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CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Bloopers

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About the Author

Also by Will Wight

PROLOGUE

Iteration 001: Sanctum

Even for Judges, it was impossible to travel directly into the Hall of Judgment. For security reasons, Suriel had to escort Ozriel back to Sanctum’s only entrance from the Way before they could travel to the Hall.

The central planet of Sanctum was so covered by one city that every landmass shimmered silver and gold from orbit. Pockets of green here and there were carefully cultivated gardens designed to keep the planet in balance, though tourists tended to prefer visiting pocket worlds or other Iterations if they wanted to explore wilderness.

The eight Judges drifted down into the atmosphere like shining meteorites, though they barely disturbed the air they passed. Floating obelisks the size of skyscrapers hovered in orbit, dormant as the orbital security Presence recognized their origins.

Though Ozriel had been berated by most of the other Judges non-stop, he hadn’t said a word since leaving Cradle. There was a good reason for that: Gadrael, the Titan, had sealed his mouth. The scripted metal band covering the lower half of Ozriel’s face was so powerful that Suriel herself would have to exert her full power to remove it.

At least Ozriel was cooperating, though she didn’t like the glimmer in his eye as they descended on Sanctum.

The Vroshir had never made it here during their intrusion, but the effects of their war were obvious nonetheless.

Crowds massed around the greater Hall of Judgment complex, some crowding the streets while others hovered in the air. The Hall itself was a shining golden tower on an artificial hill, a palatial structure that existed to radiate confidence and security throughout the Iteration. In most worlds, it would be large enough to hold a city itself.

No one down there dared to push into the Hall borders, but Suriel could feel their fear like a stench behind the air. When the crowd saw the Judges, their relief was like an audible sigh that gusted over the whole planet.

Normally, there would be Abidan among them. Most Abidan Divisions were headquartered here in Sanctum, so it was hard to travel down a street without seeing at least one figure in smooth white armor.

Now, she felt only a handful in the entire world, and most were here only to recover themselves before returning to the fray. The ordinary citizens could tell the difference, and they had panicked more by the day until the Judges returned.

Then Suriel sensed a spark of anger ignite beneath the blanket of relief, and she knew they had spotted Ozriel.

It wasn’t hard. He was the only one among them who wore black.

As the Judges descended to the golden apex of the Hall of Judgment, a cry went up all around. A cry for vengeance. For justice.

The crowds were miles away, but Judges could hear anything.

And Ozriel, with most of his power locked away, would hear their voices whether he wanted to or not.

The golden roof of the Hall melted away as the Judges drifted down. Each of them descended to their seats, tall silver-and-gold spires that loomed over the center of the room. Suriel’s seat was marked with a spread-winged phoenix, and she let her armor disappear as she settled into a plush seat designed specifically for her comfort.

Seven seats, facing the center.

An eighth seat had been added, one marked with a crescent-bladed scythe. But the Reaper didn’t descend there.

He was shoved down into a cage at the center of the room. The Seat of the Accused.

Telariel, the Spider, caused his cane to vanish as he settled into his spire marked with eight stylized legs. The prim man shifted a tie that he had just manifested and pushed up glasses that needed no adjustment.

“They haven’t retreated,” the Spider said. “We can spare no more time on this than necessary.”

In his cage, Ozriel rolled his eyes ostentatiously.

Makiel glared down on the Seat of the Accused. “This won’t take long.”

The Ghost, Darandiel, toyed with some construct that resembled a cat’s cradle of string, but which Suriel suspected was made from enough power and possibility to rewrite worlds. “We should unseal his mouth so he can speak.”

“That’s the one seal I want to keep,” Makiel said.

“He’s guilty!” Zakariel snapped. She shifted in her seat and slapped a hand down on the metal surface in front of her. “Hurry up and toss him in Haven. We can get everything else out of him later.”

“Half of the defenses in Haven were designed by him,” Gadrael said. The Titan’s blue-gray fingers were interlaced as he stared pure hatred into the Reaper. “I’ll need to overhaul them myself before I can be sure they’ll hold him.”

Ozriel wiggled his eyebrows, and Suriel was sure she could read what he meant to say: how sure were they that Gadrael could hold him?

The Titan interpreted that signal too, because his hand came up and complex blue symbols began spinning in his palm. A working of the Way, a seal no doubt intended to inflict further pain on Ozriel.

The Wolf snarled at him, her fiery hair blazing up with her anger. “Gadrael! Control yourself! You too, Makiel. Every second counts, so remove his gag and let’s hear what he has to say.”

“All in favor?” Telariel asked, and the Spider’s hand was the first in the air.

