Episode 02: Macedonia: Night of the First Shadow
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Volume I: Telesias: The War Dance
By Makāula Nakae
Episode 02: Macedonia: Night of the First Shadow
Late May, 368 BCE – The Royal Palace of Pella, MacedoniaThe palace of Pella was a labyrinth orchestrated by the shifting flares of torches, where the metric cadence of drums reverberated through the earth like subterranean thunder. Tonight was a night of dynastic festival, a wild carousal engineered to demonstrate the absolute immortality of the Argead line to the cosmos; yet the nocturnal air felt curiously thin, charged with a friction akin to a bowstring drawn to its absolute structural limit.
Standing beside the massive hearth of the banquet hall, buried deep within its dense, soot-stained shadow, was fourteen-year-old Philip. As the youngest son of the late King Amyntas III, he was a creature traditionally barred from attending an assembly of such high sovereign rank, yet he had clandestinely infiltrated the perimeter. He stayed perfectly still, his breath hitched, desperate to engrave the visual majesty of his house—and the rot hidden beneath it—behind his retinas.
His gaze was locked upon his eldest brother, King Alexander II, who was currently leading the Telesias. The traditional war dance was a display of martial vigor, but Alexander performed it with a volatile, manic zeal. He moved surrounded by a cluster of noblemen who bared their teeth in practiced, toothy smiles, while the absolute depths of their eyes remained entirely devoid of warmth—cold, measuring orbs that saw only a king to be weighed and found wanting.
These men were not merely courtiers; they were the physical embodiment of the Law of Xenia. Rooted in the ancient Homeric tradition, this bond of guest-friendship was protected by Zeus Xenios himself. To break the covenant was to invite divine wrath, yet within the smoke-filled hall, the air tasted of broken oaths. For Alexander, extending xenia to these regional lords—the Thessalian magnates and the Elimiote chieftains—was a desperate attempt to bypass formal borders and forge a direct, personal link of loyalty that would secure his fragile throne.
Among the observers, the representatives of the high houses sat in an uneasy, predatory vigil. Lord Menes of Larissa, representing the immense power of the Aleuadae, reclined with the deliberate stillness of a man who measured the King's worth in gold and cavalry blades. Beside him, Lord Derdas of Elimeia watched the dance with eyes like cold flint; he was the border-shield, the patriarch whose House had bled for generations to keep the Illyrians from the Macedonian gates. Even Creon of Pherae, though his city was a viper’s nest of ambition, maintained the required mask of the honored guest, his posture signaling that his house remained within the Argead orbit—for now.
They were bound by the sacred weight of the xenia oath, yet every rhythmic stomp of the Telesias felt less like a celebration and more like a challenge. The lords drank the royal wine, but their fingers remained close to their weapons, hidden beneath heavy woolen cloaks. They were there to perform the duty of xenia, but as Philip watched from the shadows, he saw the truth that his brother missed: these men were not guests. They were witnesses to a collapse. They were the "Extractors," waiting for the Argead light to flicker just once, so they might claim their share of the kingdom before the night ended. Philip gripped the stone mantle, his knuckles white, realizing that the Law of Xenia had become a chain—and in Pella tonight, every man was looking for a way to break it.
The banquet hall was a pressure cooker, its air thick with the cloying scent of roasted meat, stale wine, and the sweat of men who spent their lives calculating the cost of betrayal.
Queen Eurydice sat on the dais, a statue of regal composure, though her mind was a battlefield. They drink as if the wine will drown the coming winter, she thought, her gaze tracing the jagged, frantic rhythm of the dancers below. Alexander danced on the edge of a blade, his vanity blinding him. These 'guests' were not here to celebrate a King; they were vultures gathered to divide a carcass.
She caught sight of Perdiccas seated nearby, a boy of burgeoning maturity forced to act as his brother’s silent shadow. He sat stiffly, his eyes darting with a guarded intelligence that Alexander—in his wine-fueled mania—entirely failed to notice. He was a prince rendered invisible by the King's own light, yet his stillness was the only thing in the room that didn't vibrate with greed.
Let them watch. Let them think us weak, she steeled herself. My sons—Perdiccas, standing in the glare of the King's ruin, and Philip, hidden somewhere in the dark periphery—they are the only reality in this room. She adjusted the heavy gold torque at her throat, her fingers brushing the hilt of the small, razor-sharp blade hidden beneath the folds of her silk chiton. If the crown must be re-forged in blood, let it be tempered in mine, but let them survive the fire.
