[Author's Note: This was an extremely difficult chapter to write, mostly due to real-life factors. Fortunately, I've crossed that hurdle - The next chapter shouldn't take quite so long. Again, I apologize for the delay.]


Interlude - After the Dark

The Inheritors

For Londes Di Clamp, life was its own reward.

Death, as all knew, changed men. Mostly into dead men, but even for the lucky few that found their way back from that grey kingdom, Surshana's cold grasp left none unscarred.

And he had been lucky, or so the healers told him. His death had been swift, as painless as could be expected. Like a flash of lightning, there and then gone.

Londes was not a man given to contemplation. One couldn't afford to be, not in his line of work: Sworn to the service of Alah Alaf, seconded to His own hand, the Sunlight Scripture, obedience was the highest of virtues.

A knight obeyed, with alacrity and quiet competence. Whatever the order, even if the reasons eluded him. Greater men than him were tasked with the burden of such things: Commander Belius, petty tyrant that he was, had made that extremely clear.

It was his Gods-given role to carry out those orders to the best of his ability. To lead his men with courage and fortitude against the enemies of the nation, humanity and the gods, in that specific order. The rest was best left to the Temples, for were they not the living voice of the Gods?

It'd been a point of pride for him. Well, the first part, at least: His first death had taught him that there were some things that no man could ever hope to stand against. There was no shame in that, not really. In the grand scheme of things, he'd done well for himself with just a strong right arm and a way with horses.

How many could even hope to say the same?

Sometimes, though - in the longest watches of the night, when prayer, women and drink all failed - Londes would remember. His memories were, mercifully, foggy: Just the flash of a spear cutting the light, then a great impact that didn't strike him so much as strike through him.

The taste of his own blood, filling his throat.

A curious detachment, vaguely wondering where his legs had gone.

His body had been intact. Most of it, at least: That was what mattered. His head had been whole and in one piece, the majority of his limbs still attached. It had made his resurrection easier, or so the priests had told him. It'd taken him the better part of a month to get back on his feet, but Londes hadn't begrudged that interlude.

After all, there was always the alternative to consider.

By the time he was feeling a little more like his old self, the endless rounds of interviews had begun. Interrogation was, perhaps, too strong a word. No duress was involved, and he'd had the sense that the general mood was one of approval, as if he'd been part of an expedition that had - however inadvertently - unearthed something of immense value.

He'd been well-rewarded for his time, on top of the discreet accolades he'd already received. Unfortunately, the sessions mostly centred around the subject of his own demise. He would walk away from each round grey and sweating, longing only to return to his wife and children, dreading the long, sleepless night ahead.

You couldn't just shrug off something like that, unless you were one of the God-blessed. But those exalted figures were made for greatness, not subject to the frailties of lesser men - In the grand scheme of things, they were as far above Di Clamp as a man was above an ant.

In truth, he'd never expected to meet one in the flesh.

Until now.


"All right, Sir Londes?"

"-Yes, Captain!"

"Carry on, then."

There it was again. Acting-Captain Ian Als Heim sighed, inwardly, as he turned from the tall double-doors of the great chamber. For what felt like the thousandth time, he glanced down at his timepiece, ticking away at the end of its silver chain.

Months later, the provisional title still rested poorly on his shoulders. It wasn't that he'd never harbored ambitions: He just hadn't expected to take on the mantle quite this abruptly, or in such circumstances.

The mission to Carne Village had been a disaster for the Sunlight Scripture. Not since the demi-human war had they lost so much in such a short time. Fully nine-tenths of their force had perished, with half that number lost for all time. Accounting for casualties, only two-thirds of the resurrected remained fit for service - Even then, it would take months, long, painful months, for them to regain the strength they'd lost.

Ian, and a miserly handful, had survived. Not by dint of strength of arms or strategy, of course. As doctrine dictated, they'd been held in reserve, for an eventuality just like this one: Once it had become clear that the situation had spun out of control, he'd made the difficult decision to withdraw, to take the dire news of their discovery to those best prepared to handle it.

As it turned out, that had been the one saving grace amid a day of disaster. Allies had been closer at hand than they'd initially expected, and they'd been diverted to deal with the more immediate threat.

While Ian hadn't, personally, witnessed the battle that followed, he'd read the reports. Sometimes, just thinking about it made his blood run cold.

They had been so close to the edge. None of them had really known, not fully. If he hadn't retreated, if Surshana's faithful had been any less prepared for the trial they had faced-

The consequences would have been…absolute.

But, against all odds, the world had been set on a very different path. That was the end of it, and he was happy to put it out of his mind. Or so Ian told himself, at any rate.

The village had been purged, of course. He'd overseen the scouring himself, done his best to make it mercifully swift. It was an ugly necessity, made more so by the departure of their original target: Ian had never shared the Captain's zeal for such things, but there had been little choice in the matter.

After all, you always made sure.

It was well that he did, too. What they'd found, within…What had been left behind - It was a beautiful thing. A world-changing thing, even. In the grand scheme of things, all the bloodshed, all the horror, all the cold, measured extermination, had been a fair price to pay.

Had the villagers even known what they'd possessed? Certainly, it hadn't done them any good.

Humanity's true protectors had no intention of making the same mistake. Ignorance, after all, was a sin like any other…

-Which brought them back to the subject at hand.

The task should have fallen to the Temple of Water, but the divination had been explicit. Ever since the death of the Miko Princess of Earth, the aether was in flux. Life was in ascendance, the base elements in wane, and only a fool would fail to recognize the hand of the gods at work.

The Supreme Council's decision had been unanimous. The honor of conducting the Planar Eye ritual would go to the Temple of Life. And so what remained of the Sunlight Scripture had been assembled, as tradition demanded, to bear witness-

And to ensure that all went as it should.


Faintly, bells were pealing in the pre-dawn dark, calling the faithful to prayer. It would be hours before the morning mass, but - In the cold winter night - no less than sixty churches had been packed to capacity, the congregations filling the air with the plainsong of their devotion.

Given the short notice, it was a marvel of logistics, a testament to the power of faith. Only here, at the very heart of the sacred city of Silksuntecks, could such a thing be brought about. Here, the Theocracy's grasp was absolute, made so by generations of social engineering.

One day, Six willing, all of the human kingdoms would be much the same way - All quarrels set aside, all nations acting as one.

United in faith, at long last.

Tonight, however, their goal was a far more immediate one. All that combined adoration was to be channelled to a single end: To pierce the great and terrible darkness that had descended over Re-Estize like a shroud.


"Captain?"

"Yes, Sir Londes?"

They'd been waiting for over an hour, now. As with all things, they'd arrived well in advance - For the preparations were exacting, and demanded nothing less.

Londes glanced down the long, paneled hallway. His role in this, he understood, was but a minor one. To remain vigilant until called upon - And that was an eventuality he hoped, devoutly, would never arise.

And yet…

"I…" The words caught in his throat. Carefully, keeping his voice steady, he went on. "I don't think he's coming, Captain."

"He'll be here," Ian said. "-I'm certain of it."

From Sir Londes' experience, Acting-Captain Als Heim was an amiable man. As much as could be expected from a member of the Theocracy's elite unit, of course. He was gregarious, sociable, easy to like - Enough that, sometimes, one nearly forgot what he was.

But there was a hardness to his expression now, that made Londes wish he'd kept silent. For want of anything else to say, he fixed his gaze on the silver timepiece in Ian's hand: An intricate, wonderfully precise instrument, each patient tick marking the passage of time, slicing it into smaller and smaller intervals.

Surreptitiously, Londes adjusted his sword-belt, doing his best to ignore the ache in his legs. It was no small thing to stand at attention in full armour for hours on end, especially when his strength had yet to fully return.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he sh…

The base of a steel-shod walking cane struck the polished tiles with a thump, and both men went straight-backed by instinct as Nigun Grid Luin came down the hall. Weariness shaded his hard, angular features, his black-and-silver robe hanging loosely on his gaunt frame - Sweat glistening on his brow, blonde hair cropped brutally close to his skull.

"-Captain."

"Sir."

He acknowledged their salutes with a grunt and a brief nod, leaning heavily on his cane. Nigun tired easily, these days: His resurrection had been a difficult one, and his return had not come without incident. It'd marked him, like the deep furrow of the scar that had once gouged his cheek.

Without it, he looked lessened, somehow. Like a shadow of himself, stripped of one of the things that had defined him.

Then again, he was fortunate to be alive. So little of his corpse had remained, barely enough to be worthy of the term. His return to the land of the living was a miracle in itself, a tribute to Nigun's force of will as much as his bone-deep stubbornness.

It's a hard thing, to be resurrected by the one who killed you.

"Als," he said, a thin eyebrow raised. "Still angling for my job?"

"-Wouldn't dream of it, Captain," Ian said, trying very hard not to smile. He glanced at Sir Londes, sidelong: The knight seemed to be fascinated by a distant tapestry, and he couldn't remember it being all that interesting when they'd first arrived.

Nigun regarded him for a moment, his gaze as flat and unblinking as a shark's. It wasn't personal, of course - Nearly two decades of service in the Sunlight Scripture had worn his affect away to nothing, giving him a visage that could've been carved from granite.

"As you were, then," he said, and thumped his cane against the ground. Slowly, with a ponderous grace, the great double-doors swung open. The brass carving seemed to split down the middle, as light - golden light - flooded in from the antechamber beyond, as the fragrance of incense, the solemn murmur of prayer, washed over them like a distant breeze.

