast,” Zoba said as she leaned in close to her husband, squinting her eyes to get a better look at the newest acquisition for the Ishigar name. The High King looked down at Kruva, still bundled up in her arms as always, in response to his wife’s statement. Look at that beast, he thought to himself, curling up his lip in disgust as the thing snarled a bit in being brought so near to him. There was nothing he could do except quash the revulsion he felt, going along with his wife’s statements of curiosity and simply reveling in the assured nature of their victory on the track today.

“The finest jockey on the planet and the purest Rakvah to have run in this arena, my wife. There’s no way we lose today. And beyond that, it continues to race and emerge a champion as I live up to the first matriarch of my family, Idoqa,” he said, taking a glass of wine from the tray held by a passing slave with his free paw, his other still holding the small platter of foodstuffs. He turned his head back away from the viewing window, gazing back at his fellow nobles and generals as he raised his goblet on high. “Let us drink to the Ishigar Dynasty’s victory on this day, and to its victory soon across this entire planet, my friends!”

A chant of agreement emerged from those present in the private box, toasting to the High King’s notion of the day’s victory standing not just as a symbol of his own greatness in sport, but as the beginning of something greater; perhaps the annihilation of the Confederacy of Liberation!

The similar revelry for Phaziah Ishigar and Gefo’s Shimmer continued as Veth Kaia gave Pakta one last wink, the stable hand giving the reins that he held to the race marshals awaiting the final Rakvah and rider at the starting gates. The young Sivathi had done all he could in getting his famous friend ready for this moment; he’d been lucky enough to make his acquaintance and gain his trust on the common grounds of their hatred for the Crown of Siva and what it stood for. They’d stayed plotting many a night together, long after the tracks had closed and the trainers had left, arranging the acquisition of the weapon that was nearly impossible to get apart from illegal means, making sure they accrued the prestige necessary by winning enough races with lesser teams to attract the High King’s attention to ride for him today—so, so much had gone into this plan. And it would all be coming to fruition in a matter of minutes. First, Veth Kaia and Gefo’s Shimmer were going to win the race.

The jockey looked to his left, staring down the other Rakvah and riders in the competition that was soon to begin. “Easy,” he muttered to himself. Gefo’s Shimmer dwarfed the others in size, his strides outpacing anything that his opponents could even try to muster up, and his stamina continuing to spur him on while the rest tired out behind him. No wonder the odds were so stacked in his favor. Looking back in front of him and pressing his knees into the saddle, Veth Kaia stared straight ahead at the closed gate, pacing his breathing to soothe his nerves in anticipation for the moment when it would open.

The cheering of the crowd began to die down, mimicking the calmness of the riders who leaned forward over their Rakvah as the line judge made his way to the gate lever. It was an eerie sort of sensation, seeing tens of thousands of Sivathi recede into silence in only a matter of moments, just to explode in more excitement once the gates were opened. The High King, his wife, his generals, and nobles all pressed themselves into the viewing window of the private box, their gazes on the starting line and ever further into the droves of subjects that they ruled who’d come to bask in the finest things Sivathi civilization could bestow upon them.

Just as the silence reached its apex, it happened. The line judge pulled the lever for the gates to open as the starting bell rang, and the entire line of twenty Rakvah exploded into a cloud of dust and sand as they all took off running. Already at the far end just past where Veth Kaia had begun, Gefo’s Shimmer was a whole five yards ahead of the rest of the pack, tearing down the track.

The roar of the attendees was little more than a distant hum in the ears of the famed rider, nor did he hear the race caller echoing his name as the leader of the pack as the thunderous resonance of Rakvah paws upon the sand blurred out all else. Not that he wanted to hear it, anyway. The drive—the certainty—of winning and the chance it meant for him to slay the High King was all that propelled him forward, and the only thing that gave him focus. Yet the fools in the grandstands were woefully ignorant to the murderous designs in his mind. Let them scream and cheer, he thought. It gave him a sense of satisfaction in knowing just how safe and secure they all felt in this place, and that he and Pakta would be the ones to bring it crashing down. They’d still scream, to be sure. But they’d scream at seeing Phaziah Ishigar’s blood spilled upon the Arena of Idoqa’s sands.