None of them needed to raise their hands; they could radiate their intentions directly into the minds of the others. But tradition was tradition, so Suriel lifted her hand to signal assent as well.

Only three kept their hands down and their disapproval clear: the Fox, the Hound, and the Titan…who always voted as Makiel did anyway.

Four to three.

Gadrael slid down from his seat and placed a hand on the back of Ozriel’s neck. The clasp holding the metal band over his mouth unsnapped, with a subtle release of power that echoed silently through the courtroom. This artifact was worthy of holding a Judge.

Ozriel let out a breath of relief. “Whew! Thank you, Gadrael. You know, I never asked you, but now that I have the chance: how do you care for your horns?” He nodded to the row of short horns that served Gadrael instead of hair. “Do you polish them? I have to assume you wash them. Come to think of it, I never looked into why your people had horns in the first place. Was it a defensive adaptation, or—”

The back of Gadrael’s hand, covered in his gauntlet, cracked against Ozriel’s chin.

“—some kind of cosmetic mutation?” Ozriel continued without missing a beat. His skin was unmarred. “Oh, I see you found the kindness in your soul to help me work the muscles in my jaw! My thanks. A century or two in that thing and I would have gotten sore.”

“How dare you speak to me?” Gadrael’s every word seethed with rage. “I was here! You have given up your right to—”

“That’s enough, Gadrael,” said Makiel, who could have stopped his right-hand man at any time. He gestured, and Gadrael flew back to his seat.

Ozriel blinked widely as though something had occurred to him. “Wait, were you trying to hurt me? Surely not. You of all people should know something of that level could never hurt the Titan.”

The Fox threw up her hands. “This is why we should have kept the gag on!”

“We can seal your mouth again, Ozriel,” the Hound said.

“And I was up for the mantle of Titan,” Ozriel went on, ignoring the others entirely. “You remember, right? I was your predecessor’s first choice. That was true for…oh, I think five of you, actually. Guess I should have accepted. Too much to think a bunch of backup choices could handle things witho—"

“Stop, Ozriel,” Suriel said. “Just stop.”

Ozriel’s teeth clicked together. He looked to her, and while he didn’t address her, he didn’t keep making trouble either.

Makiel looked down on Ozriel while radiating contempt. “This is not an investigation. This is a sentencing. Explain any mitigating circumstances so that we can determine how you pay for your crimes.”

“Hm…what do you think about the Mad King copying my weapon?”

Suriel’s stomach fell. She and all the other Judges had put the situation together by now. Even if they were missing pieces of the puzzle, their Presences had filled in the gaps.

The Mad King was certainly capable of creating deadly weapons, but his imitation Scythe had been too close to the real thing to be anything but Abidan make.

And there was only one of them who would have duplicated Ozriel’s weapon.

Makiel’s weathered face was expressionless. “I developed the weapon, yes. Circumstances you engineered forced my hand. I kept all prototypes and components under the strictest guard, which was nonetheless breached by the Angler due to a shortage of manpower you caused.”

The Hound folded his hands and leaned forward. “Do you intend to suggest it was my carelessness that led to this situation? I attempted to replicate your weapon because you hid the original. It was stolen because our security was weakened by your absence, and the Mad King used it to devastate worlds while you were not here to defend us. These sins brand your soul, not mine.”

Ozriel’s smile was blinding white, like he’d won the argument. Suriel understood why.

If the other Judges had been lesser beings, they would be shifting uncomfortably in their seats right now. Actually, Zakariel the Fox was shifting in her seat and alternating between glaring at Ozriel and at Makiel.

The Court was not pleased.

Suriel spoke up on their behalf. “Why did you hide it from us, Makiel?”

“I will hold myself accountable to the Court of Seven after this trial,” the Hound said. “I am not afraid to atone for my actions.”

“According to my predictions, the system still had decades of stability left, if not centuries,” Ozriel pointed out. “How was I to know that the Hound had ruined everything?”

Makiel slammed his fist down like a gavel. “You abandoned your duty. Now entire worlds lie dead.”

Screens appeared behind him, showing cracked planets, branches of Fate dissolving into nothing, bodies strewn into the Void, and hosts of feasting Fiends that twisted reality with their very presence.

“Their blood is on your hands,” Makiel declared.

“And your hands are pristine!” Ozriel shouted. His face was twisted with fury, and now he more resembled the man Suriel remembered. Not Eithan, but Ozriel. “All blood we spill is on my hands, and mine alone! Who else can decide when enough is enough? Who else has the right?”

“We are a Court!” declared Razael, the Wolf. “No one has the right to make such decisions alone! And you made our job impossible by leaving without informing us!”