With a twitch of his head, Nigun took the lead. They fell in behind him, on either side - Each a pace behind, as Nigun advanced into the gilded light. His teeth were gritted against the strain, black-gloved hand gripping his walking cane so hard that his knuckles showed.

"Does it-" Sir Londes began, and instantly regretted it when Nigun's gaze swung towards him. He forged on ahead, all the same.

"Does it…hurt, Captain Luin?"

"Like Surshana's scythe."

"Then-"

Nigun snorted, and let the pained breath hiss from his throat as he limped along.

"I can hardly meet the Miko Princess in a wheelchair, can I?"


The Purificapex, High Altar of the Temple of Life, was a singular place.

According to legend, Alah Alaf - God of Life, first and foremost of the Six Gods - had raised its silver towers in the span of a single day. Since time immemorial, it had cast its shining shadow across the sacred city of Silksuntecks, matched only by the splendor of its brother temples.

Few had ever seen what lay beneath the great, jeweled dome of the basilica, reserved for the eyes of the Gods and their blood-kin alone. Daily, vast crowds of the faithful were, inevitably, directed to the adjoining churches that clustered at the base of the Purificapex - Lesser, but still significant, reflections of its transcendent glory.

Even then, there was much to marvel at. This close to the presence of the divine, the weight of accumulated devotion gathered in a haze of foggy, celestial light - An eternal, golden glow that shone across white marble and gold leaf alike.

The great, pillared doorways could have admitted a host of giants, with a scale to match: According to the tales, the Purificapex was far larger within than without, for it was Alah Alaf's will that His house had room for all the faithful, in times of tribulation.

Inside, it was even more breathtaking. At night, some miracle of architecture lit the basilica with hard columns of moonlight, spotlights of unwavering silver radiance that took the place of lamps or glow-orbs. Mirrors of pure silver, worked into perfect reflectors and blessed by the highest ecclesiarchs, directed the frost-tinged light: For the moon, after all, was the lesser kin of the sun - And as Lord of Light and Life, Alah Alaf ruled over both.

There was a sense of boundless space, in all the towering vastness that lay ahead. Only the lapis-lazuli spires of the Temple of Water could hope to match it in scale, and - even then - it was a narrow thing.

The high sanctum, the Purificapex's hidden heart, dwarfed it in splendor. The long chapel crypt, from floor to vaulted roof, was entirely lined with brass. Every surface was ornately decorated with etching and bas-relief, so baroque that the place in its entirety could have been mistaken for a single vast work of art of unimaginable complexity and detail.

Already, the walls seemed to tremble, to hum, in resonance with the prayers of thousands of worshipers. The inert nature of brass and gold, far less reactive than mithril, adamantite or orichalcum, was a necessary step in the containment and channeling of the forces brought to bear here.

Hard-worn experience told that anything else risked disaster of the foulest kind.

Across a floor of crimson velvet, three dozen of the priesthood awaited. Their grey robes rendered them curiously uniform, distinguished only by their shrouded mantles and solar-form mitres. This was another deliberate choice: The robes had been designed to be inert, so that they would not, by color or design or pattern, threaten the purity of the rite.

For it was dangerous. Even time-honed invocations, when undertaken in haste, could unleash forces that none could control. The recent catastrophe at the Temple of Earth, the fate of the Miko Princess, was testament to that.

As the assembled priests shuffled into place around the great dias positioned directly beneath the basilica's dome - like the spokes of some great wheel - that thought must have been foremost on their minds. All were men of substance, casters of not-insubstantial power, and all had volunteered to officiate.

In the Theocracy, such a thing was expected. The priesthood, ultimately, served the people and their uncompromising vision of the human future. With power and rank came greater responsibility, for complacency killed as surely as a blade.

The trials never truly ended, for the Great Work was ever-continuing.

The central area of the dais was empty, except for the altar itself. In contrast to the gilded splendor on all sides, it was a simple thing, oddly unadorned - a raised obelisk of resonant stone, white as marble, cut to precise proportions. Framed beneath a red-painted arch, it seemed curiously out of place, a cast-off fragment from something far older, far stranger, than the majestic temple that housed it.

From a certain angle, it resembled a throne.

This was not a coincidence.


The observation gallery ran around the chamber, high-up. It felt like a world away from the slotted stone of the pews below, the air cool and pure, free from the intoxicating haze of devotion and honeyed light.

This was another necessary precaution: When active, the Planar Eye ritual was a sensitive thing. The wrong word or gesture, especially from someone beyond the tight circle of participants, could have horrific consequences.

Normally, it was both the honor and burden of Sunlight Scripture to take a direct role in what was to come. But, given their reduced numbers and the enervated state of the returned, Acting-Captain Als' concerns had been limited to security, not the ceremony itself.

In light of the extensive preparations required, he'd considered it something of a relief.

A certain kind of man, however, would have seen it as nothing less than an insult.


"-Why wasn't I informed?"

Nigun forced out the words from between clenched teeth, as he limped his way up the stairs. Pride kept his posture erect, one black-gloved hand clenched into a fist at his side - He took each step like it'd offended him personally, his boots ringing on the stone.

"Cardinal Yvon's orders, sir," Ian said, fighting down a wince. He'd known, right from the start, that the Captain wasn't going to like it. "There were issues of secrecy-"

"So I'm a risk now, am I?" His cane struck the next step, hard enough to make it ring. "The Cardinal's trying to push me out, too?"

"Captain-"

A grunt, a gasp, another step.

"No, someone's been applying pressure - I see that now. Who was it? The Deputy Pontifex Maximus? It's got his fingerprints all over it, that snake. He's been whispering poison about me for years: I've got half a mind to…"

He stopped, abruptly. Stared up at the gallery, like he'd been frozen in place.

"Ah," Nigun said, as if everything had just clicked into place.

Ian followed his gaze, and nodded unhappily. "-I'm afraid so," he said, taking in the tall, handsome figure leaning against the brass rail. There was a gleam of blonde hair, like the golden flash of a newly-minted coin, framing calm, sculpted features.

There was something uncanny about the perfection of that face. A little less like a man's, perhaps, and a little more like a god's.

Nigun's teeth ground together, his jaw working like he'd been chewing rocks. He made to take an angry step upward, but Ian caught his arm.

"You know what they're like," he said, quietly. "You know."

Nigun's dark eyes shone with bitterness, but he made no reply.

"This isn't the time for that. Not now, not here. Whatever you're thinking…Let it go."

For a moment, Nigun looked like he was about to snarl an answer - But then nodded slightly, his thin lips pursed.

"Fine," he said, grudgingly. Like even that concession was being wrung out of him at swordpoint.

He made to pull his arm free, but - greatly daring - Ian held on for a moment longer. "A chance to mend bridges, perhaps?" Ian said, casting a significant glance upward.

A pause. New lines appeared in Nigun's already-furrowed brow, but he could see the sense in the words.

"Maybe," he allowed, grumpy but contemplative.

"-Worth a try, at least."


"Captain Nigun! It's good to see you again."

Quaiesse Hazia Quintia was, without a doubt, one of the most personable men Sir Londes had ever met. Handsome, immaculately groomed and manicured, there was something about him - an essence, maybe, or some numinous quality - that instinctively put others at ease.

It was his voice, perhaps. Warm, almost lilting, without being solicitous: Like some half-remembered but well-regarded friend, met again after a long absence.

When he glanced at Sir Londes - a brief, almost cursory flicker of attention - the knight kept his face attentively blank. In the present circumstances, Londes much preferred being ignored, which suited him just fine.

"-I trust you're recovering well?"

"Never better," Nigun said, though the taut edge to his voice belied the words. When he shook Quaiesse's proffered hand, a faint grunt of surprise issued from his throat - For such a slight-looking man, Quaiesse had a grip like a farrier's pincers.

"Excellent. The First Seat will be most pleased to hear that."

"He will?" Nigun's eyebrows rose, almost in spite of himself.

Quaiesse canted his head to the side, looking politely puzzled. "Does that surprise you? It shouldn't. He's taken a personal interest in your convalescence, after all. Without your timely action in the Carne operation-"

For a moment, his crimson eyes went distant, contemplating something only he could see. He blinked, smiled, as if discarding an unwelcome thought.

"...Well, things would have gone very differently. 'Instrumental' was the term he used, I believe. As it so happens, I agree."

"You do?" Against all odds, Nigun was beginning to thaw. Even his frown was, ever-so-slightly, beginning to ease.

"Of course. I've read the reports: It was a gallant stand. Heroic, even. Thanks to your efforts, we've made quite the breakthrough. In fact-"

His voice lowered, to just above a murmur. A companionable one, a secret shared between friends.

"...I've been told that we may - at last - be seeing a decisive end to the War. Next year, if the predictions are accurate."

"Next yea-" Nigun had to cough, to cover his lapse. "I mean - That's excellent. Incredible, even."

"No doubt." Quaiesse's lips curved in the faintest smile, as quietly benevolent as the sun rising over a winter field. "Be proud, Captain. Without you, none of this would have been possible."

Nigun Grid Luin was many things, but he was no fool. All the same, his pinned-back frown eased. Some of the frigid reserve drained from his stiff-backed stance, melted by Quaiesse's relentless charm. It was hard, after all, to stay sullen in the face of such determined praise.

To Sir Londes, it was like watching a guard dog receiving a rare brisk rub between the ears, right when it was contemplating whether to bite. Quaiesse's crimson eyes flicked to him, and he half-started, wondering if the man had seen right through him-

But Quaiesse merely nodded, in silent sympathy. Like he knew, and understood.