Pakta had retreated off to the railing near the winner’s circle, where he could continue to watch the unfolding race and where he could easily receive Veth Kaia and Gefo’s Shimmer in their victory. Behind him, he could hear the hooting and hollering of the wealthy Sivathi business tycoons and Rakvah breeders as they cheered on their mounts, knowing that they would likely be gunning for second place, at best. But even in that, they still managed to be insufferable in their screeches, saturating themselves in the glory they could feel at even having the privilege of running in a race with Phaziah Ishigar himself. The gray furred Sivathi turned his head back to gaze upon them, sneering in disgust at their fine robes and suits, their goblets of wine sloshing about as they threw themselves to and fro in drunken hooliganism, and the clenching of their fists as if they wielded the powers of life and death over their own Rakvah. Rather, it was as if it were a microcosm of the influence they held over all the other Sivathi beneath them. It disgusted the stable hand to no end. How could these Sivathi carry themselves in such a way while the slaves and commoners suffered immensely and a civil war was raging across the planet?

“To hell with them, to hell with your High King,” Pakta spat as he looked back towards the race, watching Gefo’s Shimmer turn the first corner of the racetrack, now a whole ten yards ahead of the rest. Like his friend, he too smiled in the prospect of the suicidal mission, knowing that they were severely endangering their own lives in undertaking such a crazed scheme, but also taking solace in the fact that such a severe blow would embolden the Confederacy and eliminate its mightiest enemy. They were doing this for something greater than themselves.

And that was what pushed Veth Kaia on. He looked back over his shoulder for only the briefest of moments, not wanting to break his concentration on the wide open track ahead of him as he rounded out the first corner, seeing that he was now ten yards ahead of the rest. The loose fitting silks of the High King fluttered upon his body like some royal flag flying in the breeze atop his palace, all eyes glued to his form as the symbol of Phaziah Ishigar showed just how strong his influence extended, winning whatever he pleased. After snapping his head back, he caught a quick glance at Pakta standing nearby at the winner’s circle, giving him the faintest of nods in assurance that everything was going according to plan.

None the wiser for anything that was covertly transpiring, Phaziah Ishigar continued watching from the private box. As his eyes were fixed upon his valiant jockey and Rakvah, a faint commotion picked up in his ears far off behind in the entry hallway to the room. Several of the guardsmen tasked with screening all who came and went were barring the way forward with their weapons—a dangerous game to be playing, considering who they were prohibiting from entering.

It was one of the lifeguards, in dress uniform, the tassels looped on her shoulder indicating her service in the intelligence company of the High King’s personal division. “Let me by!” she shrieked, trying to pull rank on the lowlier Crown Army guardsmen that were keeping her out. “Don’t you know who I am? I have an urgent message for his Majesty! I demand that you let me pass!”

Phaziah had promised himself that he wasn’t going to let anything—not even the civil war or the developments on his daughter, as important as that might be—distract him from the day’s festivities. Nonchalantly, as he continued watching Gefo’s Shimmer and Veth Kaia continue down, he raised his paw in the direction of Teth Grisha, intending to relegate him to a lowly messenger in hopes to humiliate him for his shortcomings, in the hopes that he’d meet a swift demise from shattered nerves and self esteem. “General Grisha,” he said, not taking his eyes off the track. “Go and see what our guest wants.”

Drooping his ears in disappointment, Teth Grisha caught sight of General Josavak snickering a little at seeing him dismissed to go and find out what the ruckus was, and he similarly caught sight of Zoba also giggling at him. It was embarrassing enough, but he knew better than to question Phaziah Ishigar. Besides, at the end of the day he knew that he couldn’t be bothered with something so trivial right now. Slinking away, he motioned for the guardsmen to uncross their weapons that blocked the entryway, though he still held a fat, pudgy handpaw out towards the intelligence officer in a notion that she should come no further.

“You can relay what you have to say to me, and I’ll make sure Phaziah Ishigar hears it,” Teth Grisha said. “He is not to be disturbed at this time.”

“It isn’t for the ears of those outside his noble circle or the lifeguards to hear, General Grisha,” she said with a scowl, knowing that even her lowly rank in contrast to the one she was addressing, she could still intimidate with the prestige she held as a member of the household troops. “There is no time to wait on this! I must insist that you let me pass!”

“You have the message that you wish to give him in writing too, I presume?” he said, holding forth his handpaw. “If it’s such a secret, then give me your transmission and I will make sure the High King gets it. My eyes shall not see what lies within it.”

“It’s of such secrecy that I only carry it by word of mouth; the official word is under the lock and key of the intelligence company,” she retorted, looking at his empty handpaw. “Give me a pen and ink, and I’ll write the message myself! Suns damn you to a burning eternity if you dare take a look at it!”

