Amish was a low-level paper-pusher from the treasury. He wasn’t built for running, but as the first into the department he always got saddled with the messenger-type jobs. He burst into the king’s quarters without knocking, his sides heaving and his eyes wild. Amish bent over, unable to speak for a moment, one finger held up while he begged both for the king’s time and his forgiveness.

“He’s – here,” he gasped after a moment, “down – in – ”

Little else was necessary; Amish had preceded the guards by only a few short minutes. They followed him in through the open door, their grim faces making the identity of the visitor clear.

Perhaps thinking that it was best to hide him from the eyes of the world, the guards on duty had brought Gwythr into one of the small meeting rooms off the side of the throne room. He was there when Tristan arrived, listening carefully to a young man who was speaking rapidly in old Roman Latin. The speaker was dressed smartly in a military-style all-black uniform, a metal badge bearing the Alliance symbol glinting on his breast. His short, close-cropped black hair still managed to defy gravity, somehow, by curling upwards towards the ceiling. He was stood at-rest, his hands folded neatly behind his back.

“…to be certain,” he was saying as Tristan stepped into the room.

Gwythr nodded once, slowly. Both he and the other man ignored the king as the latter stepped into he room, apparently too wrapped up in their own conversation.

“Take care of it,” Gwythr said simply in Latin. His voice was as light and smooth as silk.

The Alliance officer saluted briefly, then reached down to tap a hop loop on his wrist. The digital screen lit up, momentarily casting his angular face in blue light, before he vanished. Only then did Gwythr turn to give Tristan his full attention.

He was himself, this time. Probably the first time he’d ever appeared on Shaman in his own skin by choice. When he was stood still, it was difficult to see how he could ever have imitated someone as energetic as Mallos: he looked like a god had breathed life into a statue. His marble-like skin was as hard and pale as that substance, barely moving even when he spoke. All the deities’ appearances spoke of vanity; given that they had total control over how they looked, most chose to look handsome, approachable or intimidating, and all were young. Gwythr, by contrast, was much older. Straight-backed, with short hair, hard blue eyes and a stony face creased by wrinkles, he looked like an experienced military general who had retired from office but still kept a foot in the world of politics. One look at him was enough to understand how he had commanded both the Council of Originals and the Star Chamber for a thousand years. He had an air which would make even the most ornery of the gods settle down and pay attention.

It was only when he moved that some uncanny likenesses to Mallos began to appear. In defiance of his stonelike appearance, he walked with a similar, catlike fluidity. The Italian god inclined his head at Tristan before taking a seat at the head of the table, making his assumption of his position clear.

“I hope you are settling in well, both to your old home and your new role.” He said easily in English, leaning forward slightly in his chair to shrug off his coat. The coat was dark grey and cut in a military style; smart but forgettable. It was what he was wearing underneath which would make people sit up and pay attention. The military jacket underneath was white with gold trim, a simple laurel design on the collar. Across his chest, where an army general would pin his medals, Gwythr was wearing something rather more chilling: the authentic pendants of the other deities. From left to right, they glinted as he shifted position: Tsi’s autumnal tree, enclosed in a circle; Zed’s turquoise interlocking design; Lorraine’s red-eyed bear; Allianah’s patterned hand; Charlton’s pale blue fish; and Mallos’ stylised sun. Gwythr bared them openly, sitting back in his chair. “It can be challenging to reassert your control over your kingdom after such a long absence.”

He studied Tristan’s face, as though looking for something.

“I’ve come to appraise you of the situation on Earth, and to extend a hand of diplomacy.” He smiled a little sadly. “The former Chairman, Tsi, uncovered a conspiracy on Earth involving some of the other deities. Not knowing who to trust, he put me in charge of the investigation and resultant decision-making. I have ascertained something that I think you have known for a long time: that the Council of Originals is no longer fit for purpose.” Setting his hands on the desk, he interlocked his fingers and rested them there, his posture relaxed. “It is inefficient, out of touch and self-destructive – and now we are aware of traitors among the original fairies who have sought to sabotage peace and order. With the support of the gods who are honest and well-meaning, I have assumed control of the former council organisations and have issued arrest warrants for the rogue deities.”

He paused as a flash of white light heralded the arrival of a woman in her mid-thirties wearing the same black uniform as the man who had come before her. Ignoring Tristan, she saluted Gwythr and wordlessly held out her hand, something metal shining in the palm. Gwythr reached out and took it, holding it up to the light so Tristan could see. The eight-point blue and silver star, the pendant of Aura, gleamed with authenticity as he turned it slowly in his hand.

“There were no problems?” He asked the woman quietly.

“No problems, sir.” The woman confirmed. Gwythr nodded at her dismissively and she saluted. Reaching down to her wrist, she twisted a dial on the hop loop and vanished immediately.

“I apologise for the interruption,” Gwythr told Tristan, setting the pendant down on the table where it could be seen clearly. “Now that you’re aware of the situation, I must ask for your cooperation. There are some extremely dangerous characters at large, and I fear there is a chance some of them may try to come and spread disorder among your kingdom.”

He sat back in his chair, waving his hand. Four holographic posters appeared behind him, two on either side. To his left, Charlton and Zed’s faces gazed blankly from the page, their names printed clearly in English above. To his right, the images of Allianah and Mallos stared down at Tristan with uncanny realness.

“I hope I can count on you,” Gwythr was watching him closely, “to help bring these criminals to justice.”