was the thousandth Year of the Empire. Raucous celebration would fill the streets from Imperial City to Thénai, from Ten Cities to far-flung Brilium. Priests would ask the gods for another thousand years of prosperity and benevolent rule. The Pontifex would speak on the honor and justness of the Empire from his seat in Sanctum. It would be a New Years to remember.

But for now, he had more pressing things to worry about. The mid-afternoon sun beat warmly upon them as they entered the city of Haroon. Its red sandstone edifices dominated their vision. As they passed through the gates, the dry, burning heat of the sun continued; the light that guided the day was not kind to Khazidea, and even in winter, it scorched the populace. Theartist.

For once, in the many weeks since Astarthe's dark spell, Claudio—conqueror of Fharas, friend of the Asa nomads, capturer of the King of Kings—felt utterly undone by this slave, unworthy of her presence.

Nervous.

In battle he had led the charge against the magi; he had penetrated deep into enemy territory without turning back. Now, he lacked the courage to even meet the slave's glance. Yet he did find the courage to shout, "Free her!"

And a group of soldiers, perhaps less intimidated by this woman's beauty, hurried up to the platform and—not without a struggle—undid her chains. As Claudio watched, she half-ran, half-stumbled over to him; with each step his gut clenched.

And when she finally reached him, looming above her on Borak, she fell face-first before him—prostrate—and shouted, "I commend