Chapter One

Hope in a Handful of Dust

The Beginning...

Eternity. Easy to speak of, harder to understand.

Some spoke of immortality as a gift. Some as a curse. Many wondered if the passing of the years was as naught but a heartbeat.

It would be easier if it was, less time to dwell on failure after failure, less time to dream of the screams of those he had failed to save, less time to remember all those worlds, all those realities lost to ruin.

So many. Beyond even the count of his infinite years. Decades. Centuries. Millennia. Aeons. Nothing but loss and pain.

He was known to be forgetful. But there were some things which could never be forgotten.

Realities utterly lost, their worlds destroyed, their suns guttering, drained, extinguished—his own forgotten children left to die in the cold void.

Perhaps worst of all were the realities which had been "saved". Saved? No. Damned. That was more accurate. So many would succumb to the slow but overwhelming influence of the Radiant and the Dire, doomed to endless war.

So many "saved", but only after enduring such horrible losses that they could hardly be called "saved". So many lives lost, lives worth saving. In every case, the pain of those who survived was beyond enduring. But they too would meet their end, the destruction of the Mad Moon in every reality had seen to that. Whether by accident or design, a twist of fate or the whims of madness, the fate of every world and every reality he had looked upon had been sealed.

It had been a Demon last time. One he knew too well through watching over so many doomed realities. So many had given their lives to try and stave off the end. Even there, another reality had been unmade to make way for the end, souls left in torment.

The last… had been heartbreaking beyond belief, even for him. The sacrifices they had made…

He peered out from under his hood, gazing upon the sands of the desert before him. Night was giving way to light, the light of one of his many children.

He had so little hope, yet the growing warmth felt comforting. Beside him, his pale horse snorted.

Ezalor, Keeper of the Light, patted his steed's neck. 'There is something different about this one, my friend.' He looked up at the sky, noticing the mass illuminated by the young sun. It was ungainly and strange, not quite spherical, oddly shaped on one side, smoother and rounder on the other. Veins of blue and red ran across its surface, flaring wherever they touched, cracks forming around them.

The Mad Moon.

That meant that the Primal Mind had exploded, as it always did. Parts of its essence had crystallised, forming into what would become known as Radiantstones and Direstones. Thought without action. Action without thought. Preservation. Decay. Light. Darkness. Order. Chaos. Duality without acceptance. Endless conflict.

One day, the clashes of conflicting energy would prove too much. Or perhaps some terrible, evil and ambitious being, like that Demon he had encountered before, would destroy it. The Mad Moon would shatter, raining its potent crystals down upon this world. They would shape its people, never for the better, always for the worse. Never would it know peace, doomed to an endless cycle of violence and war.

Perhaps the Radiant was the lesser of the two evils. It would change people less overtly than the Dire would, but it was corruption all the same. Those it touched too deeply would become convinced of their superiority, and would see all matters in black and white, never grey, only absolutes. And those the Dire took hold of would become monstrous and savage, driven to mindless slaughter and bloodshed.

Above, there was the silvery glow of the moon. Squinting, Ezalor beheld red streaks upon its surface, small now, soon to grow wider.

Another piece of the Primal Mind lay within, slowly gaining awareness and sentience, soon to become an entity Ezalor had encountered many times in many guises and forms: Mene, the Goddess of the Moon and the Night—the first of the deities to awaken and begin influencing mortals.

That meant that deep under his feet, the Omniscience was also stirring in the heart of the world. Mene always seemed to awaken first, emerging from the moon to affect the people below. Sometimes, She was beneficent. Sometimes. She always seemed to start that way.

But in this world, he could tell that there would be many gods and goddesses vying for worship. He could sense them forming in the heavens, taste their natures and desires beginning to take shape. Mene would be the first, and She would want to be worshipped above all.

He had seen that before too. He had beheld the Red Night destroying more than one world. Even those which had survived the horror of the Dark Moon had been left ravaged, mostly barren, lifeless and cold, only a handful—those who chose to worship Mene before death could claim them—left to live. In others, She had attempted to reincarnate through another.

Every method brought only chaos, hardship, death and sorrow. Whatever She chose to do, Ezalor knew that She often caused the deaths of the worlds and realities he tried so hard to save. She was almost as bad as the Mad Moon and Terrorblade. Perhaps She was worse.

He frowned.

This world… felt different.

He crouched and carefully lifted some of the dust, examining the tiny particles of sand in his palm. Warm, softer than he had expected on his wrinkled skin. Full of potential.

He looked back up at the moon, and then at the Mad Moon, wondering.

It was only a matter of time before his brother tracked him to this world and attempted to capture him, as he always did. Yet he had time. Time enough to try something new, something he had not attempted before.

Would it be enough?

One day, his brother would find him, and the Chaos Knight would force him to retreat. He would have to leave this world in the hands of its people.

Perhaps this time, where he had failed, they might succeed.

He let the dust drop from his hand. There was something different here, something he had not felt for so very long.

Hope.

Ezalor climbed onto his horse's back with some difficulty. 'We must move swiftly, old friend. We shall need the help of some of my children.

This time will be different. I swear it will be so.'

The Dream…

An empty space, devoid of everything. Nothing. Just darkness.

It was cold, a chill which cut through flesh, stabbing right into the bone.