All the same, Sir Londes breathed a little easier - felt something unclench in his chest - when Quaiesse looked away.

"Service is its own reward." Nigun said, at last. From him, that was as good as a concession.

"-Indeed," Quaiesse said. "Well spoken, Captain."

Nigun grunted. Wordlessly, but in something that may have been an agreement.

For a few precious moments, a faint air of camaraderie lingered, like the fragile peace that comes after an armistice. A less observant man would have taken this chance to clap Nigun on the shoulder, or some similar gesture of manful reconciliation.

It would have been an entirely reasonable, natural thing to do - And highly unfortunate, assuming one wished to retain two working hands.

Fortunately, Quaiesse showed no inclination to do either. He simply stepped back, carved-marble features expectant as he glanced to the side.

"Ah," he said. Thoughtful, almost to himself, as he looked over the railing.

"-It's starting."

A low rumble filtered through the tabernacle, as the great gold-and-brass doors of the inner sanctum began to open. The solemn tolling of sacred bells filled the air, to the accompaniment of the plangent, ethereal song of the worshipful choir.

The Miko Princess of Life was here.


There was music, of course. Stately as a waltz, strands of melody winding through the air in exquisite harmony.

Hooded, clothed in the dull grey shrouds of purity and mourning, the players sounded their instruments softly. Less a performance and more an accompaniment, almost subliminal in its subtlety.

Like stagehands, their role was as unobstructive as it was essential: To prepare the way, for all that would follow.

For it was all for her, the one they had been awaiting. Tall, slender, with elegant, high-boned features, the Miko Princess moved with the deliberate grace of a dancer. As if all the world was her stage, with the pitiless eyes of the Six as her audience.

She had been beautiful, once. They all were, in the beginning, before the rigors of high ritual took their toll. Exacting effort had been made to preserve what a life of service had ravaged, but it accentuated rather than concealed what was lost.

Behind her veil of black gauze, so fine it hung like smoke, her skin was pure and smooth, but faintly blue and translucent. Her dark eyes were certainly lovely, but their luster was not the gleam of light from within.

It was the reflection of light upon glass.

Still, she was pure and dazzling, as untouchable as a flawless gemstone. The glittering gold that stitched the spotless white of her gown, the celestial symbols and daunting diamonds that flashed and sparkled in the amber radiance that filled the sanctum - They hallowed her, made her more than merely mortal, obliterated even the slightest flaw.

It would have taken the most discerning of eyes to notice how her mitre, resplendent with intricate golden embroidery, had been wired to her scalp to prevent it from falling off with the nods and jerks of her head. How she had been sewn into her glorious finery, the fabric stitched close with the finest of threads.

Less like the work of the seamstress, and more like the sutures that held the mouth of a wound shut.

To either side marched a row of elite palatine guardsmen, the oath-sworn wardens of the Temple of Life. All dressed in identical black uniforms, their double-handed broadswords held upright before their faces. Their armor was ornate, the full visors fashioned and painted in the beatific likenesses of saints.

Between them, in two rows of six, came a dozen ladies-in-waiting, each one arrayed in red, or blue, or vivid purple silks. Even amid all that opulence, each one was as splendid as a queen herself. Like birds of paradise, set loose amid a forest of gold and silver.

They carried themselves with the same rigid precision of the wardens, none straying further than thirty-six paces from their mistress. It was a matter of practicality, as much as tradition - In their last days, the Miko Princesses could be notoriously erratic. Attending them was not merely an honor, but a duty as singular and exacting as a knight's sworn oath.

But it was the girl who walked with them, apart yet a part, who drew the eye. Clad in the colorless robe of an acolyte, she wore a white mantle, head to toe, with a deep hood that cast her features into shadow. Only the petals of lace at wrists and hem, like the snowy down of cherry blossoms, marked her as something more.

Cinerea Atla Wisteria. Princess-in-waiting.

From here, Ian couldn't see her face. Even so, he had to wonder how she felt, witnessing her own future. For it was Cinerea's role to observe, to make ready for the holy burden that would one day descend upon her, in all its sacred and terrible fullness.

And, from the look of things, that day was coming sooner rather than later.

At his side, Nigun did not quite stir. His expression never changed, but there was something in his eyes - a subtle shift in focus, an intensity - that hadn't been there before. Recognition, perhaps, or something that was almost but not quite pain.

Grief, almost.


A Miko Princess's name and past were erased the day she rose to her rank, obliterated as absolutely as her identity. The nature of her station meant that it was her heir who was held in reverence, who guided the faithful from within the arcane structures of the Temple of Life.

The Princess-in-waiting reigned during that long, solemn interregnum. Knowing that, one day, she would inevitably take her predecessor's place.

But finding a successor was no small thing. It was not sufficient for a candidate to merely possess the requisite potential. Like all else, that talent had to be nurtured, to be fanned from sparks to a roaring flame. Only a divine caster of the fifth tier could hope to endure the weight of the Crown - and so it fell to the Scriptures to instruct their charge, to guard her and ward her, until her destiny came to pass.

Cinerea was no exception. She was an orphan, her family obliterated in the crossfire of the Theocracy-Elf war. They had been settlers, hardy and loyal, one of the many tasked with pushing the borders of the Theocracy ever-onward in a slow wave of expansion.

Elven spite had put an end to that.

It was the Sunlight Scripture, bloodied after a clash with one of the Elf King's thrice-damned spawn, that had discovered the ruins of her village. It was Nigun who'd arranged for her to become a ward of the Temple of Life, rather than the state.

Quite why he'd done it, Ian wasn't certain. He'd been a junior man, then, and Nigun had always been close-mouthed, except in the throes of rage. If he had to hazard a guess, it was the waste of it, the loss of a future, that had moved him.

To see the work of generations, of human tenacity, so appallingly destroyed…It must have spoken to him, somehow. Touched some chord in the implacable core one had to, for want of a better word, call his soul.

Or maybe the Captain had considered it a sign. A child, surviving in the face of annihilation: How could that not have been providence?

In that, at least, his intuition had been sound. Cinerea's star had risen, over nearly a full decade of grueling trials and unrelenting effort, for measure - as the saying went - was unceasing. In the end, against all odds, she had been anointed by the eminences of the Astrology and Oracle Bureaus as Princess-in-waiting to the Temple of Life.

Heir to the title, and all that came with it.

Ian had been present at her investiture. They'd crowned her with gold, in echo of the day that she would, inevitably, be crowned with silver. Despite all the pomp and ceremony, it had been a sombre affair. A farewell of sorts, almost.

He'd always remember the look on Nigun's face, the stiff way he had carried himself, when the time had come for the ritual greeting between the Princess-in-waiting and the Sunlight Scripture. It was not the look, say, of a zealot's reverence in the face of divine authority, or even a mentor's pride in a student's achievements.

It was the look of a father, made abruptly aware of the relentless march of time.

Trying, failing, to grasp the fleeting moment.

To remember every last detail of a child soon to be lost.


There was something terrible about the sight of the Miko Princess enthroned. She had known from the very beginning, of course: Somehow, they always knew, when the time came.

Footsteps lighter than a moth's wings had guided her unerringly to the gilded dais, and - untouched by all - her frail form had settled into the altar's embrace like a queen upon her royal seat.

And yet, there was something of the spider in the way her pale fingers curled against the marble of the armrests. Grooves had been worn into the very stone, worked there by the slow erosion of time and grasping hands. For a moment, she seemed less princess and more prisoner, entombed by the weight of her finery.

Her lips moved, but whatever she might have said, if anything, was lost amid all that splendor.

The priests all genuflected. Only the temple's wardens and the casters of the Sunlight Scripture, fearsomely anonymous in their faceless helms, continued to stand, bound by a duty that went beyond obeisance.

For a moment, silence filled the grand templum like water, as fathomless as the deep dark of the sea. The fragrant smoke of incense, burning in golden thuribles, rose through the air in slow coils of perfumed vapor.

With careful, precise steps, Cinerea ascended to the recital platform. She raised her hands, drawing back her hood. Beneath, her pale features were set in a mask of measured calm, as she turned to the waiting theurges and their retinues.

For a moment, her green eyes seemed to take them all in. To hold the moment in her mind, in anticipation or dread of what would come next. Her violet hair was pinned up, but her long bangs framed the delicate lines of her face, swaying in time to each slight motion, to the faintest breath.

It seemed wilful, somehow, amid all that rigid adoration. Indecent, almost.

"The rite of the Planar Eye will now commence," she said. "-Begin the first enunciation."


The nature of the Six Great Gods was a truth known only to a few. Even when viewed through the distortions of deep time, they had undoubtedly been beings of great puissance, with powers that no mere mortal could ever hope to match.

The Planar Eye ritual had been devised in emulation of their all-seeing vision. Imperfect though it was, it was the culmination of centuries of painstaking experimentation and research. Through it, the combined energies of multiple divine casters could be mastered towards a single unified purpose.

There would be a cost, of course. All the dearer, for acting in haste. But the portents had been strident and undeniable, and left little time for hesitation.

As the first chants began, the grand chamber took on a cold, frosty light. The shadows sharpened, stone glaring as the dimensions of the sacristy stretched and shifted. A significance gathered, like a heat-haze shimmer, that made everything else fade like it was barely even there.

Head bowed, each priest drew upon what lay within. Power, more power than each could hope to sustain, coiled within and around them, mantling them in light. The focused energies swirled around their bodies and clasped hands like blue flame, humming with frosty incandescence.