“Just hurry up and write the thing,” Teth Grisha said in annoyance, motioning for one of the nearest slaves to rush off to fetch the nearest paper and writing instrument. He hated these verbal confrontations with the lifeguards—they’d happened on more than one occasion in his career—and they constantly used their position as the personal troops of the High King to bully even those above them in rank to do their bidding. This time, however, he wasn’t going to be pushed around. He’d already lost some dignity by being relegated to receive this message, and even more by being put under the command of another general in assembling a new defensive line made up of recently retreated Crown Army soldiers.

The intelligence officer wasted little time in scrawling out the message that she intended to deliver. Knowing that time was of the essence, she hurriedly wrote down line after line before signing off at the bottom. For good measure, she stamped the thing with the thermal etcher she carried in her utility pouch, grazing it lightly over the paper as the laser engraver permanently stamped her name, rank, and association with the intelligence company of the lifeguards. It was the only way the High King would ever take a written note seriously, especially concerning the matter within the writing.

“Make sure it’s in his paws before he even leaves this room, General Grisha,” the intelligence officer said with a dangerous look in her eyes. “You can’t begin to understand the immensity of what we have to tell him. I wouldn’t expect somebody of the normal Crown Army to know.”

Though he was about to retort, Teth Grisha found that the intelligence officer of the lifeguards had the last laugh as she walked away, having slapped the note into his handpaw before strutting off, not even bothering to salute him because she knew she could get away with it. Grumbling to himself, he whispered to the two guardsmen before hurrying back over to join the High King, where he intended to give him the letter after the race had concluded and the awards had been handed out. “Make sure we have no further disturbances such as that,” he commanded.

The two sentries saluted in response as the fat general made his way back over to the viewing window, briefly lifting his handpaw to show the High King the message he’d received to inform him that it would be waiting when everything had concluded. Phaziah Ishigar only caught it out of the corner of his eye, too enamored with Gefo’s Shimmer and Veth Kaia now having pulled away a whole thirty yards as they rounded the last turn of the track and made their way into the straightaway towards the finish line.

Seeing the wide open track and the finish line now before him, though he’d led the entire race as had been expected, Veth Kaia raised a triumphant fist in the air as he looked at the crowd whizzing by his face. Fools, every last one of them. They thought he showed jubilation for another illustrious win about to be added to his record. But they didn’t know that he was ever closer to turning their world upside down. The High King didn’t know it, either, mimicking the gesture of his jockey with a forceful raising of his handpaw in the air.

Pakta continued watching from the winner’s circle, his paws clenching tightly against the railing, not out of the anticipation of winning, but like his friend, growing enthused over the chance to make history and help the Confederacy of Liberation from deep within Crown territory. Only a few lengths remained as Gefo’s Shimmer continued speeding along faster and faster, as if he’d been accelerating the entire race and there was no way to stop him. The beast, bought by Phaziah Ishigar, was now going to be the catalyst for his owner’s destruction.

As quickly as the race had begun, in only two minutes time the entire thing had been decided, with the results panning out as had been expected. Veth Kaia had completely smashed the competition, the other Rakvah nearly a whole ten seconds behind him. Not only had he beaten his opponents, but he’d likely made track history in setting a time record. Once again, the accolade meant nothing to the jockey, for he’d be making history for a different reason.

“Hahaha!” Phaziah Ishigar exclaimed loudly, throwing his empty goblet into the air as he already began to make his way towards the exit of the private box, intent on making his way down to the winner’s circle as soon as possible. Teth Grisha and the queen consort stuck to the High King like glue—the general only doing so in that he had to pass along the note he’d been given once business had been concluded—and were the very first to follow behind him in equal revelry, congratulating the others in the viewing room with shakes of paws, compliments on bets won, and hearty slaps on the back. General Josavak soon followed behind, though he soon got lost in the crowd flocking around the High King as he’d waited too long to join him. Stragglers within the hallways of the arena and those Sivathi who had been in the seats of the arena had begun to follow the High King’s procession downward as well, intent on getting as close as possible to witnessing their god-king in person and sharing the triumph that he’d achieved on the track.