There was nothing at all. Nothing.

Something flickered, like a candle's flame shivering in the wind. So small, so easily extinguished, so precious here in this dark emptiness.

The tiny point of light glimmered in the darkness like a beacon. The desire to reach out to it, to hold it close, to protect it, grew and grew, a desperate yearning hope to preserve it, to see it blossom.

'Bring forth…'

The rest was lost to the sensation of swaying, and the sounds of creaking timbers and water lapping close at hand.

Now…

Mirana opened her eyes slowly. It took her a moment to register the soft mattress under her back, another moment to see the wooden beams and planks above her head, another to remember where she was as sleep gave way to waking.

The endless swaying, gentle yet insistent, and the lapping of water against a hull, had been constant companions for the last week.

She was onboard the Reprisal—the flagship of her homeland's navy. She was going home.

It still sent a thrill through her to remember that. For almost seven years, she had been convinced that she would never see the Helio Imperium again. Now she was on a ship, heading home to claim her birthright: the Solar Throne.

Mirana sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, planting her feet on the wooden floor. She had been offered the Captain's cabin, but she had declined. Instead, she had been given a smaller cabin. The way she saw it, this was the Captain's ship, not hers, and she was not the Empress yet.

Empress… she was going to be the Empress. That still shocked her. Like her homeland, it was something she had given up on reclaiming.

So much had changed. Would she even recognise anything? Would she be a stranger in her own home?

Mirana dressed quickly, not wanting to stay cooped up in the cabin. They had provided her with clothes too. Just as well, really. Her old Dark Moon Order garb was tattered and filthy, but she had not had the heart to throw it away.

They had brought some dresses over for her, fancy things which were not practical for life on a ship. Mirana wanted to wear them, but not right now. Instead, she donned the red and navy livery of those who served in the Imperial fleets. There had been rumours of storms in the area, and she had no wish to fall overboard in a dress which would drag her down. Her time on the road had given her a more practical approach to things than she had known in Rasolir. The only ornamentation she wore was her silver tiara with its red gem, one of the few things she had kept since the Bloody Dance.

Mirana stepped out of her cabin and climbed up on to the deck. She closed her eyes and inhaled the warm, salt-laden breeze. It was another gloriously pleasant day, and every hour brought them closer to the coast. How she longed to see her homeland again!

Sailors went hither and thither, attending to the ship as ordered by the Captain. They would stop to bow to her as she passed, and she acknowledged them courteously. They were glad to see her, and they considered it a great honour to have her aboard their ship.

'Stow those lines!' Captain Haldrien barked. 'And keep a keen eye on the skies. I don't want us blundering into a squall.' He turned, saw Mirana, and bowed low. 'Good morning, your majesty.'

'Good morning, Captain Haldrien.' Mirana answered. 'How are the men today?'

'They're in good form, your majesty. They're as eager to return home as you are.'

'I expect their families will be glad to see them again.' Mirana smiled. 'Have you seen Marci this morning?'

'She's been staying around the bow, your majesty. She seems to like it there.'

Mirana doubted that. Marci hated travelling by sea. Most likely, she had gone to the bow because she felt less queasy there. But there was no need for the Captain to know that.

'She does like the open air.' Mirana said, somewhat truthfully. It was most telling that Marci was awake this early, and up before Mirana was. She had been struggling to sleep because she was seasick. 'Thank you. I'll be at the bow with Marci if you need me.'

The Captain bowed again as she walked past. It was still strange to be treated like this. She had been treated with deference when she had been Selemene's Princess of the Moon, but this was different. This was more reverential.

Mirana spotted the petite figure leaning on the railing, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. She was always glad to see Marci, even if poor Marci was not at her best right now.

Like Mirana, Marci was dressed in clean garb. She had always preferred long sleeves, to hide the faint scars on her arms. Now though, she seemed fairly comfortable wearing the short-sleeved tunic provided for her, even if it was a little baggy on her slim, athletic frame. She still had her hair held back in that tufty tail.

Her forearms were covered by the gold scaled bracers she had picked up in the Invoker's tower, and Mirana could see the golden chain of the eye-shaped amulet about her neck, along with a simple leather cord which held one of Vylgranox's fangs.

Marci was gazing out to sea, looking simultaneously wistful and hopeful, as well as a little sad and unwell. She was holding the dragon fang, absent-mindedly turning it between her fingers.

Mirana felt a little twinge of guilt.

Marci was eager to return home too, and eager to help Mirana claim the Solar Throne. She was sworn to serve and protect Mirana, and she was glad to carry out her duty. Yet at the same time, there was some regret.

She missed Davion.

They had grown so close so quickly, their mutual attraction eventually blossoming into love. But Davion had needed to go to Icewrack with Auroth, to try to deal with Slyrak and the power of the Eldwurms now trapped within his body. He had thought it best that Marci go with Mirana, as painful as it had been for him to say so. He truly cared about Marci, and had not wanted to part from her.

He had promised to travel to Rasolir and find her when he was ready. Marci was clinging to that promise.

So was Mirana. She wanted Marci to be happy. As hard as it had been for her to accept that Marci and Davion were in love, she had seen how content Marci was with him, and how happy he was to be with her in turn. It seemed as though they were meant for each other.