Across the hall, the Athenian representative toyed with his goblet, his gaze sharp and hungry. Fragile, he mused, watching the tremor in the tapestries as the dancers hit the floor. The whole structure is trembling. If the Illyrians move, Macedon burns, and Athens inherits the Aegean trade routes by default. I must ensure the Thebans don't solidify their grip here. I will smile, I will toast, and I will wait for the first drop of blood.
The shadows were alive with deeper, more jagged intentions. Near the kitchen threshold, a serving slave kept his eyes downcast, silently counting the guards at the North Gate. Four to the left, three to the right. The wine is drugged with poppy—enough to dull the mind, not kill the body. The gates will be open before the last toast. Not twenty paces away, a guard leaned against a fluted pillar, his hand buried in the folds of his cloak, gripping a hidden dagger. Alexander thinks he is a god, the guard sneered inwardly. He forgets that gods can be bled. Once the chaos starts, the path to the inner chamber will be mine—and the reward from Pausanias will be my freedom.
Amidst the throng, a concubine with eyes too observant for her station leaned into the ear of a drunken Thessalian lord, her whisper cutting through the din. "The Elimiotes want the western passes. Tell them the Regent’s forces will be pulled to the north by Bardylis. The land will be yours for the taking."
The tension crystallized when Ismenias, the Theban Custodian, intercepted King Alexander as he finished his dance. He clamped a firm, possessive hand onto the King’s shoulder—a gesture of "protection" that felt less like a brotherly embrace and more like the tightening of a collar on a hunting hound.
Ismenias leaned in, his voice a low, calculated rasp that cut through the thinning air of the hall. "Your energy is commendable, Alexander," he said, his tone dripping with a honeyed, condescending sweetness that didn't reach his eyes. "But be mindful. A fire that rages too bright is the first to consume its own fuel. Ensure you do not burn out before our work is done. Thebes prefers a stable client—one who understands his place—not a flickering, unpredictable torch that might set the entire region aflame."
Alexander, drenched in sweat and fueled by a volatile cocktail of vintage wine and the raw, electric adrenaline of the Telesias, felt the blood drumming in his temples. The grip on his shoulder felt like a brand. With a jagged, defiant laugh that bordered on hysteria, he shrugged off the Theban’s hand, the motion sharp and dismissive.
"Thebes watches too closely, Ismenias. You look at me and see a map to be redrawn, a board piece to be moved," Alexander retorted, his voice rising, drawing the uncomfortable attention of those nearby. He gestured grandly toward the room, his eyes wide and manic, reflecting the flickering torchlight. "My people dance for me. They honor the Argead name, not the cold, distant shadow of Epaminondas looming over our borders. If you are so desperate for a client you can lead by a leash, go find a boy. I am a King, and I am finished being handled."
The hall fell into a sudden, brittle silence. Alexander’s outburst was not merely a drunken tantrum; it was a geopolitical seismic shift. By publicly denouncing Theban influence, he had essentially declared that he no longer considered the Macedonian border to be the limit of his ambition. His recent, aggressive military movements into the southern territories—venturing far beyond the established spheres of influence—had already made the Theban high command nervous; now, he had confirmed their worst fears.
Ismenias’s expression remained a mask of practiced calm, but the way his hand lingered near the hilt of his xiphos betrayed the severity of the moment. He had come here to secure a manageable vassal, and instead, he had been humiliated by a man who was drunk on the dangerous, intoxicating illusion of his own absolute power. In that moment, the Athenian representative across the room saw the gears of the Theban machine begin to turn: Alexander II was no longer a useful tool to be guided; he was a liability to be liquidated. The Custodian’s eyes narrowed, not with anger, but with the chilling, detached focus of a man who had just authorized a death warrant.
In the corner, Creon of Pherae leaned toward Lord Derdas, his voice barely a murmur shielded by the roar of the music. "The Theban is agitated. The Lyncestians are moving their men toward the stables. Tell me, Derdas—is this a funeral or a carving?"
Derdas didn't look at him, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade beneath his cloak. He looked not at the King, but at the rafters, as if gauging the weight of the roof. "It’s a transition, Creon. And transitions are best served with steel. Watch the north gate. When the first shadow falls, we move toward the high ground. The Argead throne is a gilded cage; tonight, we find out if it's made of iron or glass."