Corposant crackled. The air tasted of copper and spiced smoke as the charge built, the high, thrumming song of divinity building to a fever-pitch…

A bell tolled. Once, then again.

Lightning flared. It surged from the priests, from each spoke of the wheel, and struck the altar in a torrent of bolts. All that accumulated power, leaping from them into the great high-backed marble throne and the frail, glittering figure cocooned within.

Locked in place, the Miko Princess convulsed, shuddering as if in the throes of a gran mal seizure. A trickle of blood wept from her nose, her shaking hands curling into claws as burning tears flashed to steam on her cheeks. Cords stood out in her limbs, her eyes and mouth lit from within by a phosphor glow.

There was a boom like breaking thunder.

With a numbing rush, the air opened up. Space warped, bent and distorted like the surface of a cracked mirror-

And darkness, like black fog, spewed forth.

It was a torrent, a churning nimbus of midnight vapor. As it bled from the great arc of the Planar Eye, liquid night suffused the vast space of the sacristy like some abyssal exhalation. Indistinct shapes writhed within it, like shadowplay: Wan arcs and jags of radiance flickered in that blanket gloom, like grounded lightning.

A ripple of unease ran through the assembled congregation. Someone moaned, in fear or growing dread.

A sound breathed through the black space, like the slow sigh of a final breath escaping. A faint, barely-perceptible murmur rose, like whispering voices at the very edge of perception.

Sir Londes stiffened, as he felt his hairs stand on end.

"That's-" he said, his eyes narrowing as he strained to see. It was like peering into the depths of a fathomless lake, one where distant leviathans swam.

As the black haze billowed and clotted, it became something harder than smoke, yet thinner than light. Roiling with internal motion, it drank in the radiance, which did nothing at all other than accentuate its totality. Something about that made Londes's skin crawl.

It felt achingly, acutely wrong for a rite of revelation to bring forth only darkness.

Without conscious thought, his hand closed on the hilt of his sword. The metal was cold, like ice, to the touch. With an effort of will, Sir Londes tore his gaze away from the sucking void, the beginnings of nausea churning in his gut.

"Should we…" he began, half-hoping not to be heard. He felt the reassuring solidity of the wall against his back, as he settled for looking around, hoping someone else knew what to do-

Below, Cinerea looked up. Her eyes swept the high galleries, briefly, until they found Quaiesse's.

He nodded, once.

The Princess-in-waiting spread her arms to the waiting gloom. She began to speak, to incant, her words wending their way through the monotone chants of the priests. The walls trembled, the ceiling shaking as the wind rose in time to the plainsong harmonies of their litany.

The second enunciation began. Bursts of vivid radiance, like sheet lightning, flared within the black thundercloud. Fragmentary images formed and faded, reforming and decaying, never quite resolving into coherence.

There was a growing crackle, like a storm charge. The air smelled of ashes, of embers, of blood-

"There's nothing," Ian murmured, steadying himself against the railing. Ice crystals had formed against the metal, gleaming like hoarfrost. The sight of it made his jaw tighten, his platinum hair gone colorless in the half-light.

"Something's wrong with-"

"Use your head, commander," Nigun said, sharp enough to make Ian tense. Slowly, with exquisite care, the Captain of the Sunlight Scripture loosened the drawstrings of the rune-marked pouch he always wore. The hard, pitiless glow of the Sealing Crystal pulsed within, shining with icy light as he tipped it into his gloved hand.

His stance had shifted, ever-so-subtly. Silent tension coiled in his limbs as Nigun drew himself up, his cane grating against the flooring. For a moment, it was as if he'd cast off the lingering weakness of his resurrection, through sheer force of will. The surreal radiance of the crystal in his hand limned the hard lines of his face, set in a furrowed mask of concentration.

Quaiesse had slipped his gloves free, tucking them into his belt with the air of a man readying himself for a duel. His beringed hands glinted, as they caught the light: Gems glittered there, silver rings set with rubies, bloodstones and fire opals.

So much red, Ian couldn't help but think. Why was that?

A false wind rose, tugging at cloaks and flowing skirts as the deep shadow swept across them. There was a tremble in the air, as everything turned black and cold - Someone, somewhere, moaned in terror, the plaintive sound lingering for far longer than it should.

The charred reek was growing infinitely worse. It was the smell of burning bone, of annihilated lives, like the miasmic stench of the crematorium.

Somewhere in the darkness, there was a susurration, a murmur, like the rushing of countless wings-

"Be ready," Ian said, and Londes's head snapped around. For what? he almost said, only to realize the Acting-Captain was speaking into one of the many icons pinned to his coat. The relief he felt was sharp, almost shameful, in its intensity.

Utterly out of his depth, Londes couldn't imagine what he'd do, if it came down to him.

The palatine wardens had stepped forward now, taking up stiff postures of ritual defense. Their fixed, saint-masked visages stared, unwavering, into the swirling darkness: Behind them, the murmuring chants of the priests and ecclesiarchs grew louder, more forceful, more urgent in their intensity.

The ethereal light began to pulse, to flicker, a torch guttering in strong winds. The twisting lines of radiance that linked them to the altar began to writhe, shedding colorless sparks.

Atop the recital platform, Cinerea's slender form seemed all too fragile, her robes fluttering in the abrupt, ethereal gusts. There was something taut, something impossibly intent, in her fine-boned features - Her face gone grave, lips moving as she intoned the canticles, slender fingers clasped in prayer.

They shook, ever-so-slightly.

In the extremity of the moment, the Princess-in-Waiting had gone paler than her white mantle, a faint sheen of sweat - like dew - on her brow. Her emerald gaze fixed, with single-minded intensity, on the figure upon that burning throne, even as the first shudder racked her form.

This was the moment of greatest peril. The Planar Eye ritual, once begun, had an awful momentum of its own. To end it now would mean an unleashing, an unbinding of the accumulated energies that had been summoned, let loose to wreak havoc.

But that was nothing, nothing, compared to the ruin that would descend if they lost control.

She reached up, with her left hand. Gestured, without looking.

The third enunciation began.


With the clatter and scrape of metal, the shields were brought forth. Tall, oblong, they had the look of pavises, large and heavy enough that each took two men to carry. The wards on their burnished brass faces hummed, so charged with power that looking upon them made Londes feel sick.

From a distance, they looked solid, as unyielding as the great walls of the Temple of Life. But this close to the seething darkness and twitching light of the rite, he was beginning to wonder if they were anywhere near enough.

Nigun had led the way, of course. Striding, barking out orders, he'd marshaled the casters and armsmen of the Sunlight Scripture through sheer force of will, heedless of the assorted retinues and acolytes scurrying for safety.

He'd seemed energized by the immediacy of the moment, his infirmity forgotten. Only the sweat beading on his brow, the harsh lines of his face, told of the strain. Now, standing in the shadow of the arrayed shields, he leaned heavily on his cane, breath coming fast and hard through flared nostrils.

All the while, Nigun's fingers gripped the Sealing Crystal, the sharp facets ice-white against his black glove.

Waiting.

Against every instinct for self-preservation, Sir Londes had followed. Duty had brought him this far, after all: It was only right to see things to the end. Besides, he'd reasoned, it was far safer to stay close to the Captain, rather than take his chances in the gloaming dark.

His presence was, thankfully, unremarked upon by Ian or Quaiesse. The Acting-Captain's expression had grown increasingly drawn, as he conferred with one of the temple wardens - From Ian's wary, sidelong glances, the murmur of their hushed, urgent conversation, it was becoming increasingly clear that the present development heralded nothing good.

Only Quaiesse looked fresh as night frost, untouched by the general consternation on all sides. It seemed like there was a very local light wherever he was standing, a faint, numinous glow that illuminated him and him alone.

The ecclesiarchs endured, but the strain on them was palpable. Many were swaying as if concussed, the radiance around them wavering, unsteady. At least three had been obliged to withdraw, from stress or from sheer exertion, their replacements hurried into place as they foundered.

Their chants had taken on an atonal, ragged edge, driven less by harmony and more by grim determination. They mingled with the Princess-in-waiting's, forming a whole more than the sum of its parts - Carrying, impossibly, the surpassing clarity of Cinerea's invocation over the moan of the ash-laden winds.

"Captain-" Ian's voice was carefully measured, at odds with the mounting tension. He looked deeply, inexpressibly uncomfortable, a man who knew that disaster was, if not imminent, a genuine possibility. "The adorators…We're reaching their limits. The priests can't sustain this pace, not without burning out. The strain on the Princess…"

Nigun nodded, once. For a moment, calculation flickered in his eyes, weighing the cost of failure against all the rest. Something that may have been disappointment, or perhaps even relief, passed across his face like a shadow.

"Make an end, then," he said, quietly. "Tell the clerics to-"

"-Wait."

Both men froze.

His head canted high, Quaiesse stared unblinking into the inky darkness, as if he understood its ebb and flow. There was a sharpness to him, now, as if that easy charisma, that effortless charm, was a facade that had abruptly fallen away, leaving only a razor-edged alertness.

Sir Londes felt something cold seize his guts. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, as an abrupt premonition of doom coursed through him.

For something had changed. Something in the air, the chattering and fluting in the fluid darkness, the quality of th-

The Miko Princess screamed.

It was a sound of singular and undiluted human agony, raw and throat-ripping. That terrible, piercing wail cut the air as keenly as a knife, her head ramming back against the altar. Hard enough to knock her mitre askew, blood weeping from her torn scalp as her body went into spasm.