“I told you what I was going to do. I told you for centuries. Every time, I was forced to wait or face consequences. Just kill a few more for us, Ozriel. Disobedience is treason. Why would we try to find a better way when this one is working?”

Ozriel sneered up at Makiel. “If the burden is so easy to carry, do it yourself.”

“Arrogant!” Makiel shouted. “The weight of all worlds does not rest on your shoulders alone! You are one component in a system that—no. You know all this, you just blind yourself to it.” The Hound turned to the rest of the Court. “He has no excuses. He is a coward who hid while all existence fell apart.”

A crack echoed through the Hall of Judgment.

Fissures spiraled through the cage surrounding the Seat of the Accused. Reality warped and Suriel’s Presence squealed warnings as the air darkened around the Reaper of Worlds.

“There is one person here,” Ozriel said quietly, “who attempted to solve this problem. I even tried to do it within your rules. I looked for any solution, any at all, that didn’t start with burning your world to the ground.”

Cracks spread, and some of the other Judges had summoned their armor. Darkness spread from him like a tree of shadow.

Ozriel drew himself up to his full height and white hair spread out behind him. “I have but one regret: I was too weak to spill just a little more blood. I should have butchered you all!”

Intricate seals spinning with runes bloomed into sapphire light around the Seat of the Accused as Gadrael reinforced the defenses, Razael had her blazing sword in hand and was gathering enough power to crack Sanctum in half, and the Ghost spread her will out in a nebulous working.

They would subdue Ozriel. He might be a match for any of them individually, but not for all of them together.

But Suriel took over.

She spread her will out to the space around Ozriel and she exercised her authority to restore it. The cracks in the cage filled in, the darkness retreated, and the twisting space of the world faded to normal.

Ozriel gave up. He slumped in place, and weariness crossed over his face. Then he tossed Suriel an apologetic half-smile, and she saw a bit of his disguise in him. The new person he’d become.

He cleared his throat. “Ah, excuse me. You’d think I could control my temper better at my age.”

“Now you all see what I have seen,” Makiel said. He had his arms crossed and had made no move to subdue the Reaper. “He is a deranged child gifted with power, and his talents make him think he is the most important being in all creation. I move to strip him of his authority as a Judge and relegate him to what he should have always been: a living weapon.”

Suriel watched Ozriel. Before, he would have risen to the bait and struck back at Makiel. Her Presence could model it accurately.

Instead, he shrugged and grinned. “Can I keep the armor? A white set would clash with my hair, you see.”

Suriel examined him. She spun out the different versions of this trial. Then she picked her preferred one and turned to Makiel.

He had felt her reading Fate and was waiting for her to speak, though he had surely seen which path she would choose.

“What about the Executors he was raising?” she asked.

The Spider interrupted them, staring off into the distances through his glasses. “We have a further breach in Sector Seven. Sector Control is requesting immediate Judge response.”

“The children he raised in Cradle are not powerful enough to intervene in other worlds,” Makiel said to Suriel.

The Ghost manipulated the otherworldly strings of power between her fingers, creating a shape that resembled a balloon. “We could give a wooden bucket enough power to intervene in worlds. But if it were an Executor, it would be corrupted. Happens every time.”

Darandiel’s fingers stopped on her strings for a moment. “Corrupted bucket,” she muttered, and Suriel suspected the Ghost was considering the idea.

“The situation in Sector Seven is devolving rapidly,” Telariel said again, though he didn’t sound particularly urgent.

Makiel looked to Suriel. “We’ll table the issue of the Executors for now. In the meantime, I move we make immediate use of our delinquent asset to help make up for the problem he caused. We leash Ozriel and put him to use. Agreed?”

There was no dissent among the Court. Not even from Suriel.

Not even from Ozriel.

From the Seat of the Accused, he gave an approving nod. “I knew I’d have a mess to clean when I returned. It’s something of a tradition in my family anyway.”

Zakariel looked at him like she was hearing nonsense. She must have expected Ozriel to include a cutting remark about Makiel, or to angle for more freedom.

In a short time, compared to their total lifespans, the Reaper had changed. What Suriel knew, but the others either didn’t understand or didn’t recognize, was that this man had been inside him all along.

Gadrael returned with another artifact, this one a set of iron-and-crystal manacles that could tether entire worlds. He sealed them onto Ozriel’s wrists, but it was Makiel who tuned them with a decree.

“Your authority to alter and conceal Fate is revoked,” the Hound declared, and Suriel felt the shifting of reality as the manacles enacted the Hound’s will. “Your ability to view Fate is restricted to that of a three-star Hound. Your sight is restricted to a six-star Spider. You may only access your Mantle and Scythe with the explicit permission of another Judge. You are bound to follow the lawful commands of any other Judge. You may not free yourself from these restrictions, allow yourself to be freed through inaction, or flee your lawful duties.”