Mirana could accept that, no matter how much it had hurt before, because she loved Marci. She always would. But so long as Marci was happy, so was she.

Mirana leaned on the rail beside Marci. Marci turned her head and smiled at her. Though her smile was as lovely as ever, Mirana knew that she was pining.

Marci was also a little uneasy. That did not surprise Mirana. Deep water still unnerved her, even though she was a strong swimmer. Her abiding dislike for the depths was another reason why she didn't enjoy travelling on ships or boats.

Mirana put an arm around Marci's shoulders. 'We'll be home soon.'

Marci nodded, still looking queasy. She'd spent most of the journey up on the deck, if only because she was less likely to be sick in the open air.

When they had fled from Rasolir, they'd hidden in the hold of a cargo ship, fearing that sailors under Shabarra's command might board the vessel. Marci had barely eaten, and had filled several buckets with vomit.

At least they did not need to hide now. Shabarra had been driven away. It was almost ironic, Mirana supposed. Shabarra had driven her and Marci from their home, now he was getting a taste of his own medicine.

Of course, he could still be a threat. Mirana was loathe to send assassins after him though, however prudent it might be. It just wasn't in her nature. If she had to end his life, she would rather do it herself, in person—not for vengeance, maybe not even for justice, but to protect the people she cared about.

Marci would have gladly killed Shabarra. There was a need for revenge there. But in the end, Marci would do it for the same reason Mirana would. She was a protector, not a murderer.

Neither of them wanted to dwell on what had changed. Donté had told them a little of what had happened in their absence. Garrisan had told them more.

Poor Garrisan. Mirana supposed he had achieved his goal in the end, but she would rather that he had lived. Few had ever been as loyal as him, except for Marci. She could have easily chosen to go with Davion, and Mirana would not have blamed her, or been angry with her. But she was here, with her.

There were times when Mirana wondered if she had taken Marci for granted. She had always been there for her, for nearly fifteen years now. Her devotion to Mirana was touching, and in this case heart-wrenching.

They both leaned on the railing, side-by-side. There was little to say. Mirana could often read Marci like an open book, and she had no doubt that they were both thinking of similar things. They were both wondering how much Rasolir had changed, and what awaited them when Mirana became the Empress.

There was also the coming war to prepare for.

Every night, the bleeding moon hung overhead, a looming presence of fear and dread. Mene would return soon.

According to Selemene herself, Mirana could somehow stop the Dark Moon. But nobody knew how. All Mirana knew for certain was that she would need the strength of the Imperium and its armies to oppose the Dark Moon Horde.

An unsteady clopping of hooves on wood told them that Aiushtha was about to join them. As it turned out, Marci was not the only passenger who was uncomfortable around the sea, or on ships. Aiushtha was perhaps enjoying this even less.

Aiushtha wobbled to them, looking ill, muttering about none of this sea-travel being natural.

'Stop whining, Aiushtha.' It was odd for Luna to move around quietly, but she was usually wearing armour. She had sensibly removed it for the journey, though she was still armed. 'You'll annoy the crew.'

'It's not natural.' Aiushtha muttered, leaning over the rail and retching dryly. 'You either fly across the sea or you swim. This isn't right.'

'You're only saying that because it's making you sick.'

Aiushtha did not reply, she just retched again. Marci gave her a sympathetic smile.

'At least I'm not the only one.' Aiushtha groaned.

'Cervitaurs aren't seafarers, I take it?' Mirana supposed.

'Absolutely not!'

'You can swim though?'

'Not brilliantly.' Aiushtha admitted.

'Wonderful,' Luna rolled her eyes. 'Looks like it's down to me and Mirana to fish you out of the drink if you fall in.' She eyed Marci uncertainly, noticing her obvious discomfort. 'You've been looking uneasy for days now, and not just because you're seasick.'

Marci sighed, pointed at the water, and held her hand up to her head, splaying her fingers repeatedly. Luna just frowned in response, not quite understanding.

'Marci doesn't like the sea either.' Mirana supplied vaguely.

Luna cocked her head, trying to read Marci's expression. She started to chuckle, and bit her lip when Mirana glared at her and Marci flushed. 'You're scared of the water!' Luna failed to hold back her laughter. 'I'm sorry, but Mirana's always saying how amazing and fearless you are, yet you're scared of water!'

Marci scowled, the flush intensifying.

Mirana sighed. 'She's not scared. It just worries her.'

Luna shook her head, still grinning. As she mastered herself, her expression became more serious once again. 'Don't tell me that you can't swim.'

'Of course she can!' Mirana answered for Marci. 'I taught her.'

Luna shrugged. 'All right,' she rubbed the back of her neck, looking more contrite than Mirana had seen her before. 'Erm… sorry, Marci. I shouldn't have laughed.'

Hearing Luna apologise was still strange. She had never apologised back in the Nightsilver Woods. She had always seemed so sure of herself and her purpose. Mirana had actually found her intimidating.

She had changed though. She was still a force to be reckoned with, they all knew that. Yet she was humbler, less moody, more accepting of her allies. Mirana had to admit that she was starting to become quite attached to Luna. She admired her strength and her drive to improve, to become a better person.

As far as she was concerned, Luna had already proven herself. But Luna was still stubborn, and still haunted by her past.

