The Storm Subsides
Who was that, Your Majesty?
Number Four. He had grown quickly.
You knew perfectly well who I was asking about. That shadow, that void—someone you had never mentioned, someone who had not contacted you for more than five thousand years.
Are you reminding me that I need to be wary of him again, Makado?
I merely wanted to know who had made you look older.
As the golden light faded, black eyes were revealed, deeply set in a weathered face. The Emperor drew a card from the several in his hand and placed it face down on the table.
The card was exceedingly old, its pattern so faded that it was difficult to discern. Only the outline of a crumbling city wall could vaguely be seen.
The Emperor silently pushed the card to the center of the low table. Makado set down his own cards, flipped the Emperor's card over, and let out a sigh.
This is already your third trump card, Your Majesty. You cannot do this.
The Emperor remained still for a moment, seeming to ponder—or perhaps inspect—the pile of cards on the low table.
Then he drew a fourth joker from the deck.
Mors believed Peturabo had just as many questions for him as he had for this "young man."
So he struck first.
"What on earth are you wearing, Peturabo?" He reluctantly tore his gaze away from the enormous youth, refusing to consider whether the patchwork, multicolored fabric hastily sewn together over the suddenly over-two-meter-tall giant had been taken from military waterproof canvas and palace curtains alike.
Peturabo rarely opened his mouth so plainly, his shock written clearly across his face.
He squeezed through the collapsed doorway into the room, blankly surveying the mess on the floor before finally fixing his gaze