As the Telesias continued its rhythmic, relentless pounding, a figure moved through the outer ring of revelers, neither dancing nor drinking, but hovering in the periphery like a shadow. It was Elara, once a favored noblewoman of the court, now reduced to a ghost at the banquet. She kept her gaze demure, her movements fluid as she wove through the intoxicated lords, blending into the tapestry of the crowd as the dance ebbed and flowed around her. Tucked securely into the intricate braids of her hair was a slender, obsidian-tipped pin, its point coated in a viscous, slow-acting hemlock derivative. She did not watch the King’s political maneuvering or the nervous eyes of the foreign envoys; she tracked only the exposed expanse of Alexander’s neck as he whirled through the mid-dance rotations, calculating the exact moment she could slip past his guard. He didn't even remember my name when he broke the betrothal, she thought, a cold, jagged smile barely touching her lips as she matched her step to the drums. He treated my house like a discarded cloak, thrown aside for more 'convenient' alliances. He loves the spotlight, he loves the cheers—let’s see if he remembers my name when he tastes the hemlock in his wine, or when this pin finds the soft hollow beneath his jaw. I do not care for your throne, Alexander. I only care that you feel the sting before the night is through.
Queen Eurydice caught the eye of the Athenian representative. She offered no practiced smile of a hostess; instead, she gave him a look of such chilling, absolute readiness that the Athenian involuntarily stepped back, his face draining of color. In that brief exchange, he realized with a jolt of terror that the Queen was not a pawn in this coup—she was the architect. She had known the wine was drugged and the guards were bought since the very first dish was served.
She leaned back, her voice a ghost of a sound lost in the music. "The dance is over, Alexander," she whispered to the shadows, her fingers closing tightly around the cold hilt of the dagger concealed beneath her silk gown. Forgive me, my son. Today, I do not play the part of a mourning mother or a compliant Queen. I play the executioner. If the line must be severed to be saved, then let it be done.
She took a breath, steeling herself. "Now, the harvest begins."
As if her words held the power of a command, the torches flared and died, extinguished by a sudden, unnatural draft that swept through the hall. The chamber plunged into a sickening, momentary darkness. The Telesias stopped dead. In the sudden, ringing silence that followed, the heartbeat of the kingdom seemed to stutter, then stop entirely.
Standing as a rigid, unmoving silhouette behind the Lyncestian delegates, Arrabaeus played the part of the devoted guard to perfection. His hands were clasped over the hilt of his sword, his eyes fixed with a predator’s unwavering focus upon the back of the King’s neck. He did not watch the Telesias for its martial grace; he studied it for the flaws in the King’s rhythm, waiting for the precise heartbeat when the arrogance of Alexander’s performance would leave him momentarily unguarded. To the rest of the hall, he was merely a shadow in the delegation, but beneath his composure, his pulse was a steady, cold cadence of ambition. The Argead line is a sickness that has festered for too long, he thought, his knuckles whitening against the leather of his sword-grip. My father’s blood, shed in exile, cries out for this moment. They believe the throne is an inheritance; I know it is a conquest. When the torches fall and the room descends into the chaos of the night, I will not be the one fleeing. I will be the one to strike the blow that restores the crown to its rightful owners.
Perched high within the shadows of the banquet hall’s mezzanine, shrouded by the heavy velvet of the rafters, was a figure draped in the charcoal-grey robes of an ancient, ascetic order. To the revelers below, this was merely a servant or a fixture of the hall’s architecture; in truth, it was a silent sentinel of a forgotten cult, one that saw the current Argead prosperity as a sacrilegious departure from the old ways. The figure held a slender, weighted throwing knife, its surface etched with archaic symbols of propitiation. He did not blink, his gaze fixed upon Alexander II with a cold, religious fervor that transcended the political squabbles of the lords. The King mocks the gods with his drunken, discordant revelry, turning a sacred rite into a display of mere vanity, the zealot thought, his hand steadying against the rough-hewn timber. The fire that approaches from the outside, the steel of the Lyncestians, the poison in the wine—these are but earthly instruments. The chaos is a divine decree, and this gathering is to be a burnt offering. When the final light dies, my blade will be the act of final judgment, sending his soul to the silence he has so richly earned.