Nobody else onboard knew that she had been the Scourge of the Plains. Luckily, few people in the Imperium actually knew that the Scourge and Luna had once been one and the same. She had not been in the habit of leaving survivors.

Mirana fully intended to pardon Luna when they reached Rasolir, and not just because she needed skilled warriors on her side. Luna deserved a second chance. Saving all of Creation from a Demon was surely enough.

'At least the wind is on our side,' Luna mused, glancing back at the billowing sails. 'You won't have to put up with this much longer, Aiushtha.'

Aiushtha groaned.

'The captain tells me we should be in sight of the coast tomorrow.' Donté's strong Nivanese accent was instantly recognisable. 'I've always thought of sailing as such a freeing joy—most relaxing and enjoyable, provided you don't run into a storm.'

'Or pirates.' Mirana muttered. They were a very real threat out here, often praying on merchant vessels, and not likely to leave survivors. They were unlikely to risk attacking a fleet of warships though.

'Defeating such scum is a service worth performing.'

'I must admit, after being stuck on this ship for the last week, I wouldn't mind a little exercise.' Luna murmured.

'Only you, Luna, would consider fighting pirates "exercise".' Mirana muttered. 'You could always spar with Marci.'

'I would, but she might vomit on me.'

Marci whistled in agreement.

'I would be happy to spar with you, my lady Luna.' Donté bowed, sweeping his feathered cap from his head.

Luna shrugged. 'If you're thinking of swordplay, I might bend your rapier.'

'It is the finest Nivanese steel, I assure you.'

'No swords,' Mirana ordered. 'I'd like you both to be in one piece when we reach Rasolir.'

Luna sighed. 'I'm going to go mad with boredom, Mirana.'

'Try to enjoy the quiet.' Mirana suggested. 'We haven't had a reprieve for a while.'

Luna just grunted in response.

Mirana looked round at Marci again. She was gazing into the distance again, not really seeing the horizon, still fidgeting with that dragon fang.

Mirana sighed and put her arm around Marci's shoulders. 'He'll be fine, Marci. And he won't keep you waiting, I'm sure of that.'

Marci nodded vaguely, emitting a soft sigh of her own. She continued to turn the dragon fang about with her fingers, wondering where Davion was now, and hoping that he was faring well, wishing that they would be reunited soon.

Auroth had warned him that Icewrack would be much worse than the Broken Peaks. There were no un-dead or Direstones to fear, or so she told them, but the cold was worse, the weather was worse, the terrain was worse, just about everything was worse.

Davion had heard that Imperium soldiers had been trying to claim Icewrack at Shabarra's behest. He could not figure out why. Whatever minerals, metals or other resources were hidden in these frigid mountains could not have been worth the effort. Trying to maintain a garrison here would have been nigh impossible.

Only the Ursa tribes and Frostiron nomads seemed to thrive here, and even for them daily life could be a struggle. The elusive cryomancers were apparently enamoured with this place, but they were rarely seen or heard from—they preferred to keep to themselves.

If it hadn't been for Rylai and Auroth, they might have frozen to death just a few days after stepping onto the landing, such as it was. Even disembarking from the longboat had been difficult. There had been no beach, they had been forced to climb onto more level ground.

Auroth was in the lead, comfortable with the cold despite being in her human form. Icewrack had been her home for at least a century.

Rylai was in the middle, her staff aloft and radiating a shimmering field which kept the worst of the cold and the seemingly ceaseless blizzard at bay. Davion, Eserren, Caewyn and Bram were still cold to the point of shivering, but they had not frozen to death. Yet.

Apart from Auroth and Rylai, Eserren was still the most stoic. But that was just how she was. If losing an eye and having half of her face torn up barely slowed her, a blizzard and frigid conditions wouldn't stop her either.

They had been on the move for days now, finding what shelter they could when they needed to rest. Now they were following a narrow path along the side of yet another sharp, jagged mountain. The ground was indistinct below through the twirling eddies of snowfall. It had to be many feet deep, but not deep enough to save any of them if they fell—except perhaps Auroth.

The distant mountains and valleys were hard to see through the relentless snowfall. They were wholly in the hands of Auroth and Rylai. The two of them knew this area well. Without them, they would have died by now.

Icewrack defied explanation. This far south, it should have been much warmer. The lands bordering it were far less frigid. Yet for some reason, Icewrack was stuck in a perpetual, cruel winter.

Some theorised that a powerful spell had been cast here, maybe a curse. This was a favourite haunt of cryomancers. Yet Icewrack's condition predated them by centuries, if not more. If the strange cryomancers knew the answer, they would not divulge it. Rarely did they leave Icewrack, and exchanges of knowledge with others were rarer still.

Even Auroth and Rylai did not know why Icewrack was afflicted with a permanent winter. But it was a safe haven for them. They were both at home here, unlike their companions.

'I didn't ask,' Bram, wrapped up in a thick fur-lined cloak, had to shout to be heard, 'what do we do if we run into ursa?'

'Hope that they're friendly.' Rylai replied.

'And if they aren't?'

'Then hope that we can either fight them off, or that they kill you quickly.' Rylai answered calmly. 'Some of them do eat humans.'

'I-I-I sup-p-pose it's n-not cannibalism f-for them.' Caewyn mused, her teeth chattering. 'We'd prob-b-bably be rare t-treats for them.'