The crystals in the manacles recorded each declaration, and each time Suriel still expected Ozriel to express defiance or contempt. Instead, it was as though he’d changed completely since only minutes before.

He shivered as the last command settled on the manacles. “These buzz every time. It’s not pleasant. Like my soul is filled with bees.”

In addition to the seals Makiel had just placed on the Reaper, the manacles themselves were like a shining beacon to any Abidan. If Ozriel did manage to circumvent the restrictions, conceal the manacles, or remove them, the Spider would sense it instantly.

But this was the man who had hidden from the rest of the Judges for centuries, and that was supposed to be impossible.

Therefore, if they wanted to keep him under control, there was one more step they had to take.

“Now, you will finally do your job,” Makiel said. “Under supervision.”

Suriel transported herself down directly to the Seat of the Accused, and she brushed her hand over the cage to remove it. Ozriel gave her a beaming smile and bowed over a Cradle salute: fists pressed together.

The crystal-and-iron manacles on his wrists had only a few links of chain hanging from them each, and weren’t secured to anything; their restriction was symbolic and conceptual, not physical.

“I worried the old man would go with me himself,” Ozriel said. “Gratitude.”

The resemblance to Wei Shi Lindon reminded Suriel of his disguise and twisted her stomach. “Stop it,” she said.

“Reinforcements from Sector Eight have been denied entrance into Sector Seven,” the Spider announced. “Judge support after the next few minutes will be insufficient.”

Ozriel looked around the room and clapped his hands together. “So…where are we going?”

1

Lindon walked through the empty rooms of Eithan’s hut aboard Windfall.

Eithan rarely spent a night on the cloud fortress, and his house was minimal compared to Lindon and Yerin’s, or even Ziel’s. It was only a handful of sparsely furnished rooms, and Lindon sensed nothing of significant power inside.

Even so, he inspected the place physically. It didn’t take him long.

Aside from spare sets of clothes, bolts of silk, and a set of brushes and combs, Eithan hadn’t left much behind. Some soaps and creams made by refiners that Lindon was sure had benefits for the skin or the hair, a handful of letters with uninteresting contents, and several pairs of scissors of varying sizes.

Everything meaningful must have been kept in Eithan’s void key or his soulspace, because the most interesting thing Lindon found was a bottle with a handwritten label that read ‘For Lindon’s hair.’

Taking stock of Eithan’s belongings like this hollowed out Lindon’s stomach. The bed was made, and the home was in good order—not to mention spotlessly clean—but he’d left a hairbrush sitting out and a water basin half-filled.

Eithan had expected to come back.

Some part of Lindon had been hoping that Eithan had planned for this contingency, that he would have left a secret inheritance behind in the event of his forced ascension.

But he was gone. He hadn’t even left a Remnant behind.

At least, not here.

Dross gave a disturbing giggle. [The darkness claims us all when we least expect it. Destruction comes even to the Destroyer.]

Lindon left his cloud fortress and flew out into Sacred Valley. He could feel the labyrinth stretching beneath him, now as connected to him as his limbs. Samara’s ring crackled blue, very differently to the light it had given off while he was growing up, and the stars were distinct overhead.

Only an hour or two ago, those stars had been destroyed.

Lindon had survived one of the most frightening days of his life, but he couldn’t afford to rest yet. The Monarchs would be coming for him soon, if they weren’t already. If the Dreadgods hadn’t all been awakened today, and if the world hadn’t just witnessed an apocalyptic battle in the sky, Lindon suspected the Monarchs would have captured him by now.

Still, the hourglass had been turned for Lindon. His first task was clear: he needed to take stock of the labyrinth.

It would be one of his greatest weapons against the Dreadgods and the Monarchs both. And Eithan had said it would help him fix Dross.

[We’ll see,] Dross whispered. He seemed to delight in the prospect of Lindon’s failure.

Which was one of the reasons why Lindon wanted him restored.

Lindon could get used to the new Dross, if he had to. It was just that he shouldn’t have to. Dross hadn’t transformed willingly, he had been damaged by over-drafting himself for Lindon’s sake. If Lindon were stronger, more competent, smarter, then Dross wouldn’t have changed in the first place.

[It is the eternal tragedy of the mortal. Always, there is something just out of reach.]

As Lindon drifted down in front of the Nethergate, the giant stone door carved with the image of the Slumbering Wraith, he wondered if Dross had just said something wise. Lindon didn’t have to focus to open the door; it slowly ground open in reaction to the presence of the labyrinth’s master.

Lindon strode inside, past the outer rooms that were locked in their permanent configuration, until he reached one of the brown stone rooms that made up the labyrinth proper.