Amidst the carousing crowd stood two rising military titans destined to become the iron twin pillars stabilizing the future Macedonian throne—men whose names would one day be carved into the bedrock of history as the grand architects of the greatest empire the world had ever seen.
General Parmenion, thirty-two years of age, possessed a face sharply carved like the beak of a mountain eagle, tracking the festival dancers with an analytical gaze of cold, clinical calculation. A scion of the noble houses of the western highlands, his name was already renowned across the cantons as a tactical intellect capable of identifying victory exactly three moves before the initial spear was ever thrown. This was the brilliant commander who would one day become King Philip II’s most indispensable field general, and later, the grand strategist of Alexander the Great’s Asian vanguard—the unbreakable anchor who would hold the Macedonian left flank against millions at the Granicus, Issus, and Gaugamela.
Erect beside him stood General Antipater, thirty-one years old, a mask of unyielding duty seemingly fused to his severe features. While Parmenion submerged his intellect into the physical mechanics of shield-walls and cavalry wedges, Antipater was a strategist of the state—a man of iron discipline who understood with absolute, stark clarity the precise nature of law, logistics, and fidelity required to bind a fractured kingdom together. He was the future Regent of Macedonia, the steady, terrifyingly unshakeable hand whom both Philip and Alexander the Great would trust above all others to hold the homeland secure while the royal army marched to the literal ends of the known earth.
Slicing through their quiet contemplation was the booming, alcohol-roughened laughter of the elder Attalus. The undisputed patriarch of the lowland military elite, his heavily scarred face and barrel chest bore the brutal calligraphy of Amyntas’s old wars. He was the living personification of the Old Guard—stubborn, traditionalist, and deeply suspicious of any Argead monarch who looked past the ancient borders of lowland Macedon. To the elder Attalus, war was fought for immediate plunder, livestock, and tribal security, not sweeping geopolitical grand strategy. He stood like a stone monolith beneath the pine-smoke rafters, surrounded by veteran captains who nodded at his muttered, dangerous complaints regarding the young king’s costly southern distractions.
A few paces behind him, watching the exact same room with an entirely different energy, stood his nephew, the young Attalus. Where the uncle was a scarred hound of the old regime, the nephew was a young predator scenting a new era. Flamboyant, fiercely ambitious, and possessing none of the elder’s battle-earned patience, the young Attalus did not look at Ptolemy of Aloros with traditionalist caution; he looked at him as a vehicle for his own rapid ascension. He was already gathering the younger, restless bloodlines of the lowland aristocracy into tight circles, whispering that an Argead king who brought the shadow of a Theban occupation to their doorstep was an existential liability, and that Ptolemy's gold offered a far more stable, profitable future than Alexander’s bleeding crown.
This ambitious youth was setting a deadly trajectory. Years later, as a powerful court power-broker under King Philip, it would be this very young Attalus who would drunkenly insult the legitimacy of a teenage Alexander the Great at a royal wedding banquet—igniting a lethal blood feud with the young prince that would ultimately seal his own brutal execution the exact moment Alexander claimed the throne.
The tension within the banquet hall had reached a structural limit when the music shifted. It did not stop, but it warped—a dissonant, high-pitched note from a flute sliced through the drumbeats, a jagged, unmistakable signal of impending ruin.
Across the room, the spy for Bardylis—a man whose face was as unremarkable as a common laborer’s, yet whose eyes burned with the singular, predatory focus of a hawk—slipped through the service door, leaving it barely a finger’s width ajar. Outside, the night air did not merely cool; it groaned with the suffocating weight of waiting Illyrian iron. In the darkness of the palace perimeter, shadows had thickened into a solid, jagged mass of men, their breathing synchronized to the hypnotic, rhythmic thud of the drums inside. Bardylis’s scouts were no longer in the woods; they were pressed against the foundation stones, blades sharpened to a razored edge, waiting for the precisely timed vacuum of power that would shatter the Argead line.