'Come closer, Caewyn.' Davion advised. Though Slyrak's power was unstable now, he could still help them sparingly. He had been carefully channelling his power through Davion and into his armour, radiating a corona of warmth. The radius was small, so his companions took it in turns to benefit from the warmth.

Caewyn dragged her legs through the deep snow until she was behind him, hugging her cloak tightly around her body and shivering. She was struggling the most in the deep drifts, being the shortest amongst them. More than once, Eserren had carried Caewyn on her shoulders through the highest drifts.

Davion felt somewhat torn. Even though whatever Auroth had planned might save his life, he knew that it would mean the end of Slyrak.

It still seemed odd to be sad about that. He had hated Slyrak and all of his kind at first. Fire dragons had killed his family. Slyrak had forced his soul into Davion and damn near claimed his life, and threatened more than once to kill his newfound friends, especially Marci—whom he had despised at first. Because of Slyrak, Davion had been branded a traitor to the Dragon Knights and hunted by his former brothers, as well as Terrorblade and Vylgranox.

But without Slyrak's aid, they would have all died. And though so much had been lost, in a strange way things had worked out for the best so far. He and Slyrak had even learned to respect one another, and had at last seen one another as comrades in arms, fighting a common enemy.

Now Terrorblade was defeated, never to be a threat to their world again. Slyrak's mission was nearly over, as was his time. He had willingly decided to die so that Davion could live.

Even now, he was helping them, even though every step brought his end closer.

'Wait!' Caewyn shouted. 'Did anybody else hear something?'

'No,' Rylai frowned. 'But you have sharper ears, and keener eyes, than the rest of us.'

'Stop!' Auroth came to a halt, peering into the frenzied snow-laden gusts. 'There's a dragon about.'

Davion frowned. Sure enough, he could sense something new in the Thunder. It had become strangely disjointed, and it faded in and out with little warning. Sometimes it was as loud and abrupt as a horn blaring in his ear, at other times it was quieter than a whisper. It had been like that ever since Slyrak had wrested the souls of the fallen Eldwurms from Terrorblade, another act which had hastened his final end.

There were flashes of light in the distance, flares of white in the gloomy clouds.

'An ionic dragon.' Eserren declared, her one remaining eye narrowed. 'Does it know we're here?'

'I don't think so.' Auroth answered. 'But it is… it's as if it's enraged and panicking at the same time. I can feel an undercurrent of reason, but's overwhelmed by fear and an urge for violence.' She shuddered. 'It's afflicted by the Madness.'

'That's not good.' Bram said needlessly.

'I'd imagine most of the world's ionic, sky, earth and chaos dragons are more vulnerable to it now, with their Eldwurms… gone.' Auroth hung her head for a moment and closed her eyes.

Davion reached out and laid his hand on her shoulder. Auroth sighed and lifted her head. 'I'm all right, Davion. Thank you.'

'Caewyn, can you keep an eye out for that dragon?' Eserren asked.

Caewyn nodded jerkily, still shivering.

Davion supposed it was just their luck to be stuck on the side of a mountain with an insane ionic dragon flying around. They were amongst the most dangerous of all dragons. Their eyesight might not have been as keen as that of a sky dragon, but they could spot distant prey easily enough, even in a blizzard.

It was odd to find one out here, in Icewrack. Ionic dragons were hardy beasts, the cold did not trouble them much, not at the altitudes they roamed. But mountains such as these were usually the domain of fire dragons, whose intense internal temperatures could keep them warm even in the worst of snowstorms. Sky dragons also favoured haunts in high places.

Ionic dragons usually laired underground, and hunted over wide open spaces. This was a poor place to fight one. If it spotted them, their only chance would be to find cover or a wider space in which to fight. This narrow path would be the death of them if the dragon attacked.

'Won't the ursa try to deal with it?' Bram shouted.

'Not unless they have to,' Rylai replied. 'Any tribes in the area will most likely take shelter in caverns where it can't reach them. The Frostiron warriors might try to fight it, but they're not dragon slayers.'

'It sounds like we should be more active here.' Eserren murmured.

'I live here.' Auroth had heard her.

'You're an exception. I came here to learn more about dragons, as well as help Davion.'

'Then perhaps you'll learn that there are more exceptions than you might expect.'

'That does not surprise me.'

'But you will still hunt dragons?'

'Only those we must stop. But there are other monsters and other threats besides dragons to contend with.'

'As I thought, I have little to fear with you in command of the Dragon Knights.' Auroth held up her hand and they came to a halt again. 'He's circling that peak. The urge to kill is strong.'

'You can sense that in the Thunder?' Bram frowned.

'All dragons are connected by it. It directs them, when they're not struggling with the Madness. I am no longer bound to it, but I can still hear it, and I can commune with the other Eldwurms through it, as Davion has with Slyrak's aid.' She sighed sadly. 'I fear that this dragon is irrevocably lost to the Madness. Sadly, so many never overcome it. If he attacks us, we will have no choice but to slay him. Otherwise he will kill us.'

Caewyn loaded her crossbow with trembling fingers. Bram tugged his sword from its sheath, having to wrench it free since it had frozen in place.