"W, what-" Londes stammered out, forgetting himself for a moment. The first cries of shock, of dismay, came from all around as the steady cadence of the chant faltered. The priests were staggering back, their harmony dissolving into confusion as the Miko Princess kept screaming.

One word, over and over again.

"Light!" she shrieked, as her ornate robes burst into flame. "Light! Light! Light!"

She thrashed and twisted, smoke boiling from her spasming limbs. The Princess's fingers left bloody smears on the armrests of her stony throne, the flesh of her brow blistering as the Crown of Wisdom glowed with new, furious heat.

"Stop the rite!" Nigun bellowed, over her screams. "Sunlight Scripture, to me!"

On the lectern, Cinerea flinched, as if struck. Jolted from her half-trance of concentration, her gaze was fixed, aghast, on the Miko Princess's tortured figure, her lips still moving as she intoned silent orisons. A twisting cage of lightning boiled around her, leaping and arcing as the accumulated energies sought to ground themselves.

If not for the wards, they'd have scourged her, but the Princess-in-waiting's desperate prayers bled them away, preventing a cataclysmic discharge. Tendrils of sickly light flickered around her gesturing hands, reality flexing and splitting with distortion as she bent all her skill, every iota of her will, into preserving herself.

But not the priests.

The first ecclesiarch convulsed, an arc of blue light twining around him like a fiery vine. He stumbled as if kicked, breaking the perfect symmetry of the ritual circle. Black ash trailed in his wake, flakes of burnt skin rippling away as tiny fires flickered to life along his ritual robes, leaping hungrily across his flesh-

And abruptly, without any warning at all, he exploded.

Meat and muscle became an expanding cloud of raw flame, a column of fire that seared outwards in hungry, leaping tongues. Another priest combusted, engulfed in a blue inferno that burned with a greedy, crackling fury that stripped him to the bone.

Pandemonium erupted.

The chanting swelled and changed as one noise, becoming howls of astonished horror. Terrified worshipers and attendants began to scramble from the pews, bolting for the exits in blind panic.

The air itself was vibrating, the darkness rushing overhead like a gale. With a brittle crash, a ritual mirror toppled, shattering with a sound like the end of the world.

Panic was emptying the high sanctum, now. Worshipers and retainers alike, acolytes and novices - all were fleeing, a desperate clawing flight away from the awful darkness and the killing fire.

The Miko Princess's ladies-in-waiting, greatly daring, were already hurrying to their mistress's aid. The palatine guardsmen led the way, clearing a path through the frantic, shrieking crowd. They were not gentle in the execution of their sacred task - Those who crowded close were shoved aside, repelled by fist, boot, or spear-haft.

A babble of voices:

"Send for the healers-"

"...cure the chamber, at all costs!"

Nigun strode towards the burning dais, heedless of the keening chaos. His eyes had gone black - Sclera, iris and all the rest - as he forged his way forward, a man braced against strong winds. Threads of ghostly radiance wept between his fingers, the burning coal of the Sealing Crystal clutched to his chest.

Two shieldbearers scrambled to keep up. They had the crablike, scuttling walk of men struggling beneath crushing burdens, muscles bunching as they hoisted their pavises high. Every step was an effort: All could feel the awful pressure in the air, like a thunderhead on the verge of eruption, turning all the world into a slow-motion nightmare.

Behind them, Ian had mustered three veiled signifiers from the Scripture's first squad. A haze of layered protections shimmered around them, forking traceries of energy lighting up the frothing darkness like veins. Somehow, they kept their footing, even as the ground beneath their feet heaved.

There was a series of sharp, snapping cracks, like dry winter branches breaking, the first fissures spiderwebbing across the floor-

"Forward!" someone was shouting, voice hoarse and scraped-raw. "Protect the Princess!"

Sir Londes would have obeyed, if he could. Truly, he would have. But he was on all fours, dry-heaving, the world slithering sideways. It felt like something had gripped his organs in an invisible vise, and was beginning to squeeze.

Blood wept from his tear-ducts, the iron tang of blood in his mouth. He could taste vomit at the back of his throat, pressing against his eyes-

A flutter of dark cloth caught the corner of his failing vision, and he clawed for it with everything he had left.

"Help me," Londes tried to say, but all that came out was a gurgle.

"Help-"

Quaiesse did not pause, or even slow. He did not look down, as he strode past Sir Londes - Moving without haste, but with intent, through the tumult. One of his many rings flashed, the great gem's luster fading as he threw an arm up: Something winged and crimson blurred from his hand, soaring towards the great, vaulted dome before it vanished into the dark.

"Light! Light! Light!"

And then there was Light. White and angry, somehow more terrible than the blackness and the half-heard whispers and the hideous smell of cooking flesh. Rays of unfathomable brilliance sliced through the churning gloom, like the sun emerging from behind the clouds-

It grew bright, and then brighter still. There was a sound, felt rather than heard, a deep, concussive boom of discharging force. It came from everywhere and nowhere at once, the phantom echo of some titanic detonation, just out of sight.

Abruptly, the view through the conjured lens of the Planar Eye became clear. More than clear: For one beautiful, awful moment of perfect clarity, Sir Londes saw everything.

Everything.

As a second sun dawned over Re-Estize, an ill-made knight fell burning...

-And a beast of iron fell with him.


The Great and the Good

When the cold, dead hand coiled in her hair, Lady Sofia screamed, and drew breath to scream again.

It'd been her husband's idea, all of it. She'd never wanted to marry Lord Bourah Farnsworth, never wanted her smothering marriage or the suffocating estate in the capital - But her family had debts, and the main value of old blood was in securing new money.

Decades of mismanagement and failed ventures had meant that her family was in arrears, their wealth magnificently squandered. Her marriage was a business arrangement, a political alliance, one that would keep them from the unspeakable shame of penury.

Love, her mother had told her, sternly, was a luxury House Palliser could not afford. All the weeping in the world didn't change that.

Lord Farnsworth had been a boor, of course. A boor and a bore, so smug and secure in his wealth that he'd considered himself infallible. More than twice her age, he lived with the absolute certainty that he was the centre of his world, with all else in his orbit.

From the very beginning, it had been manifestly clear that she was his property, bought and paid-for. His to dispose of, not just in his nightly visits - which she swiftly grew to despise - but as his trophy, in those interminable meetings with his equally boorish friends.

Any illusions she might have clung to, that the wealthy of the land were also the great and the good, had quickly fallen away. They were all the same, every one of them, with their grasping ambition, their limitless greed, their constant clawing for position. More than the stifling conversation, Sofia dreaded their gazes, sizing her up like a delicacy that'd been placed just out of reach.

The worst part was, none of it was unfamiliar.

She had heard it said that every woman ends up marrying her father. Somehow, somehow, Sofia had always imagined that she would be the exception. In the end, of course, there was nothing she could do…Except endure, to smile and curtsy and fight down that silent scream that bubbled within her, for to give voice to it would shatter everything.

Or so she'd thought.


It had to be said, however, that Lord Farnsworth was not without his virtues.

For one, he was possessed of a certain shrewdness, which had been instrumental in parlaying his modest fortune into a vast one. He'd been sufficiently ruthless to see the value in the Dust trade and sufficiently hard-nosed to steer clear of the obvious pitfalls that had tripped up so many. Moreover, he was a man of surprisingly few vices (other than women) and both discerning and discreet when he did choose to indulge himself.

Most importantly of all, Bourah had a keen sense for danger, and had never let propriety get in the way of swift action when it was time to flee.

By the time the first fires were burning, they were already in their coach, the one he used for visiting men of worth. Before, Sofia had considered it gauche, ostentatious in a way that only a man overly enamored of the martial fervor sweeping the capital could be. After all, she knew better than anyone that Lord Bourah had never faced real danger of any kind.

But when the first shouts and screams had swept out of the ash-choked darkness, she'd been grateful for the reassuring solidity of the darkwood-and-iron frame, the two black horses in the traces that pulled them tirelessly on. The men-at-arms in her husband's employ - two riding ahead to clear the way, two on the platform behind with loaded crossbows - seemed an especially prescient investment now, rather than the affectation they'd been before.

At first, the danger had seemed distant, even morbidly exciting. The smoke-filled night had utterly transformed the cobbled streets and close buildings of the capital into an alien landscape, lit by flashes of distant flame. It was exotic, surreal, utterly new, her gaze caught and held by the glimpses of the tableaus slipping past the windows.

And then Lady Sofia had seen the bodies. Hunched shapes, sprawled on the ground, cloaks ripped and stained dark. Watchmen, she'd realized, even as the coach had swept past. It was then she'd realized, with a jolt, that this was serious - For if the city watch couldn't stop this madness, what could?

Her husband had said little, his pudgy hands cradling his leather case to his chest. He'd been shoving papers into it by the fistful, right up to the point of their departure. Now, he clutched it like a well-loved infant, or a talisman, as if drawing courage from its presence.

Lord Farnsworth had only spoken to her once, when she'd nudged down the window to get a little more air in. The draught had loosened some strands of grey hair previously plastered across his bald pate and they now floated from his head to an impressive height, but her husband had barely even noticed.

"We'll be safe soon, my darling," he'd said, and - to her shock - she realized that he was trying to comfort her.