They knew—as did the whispers moving through the servant tunnels—that the wine poured for the King was tainted with a heavy, sleep-inducing sedative. It was a slow-acting poison, designed not to kill, but to turn the King’s manic vigor into a sluggish, leaden haze. The trap was not set for a battle; it was set for an execution. A shadow detached itself from the palace wall—a man shrouded in a cloak of nondescript wool, his gait betraying the disciplined, lethal precision of a practiced assassin. He was the hand that would strike the final chord. He did not look at the gates; he looked at the King, tracking Alexander’s movements through the shifting curtain of torchlight, measuring the distance, calculating the trajectory. The Illyrian iron was the storm, but this man was the lightning bolt. The banquet hall was no longer a celebration; it was a sarcophagus, and the lid was already beginning to close.
From his vantage point on the floor of the shadows, fourteen-year-old Philip, the last son of the late King Amyntas, watched with a cold, terrifying clarity. He was scrutinizing the layout of the palace, engraving into his youthful memory exactly how isolated the court’s defenders stood from the intoxicated revelry of the aristocrats.
Across the great hall, the senior military leadership maintained a posture of deceptive ease. Elder Attalus, the undisputed patriarch of the lowland elite, leaned heavily against a stone pillar, a massive silver skyphos of unmixed wine cradled in his calloused hand. His booming, alcohol-roughened laughter drifted over the music as he tossed a joke to a cluster of veteran captains. Beside him, Generals Parmenion and Antipater stood with their mantles unpinned, their frames looser than usual under the influence of the festival’s warmth. They watched the royal hall with a casual air, their vigilance softened by the occasion. Yet, even in their leisure, they were the armed watchmen of a peace on the verge of structural collapse. The occasional, instinctively predatory sweep of Parmenion’s eyes and the disciplined stillness of Antipater’s posture whenever a court faction shifted served as the young prince’s first, heavy instruction in the unremitting weight of supreme command. The commanders existed as a monumental bridge spanning the raw, primitive customs of the mountains and the rigorously disciplined future that Philip was only now beginning to envision.
The shadows themselves seemed alive with deeper, more jagged intentions. Near the kitchen threshold, a serving slave kept his eyes downcast, silently counting the guards at the North Gate. Four to the left, three to the right. The wine is drugged with poppy—enough to dull the mind, not kill the body. The gates will be open before the last toast.
Not twenty paces away, Kineas, a palace guard whose face was a mask of stoic discipline, leaned against a fluted pillar. To any observer, he was simply doing his duty, but his hand was buried deep in the folds of his cloak, gripping the cold, unyielding hilt of a hidden dagger. His eyes did not watch the guests; they were fixed exclusively on the King’s back. Alexander thinks he is a god, Kineas sneered inwardly, his heart beating a slow, steady rhythm of anticipation. He struts, he dances, he mocks the great houses of Greece. He forgets that even gods can be bled.
Kineas shifted his weight, his eyes sliding toward the shadowed entrance of the inner chamber—the King’s private sanctum. Pausanias promised that once the chaos starts, the path to the inner door will be cleared by the distraction. I only need a heartbeat of confusion. One moment of darkness. When the King falls, the house of Amyntas dies with him, and I... I finally walk out of these gates a free man, with the gold of a new master in my purse.
He watched the King laugh at Ismenias, a sound of pure, unadulterated arrogance. Kineas’s grip tightened on his blade until his knuckles burned. Go on, King. Dance while you can. Your music is ending, and the silence that follows is mine to command.
It was then that young General Attalus stepped into the dark beside the boy. Barely twenty-two, yet already possessing the massive shoulders and the arrogant stride unique to the lowland aristocracy, this younger Attalus was a volatile specimen breaking away from his uncle’s old-school caution. He hailed from the wealthy lowland estates, where a crown was never recognized as fluid diplomacy, but as an iron fragment to be seized by the spear and maintained exclusively by blood.
His right hand rested out of raw habit upon the pommel of a dagger—a weapon strictly prohibited within the hall. It was a silent, insolent violation, testifying to the fact that within Pella, safety was nothing more than a phantom and law was synonymous with the physical muscle of the man executing it. He looked down upon the young prince with the cold curiosity of a warrior appraising a hound sent to a foreign kennel, his gaze a mixture of clinical assessment and implicit pity.
"You should not be in this space tonight, Philip," Attalus growled, his voice rasping like gravel washed by a heavy tide.
Philip did not flinch. "I intend to watch the dance. Brother Perdiccas is out there on the floor. If he is of sufficient age to witness the majesty of this house, then I am as well."