Pakta was quick to run out of the winner’s circle to make contact with his friend, knowing he needed to be by his side in the coming attempt on the High King’s life. Everything was still going according to plan, and they were only moments away from bringing their plot fully to life. The stable hand grasped the bridle of Gefo’s Shimmer, jogging alongside the beast as he slowly began to bring it to a walking pace in the hopes of guiding him to the winner’s circle. He threw his handpaw up to shake his comrade’s; by all appearances, one of congratulation, but of course it was over something more secret between the two of them.

“Nearly there, Veth,” Pakta said as he squeezed his handpaw. “Your race isn’t truly over yet. Not until you’ve pulled that trigger.”

“Here! Here! Bring my champions here!” the jockey and stable hand heard the voice of the High King calling out from afar as he approached the winner’s circle, a multitude of nobles, generals, and upper class Sivathi filing into its perimeter as the race marshals carried the desert rose blanket that was to be bestowed upon the winner. The lesser Sivathi who could only dream of following in the footsteps of their overlord pressed in against the railings of the circle as they looked on in awe.

Veth Kaia could barely see through his now dust-caked goggles that Phaziah Ishigar was motioning for Pakta to guide his Rakvah over to where he stood, eager to bask in the glory of victory and bestow his prize upon his steed. He undid the things from his racing helmet so as to get a better view of everything—suns knew he would need his vision to not be obscured to take a clear shot at the High King. Moreover, he wanted the monarch to be looking him dead in the eyes when he made the attack, as it was his wish that the High King would know the truest sense of betrayal in somebody that he trusted to bring him the sweetness of victory—just as he and his predecessors had betrayed all that it meant to be a benevolent ruler. He could feel his handpaw wavering dangerously close to the fold in his silks where the tiny gun lay concealed, practically having to hold himself back from withdrawing the thing and attacking from afar. That was how much he hated him, and how much he wanted to strike.

Pakta turned about in the sand, careful to avoid the oncoming trotting Rakvah that had finished far behind Gefo’s Shimmer, picking up his jogging pace once more to get to the winner’s circle as quickly as he could. He set his eyes on the High King as he held forth both of his arms, receiving the desert rose blanket from the marshals and smiling widely, completely oblivious to the matter at hand and that his life was in imminent danger. It was like looking through a tunnel as all of the stable hand’s concentration honed in just on the golden Sivathi in his twin-pronged crown, the waving sea of cheering, flailing arms around him waving in adoration for him like a sea of oasis grass in a breeze.

“Come, come, Veth Kaia!” the High King said as he held up the desert rose blanket, it’s green vines and white floral heads drooping downward in his grasp, ready to crown his champion. “Come to me and reap the rewards of racing for a High King! You’ve done well today, my boy. This shall be just the first of many illustrious triumphs that you shall add to my name and to yours upon Siva’s racetracks! Your legend will carry beyond the stars and throughout the entirety of our empire—rest assured that I shall see to it, mark my words!” He turned his head to Teth Grisha, motioning for the flabby general to assist him in throwing the blanket onto the back of Gefo’s Shimmer as Veth Kaia dismounted, his booted footpaws hitting the artificial turf of the winner’s circle with a soft thud.

The High King was so close to him at that very moment that the jockey could barely restrain himself from pulling out his gun and emptying both rounds into him. He thought back to the plan, that he was supposed to wait until Phaziah reached out to shake his handpaw—if he did that at all! What if he came in to throw his arms about him like a long lost son? Surely then he’d feel the gun against his chest, and the whole thing would fall apart. In knowing that, a cold sweat and panic began to break out over Veth Kaia. He did not want to take the risk of being found out and have everything he’d done to get to this point be for nothing. He had to act, and fast.

The whole thing began to play out in a fashion that nobody was prepared for. The sheer immensity of the moment had tensions far stronger than any other Veth Kaia had experienced in his life, for he was about to assassinate the son of the Zaket stars. He felt his handpaw quiver as he reached into the folds of his silks, wrapping his handpaw around the grip of the firearm, the cold metal feeling awkward against his now clammy, sweaty fingers. Pakta’s own eyes widened as he saw his friend diverting from the original plan, not knowing how he was to proceed in the face of this new development.

The jockey wasn’t the only one being clumsy now. Teth Grisha awkwardly reached for the rose blanket as the High King handed him the other end, and in the process, the handwritten note that had been given to him by the lifeguard back in the private box fluttered out of his handpaw in the winds of the arena, dancing away a few feet in front of the High King’s face. Thinking that this was to be the moment of confusion that he could capitalize on, and not the original plan of sending Gefo’s Shimmer stampeding into the crowd, Veth Kaia finally seized the opportunity as he snapped his handpaw out of the folds of his silks, the kinetic pistol held firmly in his grip despite his now shaky nerves.