“Move,” Lindon commanded.

The labyrinth read his intentions. Its overwhelming authority locked down all spatial travel here, but now that power was bent to Lindon’s will instead of leaning against him. The walls blurred, and the entrances vanished.

This time, Lindon could sense what was happening.

Rather than reassigning the entrances, the labyrinth was shuffling chambers in a complex dance to get the room where it was needed. There was a logic to it, and Dross eagerly added this new perspective to his understanding. The more they learned, the more accurate his map of the labyrinth would become.

When the exit reappeared, Lindon strode through it, beneath a symbol that resembled a crescent. A scythe blade.

They were deep in the labyrinth now, far underneath Sacred Valley, in one of Ozmanthus Arelius’ disused workshops. This was one Lindon had visited before, and the stone room was missing the treasures it had once contained. Empty shelves lined the walls, and even the walls themselves had recessed nooks where weapons had once been displayed.

The only objects of any value in the room were shimmering jewels embedded in the stone. Dream tablets recording Ozmanthus’ observations for later generations.

Lindon had looked through them already. That wasn’t why he was here.

He strode deeper, down a steep spiraling ramp. The labyrinth didn’t have the same layout it had last time, but he knew it was taking him where he needed to go.

Halfway through the hallway, he sensed that he was close enough and stopped. This was an unremarkable, featureless stretch of hall, but the binding he wanted was closest to the wall here.

This dense knot of hunger had been implanted in the walls by Subject One over long years. Though it was an artificial binding, it still functioned, and it contained a specific Forger technique. Bindings like this one were scattered throughout the labyrinth.

Lindon pressed his right palm against the wall. White fingers trembled against the stone, and part of Lindon enjoyed the cool feeling of rock. For years now, his right arm had been that of a Remnant, and thus better suited to feeling spiritual matter than physical. Now, it was like having a real hand back.

Though the rest of Lindon’s attention was on keeping the hand in check. It wanted to feed on the power it sensed within the walls. To consume. And it raged against Lindon, who held it back.

A black strip of cloth wrapped around Lindon’s upper arm contained the power. Silvery runes shimmered. Malice had used this to suppress the arm so Lindon could control it, and Lindon wasn’t about to turn down gifts from an enemy.

This dampened will of the Slumbering Wraith was still noticeable, but hardly enough to shake Lindon’s resolve. Instead of pulling power in, as the limb wanted, Lindon pushed power out. Pure madra, tinged with just a bit of Subject One’s hunger.

He fueled the Forger binding in the wall.

The one that would create a person’s echo.

When Subject One ruled the labyrinth, the technique could produce anyone the Dreadgod had fed upon. Now, Lindon was limited to those who had made enough of an impression on the labyrinth, but there were still enough to make it hard for him and Dross to narrow down the options.

Some echoes were more complete than others, depending on how strong they had been in life and how much time they’d spent in the labyrinth. He could create an echo of Yerin, for instance, but she would be a soulless parody of her usual self, both weak and mute.

Powerful individuals who had spent large amounts of time here could be copied so well they were even self-aware, but those would require a huge amount of energy.

Which Lindon had.

To manifest this echo took time as well as madra. He spent several minutes of concentration, most of his pure core, quite a bit of the energy from his hunger arm, and even a chunk of power from his Blackflame core for its destruction aspect.

The labyrinth itself had madra reserves, but he hesitated to use them before he understood their extent and purpose.

After about ten minutes of channeling energy, Lindon was finally ready to activate the technique. A gray-white ghost, so solid it looked alive, formed in front of Lindon. With his long, straight hair, aquiline features, and hazy smile, he looked like Eithan’s brother.

But this wasn’t Eithan’s brother. It was Eithan himself, in his original form.

Ozmanthus Arelius placed both his hands on the end of his broom and leaned his chin on top of them. His smile was faintly mocking. “Ah, you must be my future apprentice. Congratulations on your inheritance of this place. Not many have earned that right since my day.”

The echo of Ozmanthus was better-informed than Lindon had expected.

“Apologies, but it’s strange to see you like this,” Lindon said. “Do you...remember me?”

Ozmanthus’ expression shifted so that Lindon couldn’t quite call it a sneer. “I remember what the labyrinth does, so of course I know you. If you’re asking me whether I recall teaching you, of course I do not. But I’m more than capable of filling in the blanks with the information I have.”

The Arelius Patriarch pushed himself up on the broomstick and stretched his back. “If you only summoned me to soothe your grief at losing your mentor, I’m afraid I must disappoint you.”

