Outstanding, in some respects. They are masters of the suffering of others.

The streets belonged to the Protectorate, not the thieves. Among the creatures of the night, Protocrats were above all others.

Still, what kind of continent would it be were humans not granted some rights, some sense of autonomy? The humans believed they were governing themselves. It was a delusion the Protectorate encouraged. People shouted and railed against one another, debating taxations, rights and aid, state of the continent’s roads, trade. The topics of debate were often varied. Their discussions took place during the light of day, when it was easier to believe in self-governance. They discussed most everything, and forgot what was forbidden. The forbidden topics had been so for so long that they skirted around them without thought.

A world the size of Rythe could not contain but one continent. Never did they discuss what lay across the expanse of ocean surrounding the continent of Lianthre. Never did they think of raising their own armies — the Protectorate was the army. That was their domain, and had always been so. What sense in debating what could not be changed? As a monkey thinks nothing of its tail, forever chasing its body, sometimes seemingly acting of its own accord, the humans thought nothing of the Protectorate running in the streets. But, somewhere, deep in the recesses of the human mind, there is a special place reserved for the terrors of the night. A child might let it come to the fore, and cower under the covers in the candlelight. A man has no such luxury. He must function. The terror must be pushed down into the darkest corners of the mind. Had the people of Lianthre shone a light into the shadows of their minds, they would recognise the face of terror there. It wore dark cloaks, with its hair long, covering unnaturally long ears, framing hawkish faces of pale skin, pale enough to seem blue under a bright moon, skin that would never tan, never darken. Expressions seem forgotten upon their faces, but the human imagination could paint one just as easily as a human mouth could be turned to a smile or snarl.

Within the dark pit where terrors of the mind clawed incessantly toward the light they would see Protocrats rising up from the abyss, howling and gnashing, rending flesh with teeth, bright steel catching the light from the hopes of their thinking minds, as the terrors they studiously ignored tore through their numbers shredding lives along the way.

But they did not think of those dark places in their minds. They thought of food, and work, and making love to their wives. They thought of their children, their ale and nights inside the safety of a tavern. They shut the cellar door on the terrors of the land. It was enough to live…how could a man live if he sees death stalking the streets every day? Such a sight could cripple a man with fear.

Perhaps, all said and done, it was best not to see it.

Like the minarets of the Hierarchy that towered this night, reaching into the black sky, the Protocrats’ masters lording over all from within. Rarely seen, never asking for anything at all, never taking. How easy to ignore them, the Hierarchy. Did they even rule? Lianthrians wondered, wordlessly, on dark moonless nights such as this.

But not for much longer.

Thieves did not prowl, but humankind was beginning to sense the shadow all around them. Within their seat of government, the council building known as the Kuh’taenium, the councillors met at sun down. It was unprecedented to meet while dark reigned, but many things were changing, and not just on Lianthre. Ignorant though they were of events on distant continents, of the hand of fate pulling three humans toward an unknown destiny abroad and at home, they discussed one of the three, equally ignorant of her place in the future of all living creatures. Had they known the woman of whom they spoke was one third of their hopes for survival, perhaps the outcome would have been different. Then again, fear cripples. Perhaps it would have changed the outcome not at all.

The Kuh’taenium was old beyond reckoning. It sat like a conch shell within the centre of the city, but one so large as to have a section of the city named for it. It could contain five hundred or more bodies, although there were rarely more than three hundred and fifty-seven — to be precise — the number of representatives from each region of the continent. Lianthre was huge, but the size of a region was no indicator of its importance. Some regions had more representatives simply because they were more populous. At five year intervals, a census was taken. Sometimes the Conclave expanded, sometimes, such as in times of plague (there was no such thing as war on the continent of Lianthre) it might contract.

The heat outside was fading as the night drew on. At this late hour, it was no longer burning. It was merely marrow-drying. Within the Kuh’taenium, the high summer heat was forgotten. Heat of another kind was steadily rising.

In the halls of the Conclave, righteous dissonance drowned out all sensible argument. The room, mirrored on all sides so each member could see all others, held over the three hundred-some councillors and the majority of them bowled bitter words at each other even though they agreed. The anger went were it could, and as the law dictated they could not direct it at the Hierarchy or the Protectorate they turned it on themselves.

A malodorous stench hid behind the ire and prickled the lone Protocrat’s nostrils. The smell of cowardice grew as one by one they capitulated and the Protectorate won another battle against its most unchallenging opponents.

Just one of the humans was different, though.

Reih Refren A’e Eril finally bashed an ornamental sceptre against the polished hollow pedestal that stood at the centre of the chamber. The resounding crash echoing back off the mirrored walls loud enough to pull its own hush behind it. The visiting Protocrat stood among them on the raised speech platform, tall and proud in ceremonial robes of the Interpellate (the political arm of the Protectorate’s twenty-one divisions), and savoured the last wisps of emotion before the assemblage reeled it in. He waited although he knew the outcome could not be disputed.

“Enough!” Reih cried, hitting the pedestal once more with the sceptre she alone was entitled to hold. She then spoke quietly and the words bounced around the room to every member’s ear. “Whether we like it or not, the order stands. By decree, the murder of an officer of the Protectorate instantly allows the council member to be disbarred, regardless of the punishment she receives. It is not our place to judge evidence, merely to ensure that the dissident cannot be allowed to return. This is the law, and it has spoken.”

“Then the law is wrong, and who are they — " said Myron Rumbil, pointing at the Protocrat — “to tell us!”

“Temper your wrath, Myron. None here are content with this outcome but the word of the law is inviolate. I understand Tirielle A’m Dralorn holds a special place in all our hearts. We took her in after her expulsion. When they said she was possessed of magic, we looked after her estate. While she was gone, we mourned for her father, favourite among us. But perhaps we wanted her to turn out like her father so much that we overlooked her evil.” Even as she said it she did not believe it. Appearance was paramount now.

“Bah! You expect us to believe Tirielle a murderer?” Someone mumbled to a colleague, the words gathering pace and shooting around the room as soon as they were free.

“Yes, I expect you to believe," the Protectorate’s representative spoke for the first time, "not because my word is the law, but because it is the will of the Kuh’taenium. Never forget, though; we protect you. Thanks to us this land has known a thousand years of peace! Each time the council rises against us in anger, each time your fears are laid low, and each time we forgive your race. A thousand years ago came the revolution and governance was passed into your own hands, but by edict you are forbidden to rise against us. In turn we keep to ourselves and you govern yourselves. The Protectorate shield you all from the harsh realities of a world with rogue magic, keep your streets safe and protect the innocent and yet still you bite the hand that feeds you. Have you no shame?!” The Protocrat sputtered in mock fury.