Once again, as he had every day since setting off for Icewrack, Davion wished Marci was here. He wished they were all here. None of them would have enjoyed it, but they had overcome so much worse together.

He missed them. Especially Marci.

Davion's fingers found the cord about his neck without conscious thought. He'd often found himself holding the dragon fang whenever they had stopped to rest, his thoughts on Marci and the moments they had shared.

He narrowed his eyes. He had made a promise to survive this, and to see Marci again.

He was going to do his damnedest to fulfil that promise.

Davion grimaced as he felt the skin on his arms open a little, the mingled scales threatening to push through. Losing control here was not an option, something he and Slyrak agreed on as they both tried to keep the change suppressed. His heart beat faster, and he felt his muscles start to swell and grow.

'Davion?' Caewyn had realised that something was wrong. 'Davion!'

Davion groaned, finally drawing the scales back in. Blood oozed into his gambeson, and he could feel loose scales scratching his skin, drawing more blood. 'It's getting worse.'

'We need to hurry,' Eserren surmised grimly. 'Can we go any faster?'

'We might have to,' Auroth pointed up at the sky. The flashes of light were becoming more frequent and intense, drawing steadily closer, and now they could all hear a rumble of thunder and the roars of the ionic dragon.

Rylai stared up at the clouds, her eyes wide. 'Has he seen us?'

'No,' Auroth shook her head. 'But every time Davion's… condition affects him, it sends ripples through the Thunder. That dragon knows there's something here. He knows we're close.'

Bram grimaced as he leaned his sword against his shoulder. 'Nothing ever goes simply for us, does it?'

'Magnificent, aren't they?'

As proud as he had been of the Legions, before they had turned against their master, Callardis had to admit that Galanius was right. They were magnificent.

Rank-upon-rank of Stonehall hoplites stood in the marshalling field, their sculpted steel breastplates and crested helms gleaming, their spears upright. Their round shields were painted crimson, bearing the sigil of Stonehall in dark steel. Behind them was the Bronze Legion, and then the archers and sappers, and behind them stood the mounted soldiery and chimaera riders. Towering over them all were the golems. Though Stonehall was well known for trading and exporting golems, it seemed that they had held back the best for themselves.

Callardis was sure that Galanius would have included siege engines in this display. There was no room on the marshalling field for them though.

Yes, they were magnificent. And this was just a small portion of Stonehall's military might. Galanius had already put out the order to conscript every able-bodied man and boy who could hold a weapon, to augment his already sizeable military even further.

Then there were the armies of Stonehall's vassal states and allies, as well as the unexpected reinforcements which the Dark Moon Horde would provide.

The prospect of worshipping Mene bothered Callardis, but they needed all the allies they could get. Besides, if the information they had found in the Sovereign Peaks was correct, Mene was a problem that they could deal with later.

'They are most impressive.' Shabarra admitted. Though Stonehall's military might was not as great as that of the Imperium, it was still a force to be reckoned with. With Stonehall's allies, old and new, it could now match the strength of the Legions.

Tresdin marched up the steps to the rampart overlooking the marshalling field. She stood at attention and saluted. 'They have arrived, your majesty.'

'Excellent!' Galanius grinned, showing his yellow teeth.

Before anybody could ask, a muffled horn call from outside was heard. The inner gates slowly parted, and a large group of humanoids strode into the city. Even from here, Callardis could see that they were all burly, muscular, tall and red-skinned. Oglodi.

They were being escorted by Stonehall hoplites and hippotoxotes. Unlike the soldiers below, there was little uniformity to these new arrivals. Their armour was mismatched—not poorly forged, but parts of it were clearly scavenged. Callardis recognised some elements as pieces of Imperium lorica, others as Stonehall armour. Their weapons were large, almost cumbersome, each unique to the warrior who wielded it.

One of them bore a banner: a red crescent on a black field, red streaks descending from the crescent into a solid red circle.

It was a symbol Callardis recognised: the mark of the Bloodmist Army—a huge band of marauders, raiders and reavers which had replaced the Red Mist after the campaign of the Thousand Tarns. Though Mogul Khan, the warrior often known simply as "Axe", had been the only Red Mist warrior left alive, the idea of the Red Mist had not died there. It had been reborn as the Bloodmist Army, and its ideals and purpose were much the same, perhaps worse.

Sure enough, Callardis caught sight of a warrior at the front of the group. She was not as burly as her comrades—though she was still obviously strong—but she was the tallest. Her bearing was proud and aggressive, and she looked over the Stonehall soldiers as if they were beneath her. She bore a long spear with a broad, undulating blade, and was clad in hide and hardened leathers. A thick-bladed sword, much like an oversized cleaver, hung from her belt.

This had to be Sorla Khan, the leader of the Bloodmist Army. She had become their leader as Mogul Khan had become the leader of the Red Mist: by killing her way to the top. She was said to be even more bloodthirsty, violent and unreasonable than Axe himself. Few had dared to question her, and those who did always met bloody ends.

'How many warriors did they bring?' Galanius asked Tresdin.

'At least three-hundred thousand.' Tresdin reported calmly, as if having three-hundred thousand bloodthirsty and unpredictable warriors outside the city was nothing to fear. 'Sorla Khan says that more may come soon.'

'You expect the Bloodmist Army to keep their word?' Shabarra demanded. 'They're savages!'