It was then that she'd felt the cold weight of dread settling in her stomach, as their coach clattered towards the distant promise of the city gates. That feeling had only intensified when the far-off clamor grew closer still, swelling in volume. She'd flinched when she'd heard the jagged shouts from up ahead, the crashes, the barking of dogs-

The coach had stopped, and the stillness had been worse than anything she'd come before. Her imagination conjured up images of maddened faces at the window, dirty hands reaching for her…

And then one of the guards came riding back. Meinhart, with his strong hands and pointed beard, whom she'd always been rather sweet on. He'd looked like a different man entirely, his face grey in the pallid light as he conferred with her husband.

"Rioters, up ahead," he'd said, his voice taut with worry. "Dozens of them-"

Bourah's lips had compressed into a thin line. He'd said something, and the carriage had lurched into motion once again, faster than before. A waxy sheen of sweat gleamed on her husband's skin, but he still had a smile for her - A smile meant to be reassuring, but came across as merely ghastly.

"The docks! That's how we'll escape, my sweet," he said, his fingers drumming distractedly against the case. "The good ship Nerene waits for us, and she'll take us to safety. Never doubt that, not for a moment!"

What could she do but smile back, as though she believed him? As their carriage rattled and rolled away from the commotion, away from the yells, squeals and mad sounds that felt closer than ever before, Sofia gripped her ivory fan like a talisman. She'd always been clumsy with it, no matter how much she'd practiced…Not like the priestess from the Holy Kingdom, the one who'd been at the Crown Prince's gala.

How confident she'd looked, in spotless blue and white! How utterly self-assured, like she'd never known a moment's doubt or uncertainty! Watching her from the sidelines as she'd (what was her name again?) held court, Sofia had felt a sharp pang of envy.

It wasn't just the priestess's effortless poise, of course. The sight of the noble knights that flanked her, magnificent in their gleaming plate, had drawn whispers and sighs from the ladies of the court. How they'd giggled, when the younger one - his eyes flitting over all the wrong angles, gaping at the splendor all around him - had wandered off to pillage the buffet.

Unaccountably, he'd chosen to dance with Viscount Fondoll's mistress, of all people. But then came the duel with the Warrior-Captain, both men moving with such terrible speed, such lethal intensity, and after that he'd never seemed quite as amusing as he was before.

And then there was Wolfgunblood. So dashing, in that black coat. So debonair, so rakish, with those startling eyes of his-

The coach jolted, and Lady Sofia's head came up, jarred from her reverie. There was an acrid tickle at the back of her throat, from the smoke in the air: Great plumes of it rolled up into the darkening murk overhead, the sky flickering with fitful lightning.

Their carriage had been swaying down murky streets - strangely quiet, oddly empty - towards the docks. Narrower streets, it had to be said, the ground turning from new paving to old cobbles, to rutted mud. She'd lived in the capital for most of her life, and she'd never seen these small, mean roads before, the buildings closing in like grasping fingers.

"Where are we?" Sofia said, her voice small, just above a peep. "Where…?"

"Quiet," her husband hissed, and there was no false comfort in his voice, now. His eyes had gone wide, so very wide, until all she could see were the whites. At some point, a fog had sprung up, grey tendrils of it wending through the air…

In the distance, there was a sound. A shuffling, a moaning-

Someone screamed, and she realized it was Meinhart.

"Help me! Help me! There's-"

His words cut out in a bubbling wail, made worse by the high, awful shriek that ended it. The sound of it made Lord Farnsworth start, the blood draining from his face, throat working as he shouted "Go! Go now!" and then "Don't look, my sweet!" as the coach wrenched itself in a sharp turn, hard enough to throw her against the padded seats-

She couldn't help herself.

She looked.

Figures, black against the distant fires, shimmering with their heat. A line of shambling shapes, lurching towards them, converging on the carriage like sharks drawn to blood in the water. Sofia heard the twang of the crossbow firing, saw one of the malformed shapes lurch back and keep walking, heedless of the gleaming bolt that sprouted from its skull.

There were worse things, too. Tall, awful figures in spiked and rusted armor, badged with the symbols of death. Things that were dressed in their own flayed skins, flapping in the charnel breeze. And the smell of it, the choking smell of decay, the sweet scent of rot…

The dead had risen.

Death walked Re-Estize, and it was coming for her.

But then the coach was speeding up, the thunder of hooves matching the hammer of Sofia's heart. She clung to the bouncing, jostling carriage as it hurtled forward, her fan tumbling from her hand - snatched away by the wind - as dirt sprayed up from the back wheels, the horrid sight behind them vanishing into the gloom.

All she could think was please, please, let me live-

And then Lord Bourah swore, an abrupt oath sputtering from his lips. Sofia had a moment to wonder why, before she heard the terrible wail of a horse's agony. The beasts were rearing in their traces, driven beyond frenzy by sheer terror.

Something smashed into the window, hard, and the tinted glass shattered with a popping crash. A shard sliced her cheek, and she gasped at the cold sting of it, flinching back as the wheels made a hideous grinding sound.

"Stay back!" her husband shouted, high and shrill. His eyes had gone wider, wider than she'd ever seen, one hand out-thrust like a ward against misfortune. Sofia was turning her face away, trying to shield herself from the shower of glass, when the over-bright world tipped crazily with a grinding jolt-

And everything became whirling madness.


She woke to pain.

Smoke and dust, ash and splinters, billowed quietly around her. There was wood beneath her, then stone, pressing against her side so hard it hurt. Sofia tasted copper in her mouth, from where she'd bitten her tongue - Her cheek stinging, as if from a slap.

Everything ached.

She remembered…

-the horses screaming and rearing, the wagon going over. Up onto its side, then down onto the street, sideways. The frame buckling, the ground grinding closer, closer to her open window.

A great crash, a shaking of the world, the roof crumpling down.

Ripped metal, howling at the injustice-

She lay on her side, her head arched back, her sense of hearing replaced with a high-pitched whining sound. Blood kept getting in her eyes, and Sofia mewled and pawed at herself with shaking hands in a fit of sudden fright.

The blood wasn't hers. It trickled down from above, in slow, lazy rivulets.

Above her, Lord Bourah hung upside-down, his body half-in, half-out of the coach. He looked down at her from his inverted position, his heavy-jowled face frozen in an expression of slack-jawed surprise.

An open eye, very green, stared into hers-

No.

No, no, no-

Against all odds, he was still moving. His body rocked slightly, one arm hanging down towards her like a loose vine. Sofia couldn't look away, her palms gone slick and tingly, her heart pounding in time to the patient drip-drip-drip of her husband's blood hitting her face…

Sheer dysfunctioning shock had obligated her memory of the past few hours. She couldn't remember, not quite, how she'd found herself here. What she'd been doing, what they'd been running from.

And then a cold, dead hand seized her by the hair, and she realized she remembered after all.


The ghouls had come from the river, and they were all the more ravenous for it. Wet, dripping, they had the look of the drowned dead. Thinning mops of tangled hair hid blotchy blue faces, their flesh saggy and waterlogged, bellies distended by bloat. Their fingers were tipped with filthy claws, the gelatinous flesh eaten away in places by deep-water scavengers.

But the one that had taken hold of Lady Sofia had the implacable strength of the damned, and hunger lent it new impetus.

Worse, it wasn't alone.

The mangled coach creaked beneath their weight, as the dead swarmed. Their pallid bodies stank of brine, lifeless faces alight with ravenous intensity as more hands reached in to seize her.

"Help!" she shrieked, cringing against the door. "Please don't, don't, someone, anyone-"

But the hand in her long hair was inexorable, pulling so hard it felt like her scalp would tear. She clawed at it, tried to break its grip, but her nails bit into puffy flesh that neither shed blood nor felt pain. As her neck was forced to arch, something seized her by the left arm, another by her right shoulder, as Sofia tried to cling to the frame-

"Nonononoooooooooooo-"

It felt like her corset was strangling her. She kicked helplessly at the ground, fought to wedge her foot beneath the seats, but all it did was to wrench her slipper free as she was pulled up, up and into the light.

Towards the mouths that dripped with silent slaver, a blood-soaked face turning to greet her as a lacedon lifted its head from her husband's torn-open guts. Gore soaked those lightless features, clung to it like a mask. Now, and only now, did she see the figures that waited on the ground beneath it - Ghasts, adorned in cowls of human hair, one already gripping the bone handle of a waiting knife.

Somehow, somehow, Sofia found enough breath to scream. A true scream, one that tore from her throat like a siren's shriek, her heart flailing like it was about to stop-

There was a hiss, a flash like fire, and the first lacedon's head exploded.


"Cutting it a little close, Lukrut-"

"Can't rush perfection, Ninya! Your turn."

Daggers of light stung the air, like a cloud of wasps. They punched great holes through rotting flesh, disarticulated bodies thudding down with the finality of falling cordwood.

"Into them!"

The shout came from the vanguard, a score of adventurers slamming headlong into the shambling crowd of the dead. The adventurer in the lead split a zombie's skull with his first swing, broadsword rising in a ripping cut as the others piled in, using axe, greatsword and mace to hack and bludgeon the walking dead back through the streets.

The undead outnumbered the living three-to-one, and those rushing ahead would've been overwhelmed and pulled down when their charge ran out of momentum - But Tam's crew was advancing now, with their shields and lugged spears, a moving wall for them to retire behind.

The Ember Fangs were beast-hunters, and it showed. They closed ranks and pushed, the claws and teeth of the pallid dead scraping futilely against the shieldwall. Swift, efficient thrusts speared them like apples from a tub as arrows and crossbow bolts whistled overhead, the solid, satisfying thunk of each impact mingling with the gristly sounds of blades hewing flesh.