Dross popped out, drifting through the shadows of the room and floating around Ozmanthus. [You must not be acquainted with grief yet, or you would know that it is not a weak motivation. Wonderful. I marvel at the path of tragedy ahead of you that shaped you into such an unparalleled killer.]

The echo’s smug face suddenly turned uncertain, and Lindon considered that keeping Dross like this might have some benefits after all.

But that brought him to the purpose of his visit, and he dipped his head to Ozmanthus. “Pardon, but I came to seek your guidance. My spirit companion here had his internal structure rearranged after straining himself. I tried to return him to his previous configuration, but I’m afraid my skills are lacking.”

“Use the Way to restore him,” Ozmanthus said immediately. “It should be within the purview of the Void Icon to remove alterations. For you, at least.”

Lindon had spent enough time with Eithan that he could read the man’s many different smiles. This one was mocking, but Lindon thought it was self-directed. Ozmanthus wasn’t looking down on Lindon, but rather on himself.

“I would be grateful for your guidance,” Lindon said humbly.

Ozmanthus lifted his eyebrows. “Even if I could teach you, I couldn’t do it so quickly. If you don’t have the authority to restore your friend, and you don’t trust anyone to do so on your behalf…well then, I suppose you’ll have to fix him the hard way.”

Thin, almost imperceptible strands of madra erupted from Ozmanthus. The Arelius bloodline ability. That invisible web passed through Dross, making him shudder, and a powerful spiritual sense shook Lindon’s spirit with its scan.

“These are complicated repairs,” Ozmanthus said. “Are you ready?”

Lindon hurriedly expanded Dross again. This was more of a way to view his internal mechanisms than an actual change to his size, but functionally it was little different. The room was hidden by an intricate nest of twisting purple loops. Some resembled the organs of a living creature, while others were scripted wheels, and still others looked like rings of stars or a system of madra channels.

Ozmanthus began hurling orders without waiting for Lindon, even using terminology for the different parts that Lindon had never heard before. The echo didn’t explain himself, but fortunately Lindon pieced together enough clues to keep up.

The instructions came rapidly for over an hour, and Lindon couldn’t afford a single second’s lapse in concentration. He used dream aura to stimulate some areas and slow others. He created temporary bypasses with pure madra, dammed up the substance of Dross’ spirit here, empowered it there, and linked previously unrelated systems together.

At first, Lindon was merely following directions. He could understand the theory behind each step Ozmanthus gave him, but the larger picture was hidden to him. He just had to trust that Eithan’s former self was really trying to help him.

But as time went on, Lindon began to grasp the reasoning behind his actions. When Dross had overexerted himself, he had exhausted his own substance. When he was repaired, new connections were made, while old ones had been left destroyed or repurposed.

Now, Lindon could see the picture Ozmanthus was having him paint, and he had to admit it was elegant. They were making the best use of pathways both new and old, creating an efficiency to Dross’ functions that the spirit had never seen.

With that understanding, Lindon became faster. He outpaced Ozmanthus’ instructions, patching up useful channels and clearing out useless ones.

Ozmanthus tilted his head. “Well, well, and here I thought the only noteworthy thing about you was your willpower. You have a keen grasp of the basics. Did I teach you that?”

“Dross helped me learn,” Lindon said.

“Then I look forward to seeing what he can do for you now. His functions are beyond anything normally possible in Cradle, and this will not add more, but the scale of his performance should be even greater. He’s quite a bit more efficient.”

Lindon could see that already. Madra was moving through Dross much faster than before. If there were a human equivalent to what they were giving Dross, it would be like the effects of advancement on the body. As though they were reinforcing his bones, refreshing his organs, strengthening his muscles, and scrubbing his arteries clean.

Lindon made the last few links with a light heart. At last, he could help. Not only would Dross be the way he was before, he’d be better than ever.

With excitement, Lindon finished the last of the changes and compressed Dross back into his soul. The spirit spun in place for a moment, taking stock of his own changes.

Dross could have spoken at any point during this process, but he had remained silent. Lindon hadn’t caught a single stray thought. That was unusual normally, but not so much during operations like this one. Lindon had essentially been tinkering with Dross’ brain, after all.

A ball of leathery purple skin appeared in front of Lindon’s face and slowly opened its one eye. Dross was still a purple so dark it bordered on black, rather than the brighter purple of his original self, but that might not be a bad sign. He could appear as any color he wanted, after all; he only favored purple because dream aura tended to be purple.

That didn’t necessarily mean something had gone wrong.

[If I am taken apart and put back together, am I the same?] Dross whispered. [Do you die when you sleep, and another person wakes up with your memories, thinking they are you?] He laughed wildly.

The only thing that prevented Lindon’s heart from being crushed was his iron will.