'That they are, God Emperor. And now they are well-paid and well-supplied savages.' Galanius said. 'They are savages, yes, and they are warriors. They are predictable.'

'I never expected them to succumb to simple greed.' Callardis mused.

'They are simple, but the money was only an incentive, and they wanted less of it than I expected.' Galanius explained. 'I promised them a part in the most glorious conquest the world has ever known. The prospect of finally being able to take on the armies of the Imperium was enough to convince them.'

Callardis shared an uneasy look with Shabarra. Tresdin noticed. 'You need not fear, God Emperor, nor should you, Commander. We are your allies now.'

'The Legion Commander is right.' Galanius smiled. 'Your people have betrayed you. We shall be the instruments of your retribution, for but a small price.'

'Indeed. I am grateful.' Shabarra lied. 'Though it must be said, my subjects will be reluctant to embrace Mene as their new deity.'

'They will if they wish to live,' a measured, low voice declared.

They turned to see one of the messenger golems approaching, in the form of the Invoker. Though the golem did not need an escort, it was accompanied by two soldiers.

Galanius bowed. 'Greetings, Invoker.'

It still seemed strange that an Emperor should treat this man with such reverence. The Invoker was, as far as Callardis could surmise, not a ruler in the conventional sense. But according to Galanius and Tresdin, the Invoker was Mene's most trusted and devoted servant. Since Galanius and many of his people had embraced Mene so readily, many of them doing so out of fear, he could understand why Galanius acted so deferentially around the Invoker. The sorcerer spoke for a goddess, a vengeful and angry one at that.

Even via this proxy, the man radiated both immense power and immense strength of will. And they had all beheld the bleeding moon. With what they had been told in conjunction with that dreadful omen, they had no reason to doubt what the Invoker told them: Mene was returning, and She would present the world with one stark choice: convert, or die.

According to the Invoker, Mene was the first and most powerful of all the deities, and even imprisoned, She had not been without power or allies. Even before the theft of the sacred lotuses and Selemene's downfall, Mene had been trying to break free, and She had managed to subtly contact the Invoker. He had gathered together the Dark Moon Horde and enacted his plan to restore Her strength, and to free Her.

Under the spreading shadow of the bleeding moon, Mene had apparently reached out to other deities who might support Her cause—not the most popular ones, but rather the lesser known ones, who would wither without the limited support and worship they relied on. In Her shadow, those who refused to acknowledge Her as the first and greatest of the gods would grow weak. Just as Mene had worked to shroud the Omniscience, taking advantage of its dimming sight and waning power, so too would She smother Her enemies with Her shadow.

The Covenant was not yet broken. But it would not matter. Mene's power would keep the other deities from interfering. They would be blinded until it was all over, and by the time they were released—if they were released—it would be too late to do anything. Mene would rule supreme once again.

That actually scared Callardis. He was not a god-fearing man. Yet the thought of Mene's vengeful return was enough to make him shiver. She would show no mercy. She had been betrayed, and Her fury left no place for compassion.

No wonder so many in Stonehall had so readily embraced Her. They were afraid, and he did not blame them. There was no question of doubt now. She would be upon them soon.

'My forces will be joining you very soon,' the Invoker declared. 'And with Mene's power growing, thanks to our combined efforts, She will soon be able to bestow Her gifts to more of Her followers.'

Callardis knew what that meant too. The Invoker had told them a little about this "Chosen of Mene", the one who had stolen some of the sacred lotuses from Selemene's Temple—paving the way for Mene's return.

There would be more like this Chosen soon. There would be more Nightblades.

Convert or die. Lip service would not be enough for Mene.

'I will bring my army to Stonehall under cover of darkness,' the Invoker stated. 'Once we arrive, we can begin the rituals to accelerate Mene's return.'

'We have prepared the temple according to your instructions, Invoker.' There was a note of sourness in Tresdin's voice, almost imperceptible. Galanius did not notice it, and if the Invoker did he gave nothing away. But Callardis was aware of it. Tresdin was loyal to Stonehall, not to Mene.

Callardis said nothing. Tresdin's religious concerns were not his problem. He cared only about the God Emperor reclaiming the Solar Throne, and punishing those who had dared to defy him.

With the secret he, Shabarra and Kashurra knew, then perhaps they had little to fear from Mene. Even if She did rule again, he supposed that a change in faith was not the worst price to pay, not if the rightful ruler took the throne again.

Being responsible for anything could take a toll on anybody. Being responsible for a nation, especially one as expansive and powerful as the Helio Imperium, could be extremely stressful.

Kashurra knew that on a good day, very little would happen. When Mirana's father had been in good health, many days had been completely uneventful.

Kashurra had enjoyed those days. Often they had been days in which he would have time to teach Mirana and Marci, when he hadn't been attending to other matters.

He was responsible for so much. He always had been ever since he had embraced this cause, this reason to be.

It would be over soon.

Soon.

But he could not rest. Not yet. Everything could change in a heartbeat. Everything could still go wrong. There was still so much left to chance. He could not control everything, and there so very few he could truly trust.

But loyalties could be bought, and people with causes could be manipulated. That was why he was taking this gamble now.