For his part, Hekkeran didn't see the point of rushing in. When fighting the undead, it was better to let them come to you, rather than the other way round. After all, they didn't get tired, but you did. Every breath you used to charge in was better spent hacking them down.

"That Peter's keen," he said, flicking gore from his swords. He still didn't know what they were made of, but they were hellishly effective. In his hands, Sylpheed had moved like a sliver of sharpness, while Xergunnil cut through flesh and bone like shaving foam.

He'd lost count of the number of living dead he'd carved apart, all in the last packed round of fighting…But Hekkeran had a feeling he'd beaten his own personal best.

Gods, but he'd done some serious work today.

"Silver-ranked," Gringham said, his breath coming in puffs of white cloud as he leaned on his axe's haft. "He'll make Gold by the end of the year, I don't doubt."

He looked a little disgruntled, reaching up to strip blood from his helmet's horned crest with his thumb. Teeth were embedded in the metal, where a zombie had tried to bite his head off - He'd returned the favor with a savage head-butt, which had been rather more effective.

Hekkeran didn't blame Gringham, not really: Things had gotten up-close and personal two streets over, and a man from Heavy Masher had been thoroughly mauled by a pack of ghouls before the others could pull him free. Rober was tending to him, but it'd be a while before they caught up…

And on a night like this, friends made the best armor.

"Really? They get younger every year."

"That's the Four's own truth, it is." Gringham turned his head and - decorously - spat to the side, taking a long swig from his canteen. Fighting was thirsty work, after all, and they were nowhere near done.

Not even close.


They'd left Arche and Imina back at the Guild. Imina hadn't liked it: She'd disagreed, vehemently, but Hekkeran had won her over in the end. Given the way things were looking, he'd reasoned, they needed to keep the payday in good hands.

Just in case everything went wrong.

Gold, especially great quantities of it, was an incitement to misbehavior. With Arche still laid up from her broken ribs, someone needed to watch her back. Given that the cursed barbs from the dullahan's spear were still slowly, agonizingly working their way free from Imina's arm and side, she'd drawn the short straw.

…Or so Imina had said, but Hekkeran foresaw stormy weather in his future, assuming he made it through this. Which was never a certainty, granted, but he couldn't help but feel that things were looking up.

Adventurers and Workers, as a rule, didn't work well together. But this was very much an all hands on deck moment, if there ever was one, and the clink of coin had done an amazing job in smoothing over any differences.

Someone had got word from the City Watch that Prince Zanac was advancing towards the Square of Scales, and the ragtag army of adventurers had agreed that was like the obvious place to go.

The trouble was, the dead had exactly the same idea.

Ever since the irregulars left the safety of the barricades, it'd been a running fight the entire way. Small teams of two to four parties ranged ahead of the big push, picking off undead as they went - Mostly stragglers from the great mass of the walking dead, currently wending its way towards the Second Prince's army.

Hekkeran never quite understood how the living dead knew exactly where to go, only that the more of them that gathered, the harder they were to fight. It was like the proximity to so much death quickened them, made them more able to move as one, more willing to come together as a swarm. It was downright disturbing, and he didn't care to think too deeply about what it might mean.

At first, things had been touch-and-go for a moment, there. The undead had come after them hard, like starvelings after a feast. Not just the shamblers, but horrible, warped things, so mutilated and bleakly malicious it was hard to believe that they'd ever been alive.

There were a lot of them.

"We're in for it now, lads," Cadoc (most recently of Vestige) had said, with the far-off look of a man contemplating his choice of profession. Hekkeran didn't blame him: When he'd seen what they were up against, he'd sucked in a breath - Glad that Imina and Arche were safely out of this, wishing he'd found a way to get Rober off the hook, too…

But then something had changed. The darkness had become a little less absolute, a little less oppressive, like the menace of it had been drawn away. Pulled somewhere else, where it was needed.

An uneasy frisson had rippled through the swarm of undeath, and they had…ebbed.

Not fleeing, or even turning. No, they'd recoiled, as if they'd felt a sudden, urgent pull. A call, perhaps, or a summons. A shift in focus that, even through the blowing smoke and swirling ash, had disheartened them somehow.

If there was anything adventurers and Workers both loved, it was an enemy with the wind taken out of their sails. Shouts of "Get them!" had gone up, and then the first magic arrows and scorching rays had seared across the distance, along with the rarer fireball.

After that, well, it was all murderous, chopping effort.


Through sheer coincidence, he'd found himself fighting alongside Heavy Masher, the Ember Fangs, and the Swords of Darkness.

Hekkeran hadn't quite taken the measure of the last, not yet. The big, faintly grass-smelling bruiser had seemed like a solid sort, but Hekkeran wasn't so sure about the others: Their caster wasn't old enough to shave, and Lukrut was just cocksure enough to rub him the wrong way.

He was a good shot, though. Hekkeran had to give him that.

He'd had his misgivings, when he'd first placed Firedrake in Lukrut's hands. But the archer proved himself to be a dab hand with it, sending shaft after fiery shaft lancing through moaning mouths and into lightless eyes.

In no time at all, Lukrut had mastered the trick of picking out a shambler in the middle of a pack, landing a single, precise shot that set it alight. The miserable creature inevitably ignited those around it in its flailing, thrashing despair, a heartbeat before the explosion turned them all into fast-burning torches.

Imina would've done it better, of course.

Another shot, a hiss of swelling flame - Then an abrupt detonation, a haze of vaporized viscera rising from the blast.

"Six!" Lukrut whooped, perched on the ruins of a burned-out stall. "Six! You see that, Dyne?"

He got a long-suffering grunt for his efforts. The druid fought with a simple staff, but the threads of green light ambling across the rough-hewn wood made it as hard and as heavy as stone. It blurred in his hands, bashing back grasping limbs and smashing in heads, the cobbles so slick with gore and brains it was a wonder the big man didn't slip.

"-Talk less. Do more."

Lukrut pouted at that, but his eyes were smiling. "Everyone's a critic," he said, swivelling to sight in on a brace of bloated husks. Made buoyant by the gases swelling within them, they moved with a ghastly, bounding stride, like something out of a waking nightmare.

He fired, twice. Twin streaks of light leapt from Firedrake, and seared into their midst.

The thwump of the explosion shook the ground, as flame bloomed. Bodies, and pieces of bodies, went flying.

"Four-" Lukrut was already turning, already shaking the sting from his fingers, when the last wretch bounded out of the flames. The flesh melting off its bones like tallow, it was less a human figure and more an attenuated ball of fire, almost too bright to look at. Mindless hunger drove it on, an awful implacability that defied all reason.

He whirled to face it, bringing his bow up, but there was no time to draw, only to nock-

"Shit…! "

There was a blur, a clatter of articulating armor.

A blade of star-silver hissed, and carved the husk clean in two.


In the end, the mass of undead didn't dwindle as much as disintegrate. It was less like fighting men or monsters, and more like hacking through a thicket. At some point, the last wight went down beneath swinging swords and stabbing spears, and men turned to realized that there was nothing left to fight.

It wasn't the end, but it was a reprieve. Elsewhere, the fighting raged on, but the battle for this street, for this unassuming corner, was done. Adventurers stood around, some with the faintly dazed look of survivors, others stabbing the still-twitching dead as they foundered like half-crushed spiders.

Up ahead, there was a round of cheering. Peter Mauk had reached the overturned coach first, clambering over the twice-dead corpses heaped below. Weeping, the carriage's sole occupant clung to him, flame-red tresses dishevelled, skirts shredded from her close escape.

"Thank you," the woman was gasping, halfway between a whimper and a sob, breathing hard as blood crept down her face from her hairline. "Thank you, thank you, thank you-"

Lukrut sighed. "Some people have all the luck," he said, puffing his cheeks out. He slithered down the packed rubble, shouldering his bow, as Peter - blushing, hard - tried to free himself from Lady Sofia's desperate clutch.

Eager hands reached out to help him with his burden, a ripple of laughter going up as she shied away, unwilling to release her white-knuckled grip. In the end, it was Ninya who coaxed her free, the caster's beardless face faintly annoyed. Still, there was something comforting about him, as he murmured soothing words, drawing a weather-stained cloak around the noblewoman's trembling shoulders.

With a veteran's eye for profit, Gringham was picking through the scattered debris, using his axe like a shovel's blade. Pickings were slim, as expected: The problem with fighting the undead was that, generally speaking, there was little to show for it.

Barring the occasional exception, most men died paupers.

He met Hekkeran's gaze with a grim little smile, stocky shoulders lifting in a resigned shrug.

"Long night," he said, tipping his chin in the direction of the ruined carriage. "Too bad we can't all be rich widows, eh?"

"Fit to be longer," Hekkeran said, sheathing his swords. It hardly seemed worth the effort - They'd be on the move again in a matter of minutes, with trouble laying in wait - but he preferred to consider himself an optimist. "What's the score?"

"One dead. Two more for the priests. They'll be staying put if they're smart." A sidelong look, from under his heavy brows. "Your boy's fine, by the way. Full of beans, he is - Almost too much, if you catch my meaning."

"He's not my-" Hekkeran began, then shook his head. "I'll have a word with him."

He clapped Gringham's shoulder, looking up and down the street. The undead had been left where they'd fallen, carrion fluids leaking from their rent forms. The adventurers standing over them made for unlikely victors, faces sweaty from exertion, with the fierce bright eyes of those who'd met death head-on and walked away in one piece.