"Perdiccas is out there because he is the next heir—the shadow of that throne," Attalus countered, leaning closer, his breath smelling of dark Thessalian wine. "You may classify this display as majesty, but to my eyes, this hall is a nest of vipers. They dance as though the kingdom were solid bedrock, choosing to forget the Year of the First Shadow."
"The assassination of Archelaus, twenty-five years ago?" Philip murmured, retrieving the cipher from his memory.
"Precisely," Attalus spat, glancing back toward where his uncle and Parmenion were sharing another casual laugh. "The micro-second King Archelaus perished, the gates of hell swung wide. A ghost named Pausanias—a man who carried a partial fraction of royal blood—slithered onto that throne. He maintained the scepter for less than a year before your father, Amyntas, had to cut through a sea of mercenaries to reclaim it. Pausanias left an absolute lesson: the throne is merely a prize reserved for the man wielding the sharpest edge. Since that day, that crown has never grown cold."
Philip shifted his focus back to the dancers. He could see Ptolemy of Aloros, his brother-in-law, moving with an excessively fluid, predatory grace across the floor. "Are you stating the shadow is returning tonight? That my brother will be assassinated?" Philip whispered, his fourteen-year-old frame tightening like a crossbow cranked to its limit.
"It is a matter of pure calculation," the younger Attalus whispered back, his eyes narrowing as he watched Ptolemy step closer to the dais. "Your father is now in the dirt, and your eldest brother delusionally fantasizes that a foreign campaign can cure the fractures of this kingdom. Monitor the exits, Philip. Whether the shadow manifests or remains hidden is something we cannot verify until the event unfolds. Remember that in Macedonia, a festival concludes the exact micro-second the first blade catches the light."
Tucked behind a heavy tapestry near the entrance to the dais, Nikolas, a royal scribe, was vibrating with a tremor he could not suppress. His hands, usually accustomed to the gentle glide of a reed pen, were clenched tightly around a sharpened bronze stylus. He was a man of ledgers and ink, yet he had seen the King’s private parchment left on an open table—a list of names to be purged before the next moon, and his own was inscribed in the jagged, ominous red ink of a death sentence. I saw it with my own eyes, he thought, his chest hitching. The King does not care for loyalty; he only cares for the removal of obstacles, and I have become one of his loose threads. If I stay my hand, the dawn will bring the executioner to my door; if I strike, I might just crawl out of this palace a survivor. He stared at the back of the King’s head, his mind spinning a frantic, desperate web of opportunity. This is not treason, he told himself, the lie tasting like bile in his throat. This is merely the survival of the innocent.
The music ascended to a frantic, borderline-mad crescendo. Philip witnessed Ptolemy exchange a look across the hall with the Queen Mother—a silent, horrific convergence of political necessity. Attalus instantly detected a subtle shift in the alignment of the inner palace guards, noting that several men loyal to his uncle's old guard factions had been quietly filtered toward the periphery. The choreography of treason appeared absolute. Before the initial scream could slice through the music, the young general gripped Philip’s shoulder with a heavy fist.
"Go. Escape through the rear portal immediately," Attalus whispered, violently cutting into his thoughts as he shoved the boy toward the dark of a stone corridor. "I am sending you to Queen Gygaea and your half-brothers. Do not step a single inch outside that sanctuary."
"But my brothers—if a conspiracy exists, it must be neutralized before it occurs!"
"Move, boy! That is not your grid. Your solitary function is to survive," Attalus roared under his breath, driving a heavy palm into his back to propel him forward into the shadows. "If the King falls tonight, Ptolemy will seize the regency. To clean the board completely, he will aggressively move to exterminate every legitimate line of Amyntas. Hide yourself alongside Archelaus, Arrhidaeus, and Menelaus. Do not drift from the sight of your guards until I send an escort."
Harboring a raw knot of anxiety and apprehension, Philip turned as commanded, dissolving into the dark of the stone gallery. Could the assassination of his grandfather twenty-five years ago truly repeat itself tonight? The variables indicated the possibility was by no means zero. Yet nothing was certain until the blood hit the floor. Whether he could alter the trajectory or not was precisely why the generals kept their eyes aggressively open. He starved to believe such an atrocity was impossible; his father, after all, had passed from natural death, not steel. Tracking his retreat through the dark, the relentless, low thud of the telesias drums pursued him like the heavy contractions of a heart poised to stop beating.
To be continued, Episode 05: Regicide at the Carousel
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