Standing upon his balcony, he could just about see the fiery red hair of Lina down below in the gardens. She was walking with Drysi, probably deep in discussion. She and Drysi had become very close friends. He wouldn't have been surprised if it became more than just friendship.

He could not afford to be sentimental. Not now. Not when he was so close to fulfilling his goal.

Not when everything could be put right.

Soon.

He did not hear the door open. It might not have. He did not hear the footsteps, but he did sense a presence. He knew that he was not alone.

'They answered then.' Kashurra stated quietly.

'That is why I am here.' The voice which answered was a woman's, smooth and silken. 'By the will of my masters, I answer your summons, Viceroy Kashurra.'

Kashurra at last turned. Standing in the middle of his room was a young woman, an elf. Her skin was exceptionally pale, almost a grey-white, with triangular pink markings painted across her eerily bright blue eyes. Another smaller triangular marking was upon her forehead. Her long blue-black hair was bound in a tail, most of the tail wrapped in a leather binding. She was wearing leather armour of a greenish hue, edged with gold.

She did not carry any weapons openly. She did not need steel to kill, Kashurra knew that much about this servant of the Hidden Ones. Though it was imperceptible to most when she concealed it, Kashurra could feel the psionic power radiating off the assassin. It was contained for now, and would be unleashed when she needed to kill.

He would need her to kill. That was why he had reached out to the Hidden Temple. He had need of an assassin, one who could not be swayed by money. The Hidden Temple desired only one commodity, and Kashurra had exactly what it wished for, in quantity very few could ever hope to match or overcome.

'Few know how to contact the Hidden Temple, Viceroy,' the elf said.

'Fewer still dare to seek it as you did, Lanaya. Or would you prefer that I use your title, Templar Assassin?'

'Call me what you will.' Lanaya answered. 'I am here to perform a service, provided you have suitable payment.'

'I have many secrets to share, when the time is right, and your contract is concluded.'

Lanaya bristled. 'I am not a murderer for hire, to unleash on whatever enemies you may have, imagined or otherwise.' He'd chosen the wrong term. She was an assassin, but not like most.

'You misunderstand me, Lanaya.' Kashurra assured her. 'Forgive my poor choice of words. What I ask of you will make the world a safer place.' He held out a scroll, sealed not with ordinary wax, but with a magical glyph, written with arcane runes which would render it unreadable to all but its intended recipient, should the seal somehow be broken. 'A token of gratitude for your masters, for sending you to me. There will be more.'

Lanaya accepted the scroll. 'My masters believe that aiding you is worthwhile. Therefore, I will serve you. For now. But I will not follow orders which might jeopardise the Hidden Temple or my masters' wills.'

'I would expect nothing less.'

Lanaya nodded, then knelt, bowing her head. 'What then do you wish of me, Viceroy?'

'Please, stand and follow me.'

Lanaya did as she was asked, and Kashurra beckoned her over to the balcony. Lina was still deep in discussion with Drysi, with Asar standing guard nearby. Draxius had attempted to contact her a couple of times in the past few days. She had met with him, apparently as a courtesy, but Kashurra was still wary.

'Do you see the woman with the red hair?'

'The one with Misrulian clan markings on her face.'

Either she had very sharp eyes, or she already knew much about Lina. Both, he guessed. The Hidden Ones and their servants were perhaps the most knowledgeable in the world, save perhaps the Omniscience.

Yet even they and the Omniscience did not know everything.

'You know who she is.' It was not a question. The answer was obvious.

'Lina the Slayer. The woman with a soul of fire. The wyrm-kissed.' Lanaya flexed her fingers, and Kashurra felt a definite thrumming of psionic power. 'Do you want me to kill her? I hear that she is well loved, here and in Misrule.'

'Could you do it?'

'Perhaps. She is powerful. But she is mortal. Mortals are vulnerable.' Lanaya frowned. 'She is supposed to be a good person.'

'Yet sometimes, even the virtuous must die for a greater cause.' Kashurra murmured. 'I do not want her dead. Not yet. Not unless she becomes a danger to my plans. It could happen, Lanaya. She is ambitious, and power is within her grasp.'

'She is tempted. I understand.'

'Watch her for now. Somebody will be coming to this city soon, people of great value to me.'

'Princess Mirana and her handmaiden.'

'Yes. Though I have no wish for Lina to die, she cannot become a threat to the Princess.' Kashurra exhaled through his nose. He really did not want to have Lina killed. She had been an invaluable part of the rebellion, and she could be a powerful ally for the future Empress. 'I will contact you if I need you. Go now, and keep your presence a secret unless I say otherwise.'

Lanaya frowned again. 'What do you mean by that?'

'The Empress will have need of allies. She may have need of you too.'

Lanaya considered, then nodded. 'If the Hidden Temple wills it, then so be it.' She reached for her neck and drew a cloth over her mouth and nose, leaving only her eyes exposed. 'The mysteries cannot protect themselves.'

Happy New Year, everyone! I've been both eager and nervous about reaching this last book, but I'm glad to be here. I have no idea how long it will take to finish (maybe a year at least), and I have no idea how long it will (30 chapters minimum, but I expect more). Expect more DOTA 2 characters to appear as well. I have some ambitious plans for this story.

I hope you've enjoyed Ascension so far, and I hope you enjoy In The Light Of The Sun too. As usual, feedback is most welcome.