For now, at least.

Everything's temporary, Hekkeran thought, as he walked on.

-In the long run, we're all dead.


Despite his very best efforts, the boy was still alive.

Rober had tried to stop him, of course. He'd earned his rest, he'd said. There were more than enough swords for the assault - One more wouldn't make that much of a difference. Climb had done his duty, by any sense of the word.

He was already a hero. Let it be.

Eventually, Rober's even-handed temper had worn through. He'd got angry, despairing of Climb's obstinate refusal to rest.

He'd died, by the Four. Even by the fast and loose standards of the Adventurer's Guild - and especially by the rather more pragmatic standards of the Workers - he was pushing his luck.

"Haven't you done enough?" Rober had said, in the end.

No.

No, he hadn't.

"It isn't over," Climb had said, his jaw taking on a distinctly stubborn set that Hekkeran was beginning to recognize. "Not yet."

At last, Rober had thrown his hands up and stalked away, muttering how there was no helping some people. "Talk some sense into him," he'd implored, but Hekkeran knew an impossible task when he saw one.

"It's your funeral," he'd said, with a shrug. Who was he to keep a man from his destiny? If Climb wanted to be out there, in the thick of things…Well, Hekkeran certainly wasn't about to stop him. Grandmaster Samuel had been like that, too, and he'd vanished into the growing conflagration.

Never to be seen again, most likely. There was plenty of that going around tonight.

It took a moment for Hekkeran to spot the gleam of mithril, looking up and down the disjointed line of fighters. A makeshift camp had been set up, in the shadow of an abandoned barricade: The casters and priests were tending to the walking wounded, with others handing 'round vials of healing potion and flasks of brandy.

Climb was sitting against the wall, panting heavily as he tried to catch his breath. His armor was slicked with drying gore, new dents bashed into its shining surface. Only that fancy sword of his remained pristine, the silver flashing mirror-bright as Climb leaned the hilt against his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" Hekkeran asked.

Climb bowed his head, a nod. Blood speckled the ground beneath him, but none of it looked to be his.

"How long?" he said.

"What?"

"-Before we move out."

Hekkeran sighed. He slid down next to Climb on the cold flagstones, and leaned back against the wall. A brief search located his waterskin: By some miracle, it was still mostly-full. After a long swig, he passed it to Climb - The boy glanced at it, his expression half-surprised, half-wary, but he took it with a murmur of thanks.

"You're looking better," Hekkeran observed. He meant it, too.

When they'd started off, he'd been certain that Climb wouldn't last the night. He'd looked dead on his feet, dreadfully pale, eyes fever-bright. Some men were like that, after a brush with death: Acutely aware of what lay beyond the veil, they didn't linger long, forever haunted by what they'd seen.

It was all they could do to make one final, mighty effort before they returned to the God of Earth's embrace, driven by a nameless something they could never give voice to. Like a geas, perhaps, or a curse.

But Climb looked stronger, now. More vital.

The color had returned to his face, the scar across his throat fading to a faint line of discolored skin. In the light that ebbed from his softly-glowing sword, he looked like some picture-book hero, all yearning eyes and well-defined muscles.

For some reason, it made Hekkeran feel old.

"The fighting helps, I think," Climb said, low. More thoughtful than Hekkeran had given him credit for. Subdued, even.

"I feel…clearer. Like-" His brow furrowed, searching for the words. "Like the fog is lifting."

"So I see," Hekkeran said. He didn't, in fact, but he supposed Climb had the way of it. He'd never seen anything quite like it before, life returning in a rush. Mere hours ago, the boy had been almost supine from resurrection sickness, with the dreadful, sweaty pallor of the returned.

Now, he looked like Hekkeran felt.

Climb took a parsimonious sip from the waterskin. Still waiting for an answer, Hekkeran knew.

"Soon," he said. "Let the others catch their breath, first. We'll be right in the thick of it, never fear…But these things need time."

As far as he was concerned, the longer they delayed the inevitable, the better. The undead army threaded the streets like a pestilent river overflowing its banks, a roiling knot of the unquiet dead moving with the single-mindedness of an army of ants.

You didn't want to be in the way of that. No-one did.

Deep in his bones, Hekkeran knew this was going to be a bad one. The Second Prince's forces were about to catch all kinds of hell, and he couldn't imagine what would happen - what was already happening - when they got there.

"There's plenty more where that came from, believe me. What's your hurry?"

Climb frowned at the ground, a trace of yellow bruises around his eyes.

"-I can't fail," he said. "Not again. The princess-"

He stopped. He'd said too much, and he knew it.

"The princess?" Hekkeran blinked, wrong-footed. "...What's this about the Princess?"

But the boy's face had gone stony, and he knew he'd be getting no answers out of him.

With a grunt, Hekkeran rose. Dusted off his leggings, stained to the knees with unnameable fluids. At some point, he'd been literally knee-deep in the dead, apparently. Sometimes, that just happened, and you didn't even realize until later.

"All right, then - I won't pry. We've all got secrets, don't we?"

He held out a hand, and Climb just stared at it for a long moment. Comprehension dawned, then, and he handed the waterskin back over. With a nod, Hekkeran took another swig, the water sloshing uncomfortably in his empty stomach.

Fleetingly, he wished he'd brought something to eat. That heel of bread seemed so terribly long ago, now. Caught on the cusp of the moment, Hekkeran drew a deep breath, marshaling his thoughts.

He ought to say something significant, he knew. Some hard-worn nugget of wisdom that this too-determined lad needed to hear. Something about treasuring every moment you had, because you might not have another.

He opened his mouth-

The sky lit up. Without warning, entirely without sound.

A burst of distant fire, far, far above, swelling into a great and terrible radiance.

All of a sudden, it got brighter. So bright, Hekkeran thought for one fleeting moment that the sun had come up. The great, silent flash sheared through the murky gloom, an undiluted radiance that swirled the heavens, fierce enough to bleach all colour to nothing.

For a moment, shadows vanished. For an instant, outlines blurred.

The waterskin fell from Hekkeran's hand, its contents glugging into the dirt. He swore, turning away - Too late, he knew, expecting to feel the burning, stinging pain of flash-blindness…

But there was nothing. No pain. Just a sudden gust, scudding through the streets, a breath of warm, fresh air, a world away from the choking miasma that swirled through the embattled capital. As he blinked away momentary tears, wondering why he could still see, Hekkeran could hear yells and startled cries all the way down the street, less pained and more surprised.

He realized, then, that he'd been right.

A brand-new sun filled the heavens above Re-Estize, fading even as it swelled. Radiance fluttered down in gleaming motes, like flecks of gold leaf carried on the wind.

All around, adventurers and workers were looking up, pointing. Baffled by the luminous apparition, the globe of white heat that swept through the clouds in a halo of expanding light.

"What the hell was that?" Hekkeran said, shaking his head to clear it.

"What in the name of-"

His voice caught in his throat.

"Look," Climb said, on his feet. He was staring, his eyes lifted to the heavens, his face gone slack from sheer, disbelieving surprise.

In his hands, Daegal glowed, forgotten. The deep-graven runes on the star silver blade - the ones that surely meant something to someone - burned with their own cold light, as if in echo of the false sun.

"Look-"

Trailing flame, a dragon plunged, twisting, from the sky.


The Crimson Comet

On all sides, the engulfing storm raged.

Black as pitch-blend, it hammered him with lightning, battered him with roiling tempests. Stringy black rain lashed him, the blizzarding force raking freezing fingers of sleet against crimson plate.

From within the peerless carapace of the exo-armor, it sounded like hail against a tin roof. A constant din, the rattle of continuous impacts - So close, yet entirely ignorable, as he swept through a heaving ocean of lightless cloud.

He'd left the ship behind hours ago, flying at full burn. Racing the storm, plunging headlong into the great, churning cyclone that ringed the capital like a funeral wreath. There was nothing natural about the swirling murk, the noise of it like the insect drone of carrion-flies. It crackled with seething malevolence, stinking of brimstone and sulfur, coiling around him like the fangs and talons of some vast beast-

And onward he plunged, spearing into the dark.

There was no path. Just the wretched blackness of the night, folding itself into ghost-faces and wailing mouths. Entombed as he was, he knew they weren't there, not really. The carapace's visor-view showed him the truth, sensors in the inner hull tracking every twitch of his features, every flicker of his focus, altering the display he was seeing.

Each time, the amber brackets of the armor's entoptics would converge, hunting for threats - only to scroll serenely on, dismissing the silently-screaming specters as beneath notice. All this, as thrusters flared, the blighting stain of the storm extending to the ends of infinity.

There was no path. Just the noxious smoke of a million pyres, ringing with the echoes of a distant, shrieking choir. For that was the nature of the trap that had been set for him, that he could fly forever yet never find an end to the vastness of the choking sky-

A flash of light filled the darkness. Lightning, without thunder.

Without warning, visible even through the toxic fog and the brutality of the whirling storm, a star had appeared. It was impossibly bright, a harsh white radiance burning up through the turbulent, streaming blackness.

The Armor of Reinforcement's main drive purred as it came to full thrust, afterburners flaring blue-hot. He felt a glut of blood rush to his head, the force of the acceleration pressing into his flesh as the rising roar of the engines surged up his spine.

In spite of everything, he smiled.

Deep in his bones, he knew it was an ill-omen, heralding nothing good. A sign that all of before was but the prelude, and the worst was yet to come.

But now, at least, Azuth Aindra had a star to steer by.

Next: Sevenfold