“We try again,” he said, but Ozmanthus held out a hand.

“He’s fixed,” the echo said simply. “A spirit’s personality is determined by their madra composition, their structure, and the way they choose to present themselves. If his composition is the same, and we have repaired his structure…then he acts this way because he prefers to.”

Ozmanthus shrugged. “I don’t mind it, myself.”

Lindon kept a grip on himself. He had lost Eithan today, and now he had lost one more hope of seeing Dross again.

His voice was cold. “I see. My gratitude for your help.”

Lindon even held his thoughts tightly so they didn’t hurt Dross. This was who Dross was now. Lindon had to get used to it.

Ozmanthus smirked at the giggling Dross, but he didn’t share any more of his thoughts. Lindon had more to ask, and he didn’t want to linger on the subject of Dross anyway.

“The Monarch, Reigan Shen, received the Soulsmith inheritance you left in this branch of the labyrinth,” Lindon said. “Did you leave behind another?”

“Not that I’m aware. I may have left one later in my life, but I wouldn’t know that, would I?”

Another disappointment, but Lindon supposed he had inherited the entire labyrinth. He couldn’t get everything. “Can you make another one?”

“A true inheritance is not a simple dream tablet,” Ozmanthus said dismissively. “I have neither the will, nor the clarity of memory, nor the months needed to properly curate a Soulsmith inheritance. There are many others remaining in the labyrinth, however. Take your pick.”

He seemed to look down on that idea. As did Lindon, in truth.

“Forgiveness, but I’d rather not settle for a lesser Soulsmith’s inheritance,” Lindon said. Ozmanthus preened, and Lindon noted that his pride hadn’t changed much in the intervening centuries.

That statement had worked to flatter the Arelius Patriarch’s ego, but it was also the truth. The generally accepted limit was that one person could only take one inheritance. It settled much deeper than an ordinary dream tablet; rather than simply adding memories, it was supposed to be like adding to your very identity.

There were records of Archlords or Sages taking in second and third inheritances after a century or so, but anyone who absorbed more than one inheritance too quickly inevitably suffered from issues with willpower or identity.

Lindon privately hoped that, with Dross’ support and his experience absorbing memories through his hunger arm, he could possibly take two Soulsmith inheritances. But that still made them valuable opportunities, and he didn’t want to waste one.

Ozmanthus pointed to him. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you trying to flatter me,” he said. “Well done. That sort of attitude will get you far.” He tossed hair behind his shoulder. “Clear your schedule, and I will be your guide to the ancient secrets of the labyrinth.”

“Gratitude. Is there a central dream tablet or a map that you can show Dross? I’d like some kind of inventory list, if such a thing exists.”

“By all means. I believe you’ve already been inside the control network, haven’t you, my immaterial friend?”

Dross drifted into a barely visible script at the base of the wall like water swirling through a funnel. [It’s an honor to become one with the world’s largest graveyard.]

Ozmanthus snorted. “This isn’t the largest.”

Lindon’s spiritual perception followed Dross, giving the spirit permission to continue through the labyrinth and tracing the shape of the place himself.

It was truly overwhelming how much was hidden in the labyrinth. Some pieces were dark even to Lindon’s senses, implying that there were corners he still didn’t control, and Dross couldn’t inspect every detail of the place. The spirit focused on remembering as much as he could, to be sorted and organized later.

The more Dross found, the more satisfied Lindon became. And he felt a childlike excitement. The situation was serious, with the threat of the Monarchs and Dreadgods looming over his head, but he’d cracked open the fattest treasure chest in the world.

As Lindon was searching through Soulsmith records on the outside, looking for an inheritance that might meet his standards, Ozmanthus began to speak.

“There are a few of my workshops that haven’t been plundered. Nothing terribly exciting, though I may have some early versions of my Penance lying around.”

That pricked Lindon’s ears, and he looked up. “You have Penance arrows in here?”

“Arrowheads, and they’re prototypes. Even with my assistance, they may not be easy to retrieve, either. I meant them to be studied, not used. They aren’t finished.”

Lindon wondered exactly how long it would take to excavate those arrowheads. The complete Penance was a Monarch-killing weapon, so even if the prototypes didn’t live up to those standards, they were exactly what he needed.

Ozmanthus chuckled. “As I said, nothing terribly exciting. They carry a great will of destruction, but not the absolute decree of death I sought to create. I can’t say they would do nothing against Monarchs or Dreadgods, but they will not solve your problem.”

That was disappointing, but Lindon suspected Reigan Shen had gotten some of the other prototype arrowheads, so maybe it was for the best.

“I’m sure the most practical use of the labyrinth, now that you’re the new owner, is its transportation ability.”

