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decades ago. “I’m starting to think Dura was never in Shinar.”
    “She was seen on the wall.”
    “An old woman in a red robe was seen.”
    “The scout thought the knights escorted her from Shinar. He noted that she had multiple students with her. Five red robes, all mounted.”
    The knights might leave a battle to protect Dura. She had a long history with Azmon. She had taught him the Runes of Dusk and Dawn long before he created the beasts. After he created them, Dura tried to kill him and had dedicated her life to rallying Shinar and the nations of the west against Rosh. She decried the monsters as unholy abominations from the Nine Hells. Dura had opposed them when their boats assaulted the port of Imrumm and arrived at each battle for the other cities on the march to Shinar.
    “Send a message to Lady Lilith. Dispatch flyers to scout for the Red Sorceress. They won’t find her. Never have. But we should try.”
    “Of course, milord.”
    Tyrus walked toward the palace at the heart of Shinar. The city had a fortress, King’s Rest, within its walls, larger than any of the private villas. Tyrus could see where he wanted to go, but the maze of ramparts and buildings confused him. The streets bent around hills and threw off his sense of direction. Azmon had claimed the royal apartments. Tyrus would need to take rooms befitting his rank but put off the task—too many details to worry about.
    The blue star shone brighter as the day wore on. The light pierced the smoke and dust better than the sun. Maybe the seraphim mourned Shinar. The blue light seemed sad, lamenting as it cast a ghostly halo into the drifting smoke.
    A bone lady, a younger version of Lilith, patrolled the street with two hulking beasts. She wore silky black robes and carried a silver rod that resembled a stake, a large orb on one end and a tapering point on the other. The beasts flanked her. Their heavy footfalls thudded down the street. They breathed deeply, air rattling their chests. The lady saluted and gave Tyrus a wide berth.
    He mulled over the best way to kill her. Not because he wanted to, but as an exercise in tactics. If Tyrus fought Rosh, he would use archers and spearmen, in teams. Arrows to kill the controllers and spears to keep the beasts at bay, similar to hunting bears with dogs. And as a bear would maul a few dogs, he would lose several spearmen to each monster. He could estimate men needed per beast, and the rest became choosing the right terrain to box in the big brutes.
    Tyrus thought the bone lords must see their vulnerabilities. Would they replace him with these mindless things? Court of Bones—what idiot came up with that name?
    Tyrus felt his age. He had fought beside Azmon before he had been crowned emperor, decades ago, when Rosh was a small kingdom. Runes prolonged his service in ways he had never imagined. Like the emperor, the Eternal Youth, he had stopped aging, yet another reason people called him the Damned. They thought he was another abomination, another beast. His scars had scars, and he sensed his worst defeat before him. He had lived long enough to become irrelevant.
III
    Einin watched the empress snarl. The royal face twisted into a mask of agony as the labor pains grew worse. The empress’s fingernails tore into Einin’s hand, squeezing the bones together until they ached. Such tiny hands, yet they clawed at Einin with tremendous strength. She had never midwifed before, had no idea what to do, and winced whenever the empress groaned. Out of her depth—not yet twenty—she needed to prove she could do this. Neither of them wanted help with the birth, and as the ordeal continued, as the pain grew, Einin worried that they had made a terrible mistake. Empress Ishma sounded near death. Einin fussed with a cloth, wiping a sweaty brow.
    “It’s all right,” Einin lied. “You’re doing great. Just a little longer.”
    Ishma let out a low moan. Einin could tell she tried to control the noise, but there was only