Without delaying, he aimed the thing right at Phaziah Ishigar’s chest, the whole thing transpiring in less than a second. In that tiny fraction of time, the general had reached forward with his own grasp to try and catch the flying note in the air, more overcome with the fear of it falling into the wrong paws by fluttering away into the crowd than with bestowing the desert roses upon the High King’s victor. In doing so, he’d positioned himself right in front of Veth Kaia’s target, inadvertently shielding him from the two oncoming projectiles as the jockey pulled the trigger twice in quick succession, a massive bang emanating from the firearm.

As soon as his paw had grasped the note once again, a kinetic round smashed through the general’s neck, severing an artery and then shattering the vertebra at the base of where his skull and spine met. The round exited his body at a far lower speed than had been expected, going through to the High King’s sternum and piercing his body, though stopping just before hitting any vital organ as it lacked the power to go all the way through. The second round went straight into Teth Grisha’s own torso as he jumped up in pain at what had just hit him, completely absorbing that bullet before it could harm the High King.

Zoba shrieked as she saw both her husband and Teth Grisha go down, the duo falling forward onto the artificial turf and bleeding atop the white desert rose blanket, the pureness stained with their blood. “Murderer!” she shouted, pointing her finger at Veth Kaia as she saw several headstrong generals lunge forward at the jockey, tackling him and wrestling him to the ground. No sooner had she run over to assist her husband, she looked back up, and was greeted by the stomping paws of Gefo’s Shimmer as she was knocked down, the massive beast plowing past her and into the crowd as the chaos exploded around them, as if a bomb had gone off. Kruva was flung from her grasp as she felt herself trampled and knocked out cold, the reptilian pest cart wheeling through the air and yapping crazily as it was lost in the crowd.

The entire thing, at face value to Pakta, seemed to have worked. He’d slapped Gefo’s Shimmer forward to provide some sense of cover for an escape that would only now help him, as Veth Kaia had now been tackled by those present and was now being held down roughly. The High King was down as well, laying flat on his chest, though not completely slain. He painfully clutched near his heart as Teth Grisha twitched in the grips of death before him, his handpaw now open as the letter fluttered in his dying grip before the clouding vision of the High King. The gray furred quickly dashed forward into the oncoming crowd that had rushed into the winner’s circle in a panic, quickly blending in with everybody else and hopeful to make an escape out of the arena. There was nothing that could be done for his friend now.

For Pakta and Veth Kaia, they’d superficially achieved what they’d set out to do. In spite of the dangers they now faced for their crime, the entirety of the Sivathi elite—seeming so pompous and invincible to all—had been brought to its knees in the span of two gunshots in a mere second. The jockey looked up as he was held down by the generals, cackling maniacally to himself at the distraught faces of the snobby nobles who’d thought their High King to be the incarnation of the Zaket suns. Their stupid smiles had been wiped clean off their faces as their world came crashing down around them, the stampeding squashing them as others ran for cover. The masters and mistresses of all, who reveled in the misery of all those beneath them and put it on for show in this arena by the flaunting of their wealth, power, and privilege, had been humbled. Whether it was for but a moment or for all time, Pakta and Veth Kaia could not be sure. But now, it could be known that Phaziah Ishigar was not invincible.

The High King himself, so proud of his standards, life, and power—even though he’d tarnished his purity to get there—now knew this to be true also, amplified by the words he could see scrawled upon the letter in the dead handpaw of Teth Grisha as his vision clouded and unconsciousness began to claim him, the shrieks of those in the arena growing fainter. The last thing he would see would shake him more than the sight of his wound had done to all his nobles. The words on the paper started to fade into little more than swirling ink as he passed out, hearing his wife’s cries as she was trampled.

‘Your Majesty,

This letter is to inform you that your daughter—apparently called Talitha—has escaped from Zeshom Noor’s estate in the fighting in Lathga Province, and has now fled southward in the direction of the Confederacy of Liberation. This has been confirmed by survivors of one of your lifeguard detachments sent to investigate and who were attacked by a rogue sergeant escorting the girl, and by a Crown Army major who bore witness to their evasion of capture.

It is advised that you take action immediately to avert a crisis that could empower the Confederacy of Liberation against you.

Your servant,

Lieutenant Pala Adejat, 3rd Intelligence Company, Royal Lifeguards.