That was Lindon’s second-favorite aspect of the place. “I look forward to unraveling its potential, but I will admit that I am more excited about the treasures hidden here.”

“Ah, but your vision is too small!” Ozmanthus spread his arms widely and gave him a broad smile that resembled Eithan so much that it stabbed Lindon’s heart. “Your access to the labyrinth may grant you the treasures hidden here, but such transportation authority can grant you access to the treasures hidden everywhere else.”

Lindon gave a pained smile. “Apologies, but I do wish it was that easy. The Monarchs will have the labyrinth branches under surveillance, especially now.”

“Will they? Follow that branch to Rosegold.”

Ozmanthus was tracing Lindon’s spiritual perception, so Lindon kept moving along one particular branch of the labyrinth. The trick to its transport ability was beyond Lindon’s skill, but it was simple enough to understand; conceptually, the branches of the labyrinth were all considered the same place. No matter where in the world they were.

So instead of requiring great power and authority to move across the world, it took no more than moving a mile or two. The more people you were transporting at once, the more of an advantage that was.

Lindon’s awareness flew down a branch and then skipped over to the Rosegold continent. To territory he suspected belonged to House Shen. Since his perception couldn’t stretch across continents, he could only feel vaguely around the labyrinth.

There were buildings above the labyrinth, which Lindon had expected. These would be structures like the Ancestor’s Tomb, added later to seal and control the exits. Then he sensed the places the labyrinth butted directly against the new construction, and his eyes went wide.

The labyrinth ruins weren’t sealed. The buildings above weren’t placed at the entrance, but around it. As though no one knew the ruins were connected to something greater below.

“It’s hard to be correct all the time,” Ozmanthus said. “Almost as hard as it is to be so handsome. You may praise me again.”

Dross chuckled in the back of his head as Lindon’s thoughts moved like lightning. “We can pop up in Reigan Shen’s back yard. We can rob him blind. Some of his vaults are in pocket spaces, but some of them have to be on the ground, and even if we can’t…”

He trailed off as bleaker applications occurred to him. Robbing the Monarchs was one thing, but if they really refused to advance, Lindon realized he could take hostages.

They couldn’t protect their homes from him.

Ozmanthus folded his arms and nodded. “If you can’t take over the world when you have your enemies’ weaknesses in your grip, then you’re not worthy of calling yourself my apprentice.”

In the distance, Dross laughed wildly.

Lindon’s arm trembled, but he clenched his fist. “There are dark uses for this. Darker than I’m willing to consider.”

“You don’t have to kill Golds, if you’re squeamish. You just have to make the Monarchs think you will.”

“I’m not trying to—”

Lindon was cut off by a shout from Dross. [She speaks into my mind! Her voice echoes through the worlds and the halls of the mind! Will you hear the words of the Queen of Living Dreams?]

Without his insight into Dross’ thoughts, Lindon wasn’t sure he could have unraveled that statement. But since Lindon could feel the mind-spirit’s intentions, he thought he understood.

“Emriss Silentborn is trying to contact us?”

That was impressive, though he supposed a Monarch was capable of it. The Everwood continent she ruled was a long way from Ashwind, and sending a technique that far took as much power as skill. Lindon supposed the labyrinth was blocking her out, but Dross had received the message through his connection to the outside world.

[Not us,] Dross whispered. [Everyone.]

Lindon was stunned for a second. Even Ozmanthus gave a low whistle.

“What is she saying?” Lindon asked at last.

A woman’s voice that Lindon recognized as Emriss Silentborn’s echoed in their minds, transmitted directly to them by Dross. They heard her continue mid-sentence: “…emergency. The Silent King is free. I request assistance from anyone capable of reaching Everwood and doing battle with a Dreadgod.”

Immediately, Lindon began tracing the route through the labyrinth to the Everwood continent. He wasn’t sure exactly where the Silent King was, but there were a few paths that would take him into Emriss’ territory.

“The Silent King’s body is in hiding,” Emriss continued, “but his drones lay siege to Stargarden, half the Raining Lands, and Dreadnought City. I cannot hold much longer. If you are hearing this message, you are capable of fighting the Dreadgods, and I beg you for your assistance.”

“Call Yerin,” Lindon instructed Dross. If she heard this message too, she’d likely be on her way already, but she might not be able to sense him from outside the labyrinth.

“We must all work together. For the first time since the Dread War, all four Dreadgods have been awakened. The Silent King is somewhere in central Everwood. The Bleeding Phoenix flies east through the Trackless Sea, approaching the Sunken Fleet. The Wandering Titan enters the southern jungles of the Ashwind continent, and the Weeping Dragon was last reported on its way to Ninecloud City.

“If you can fight, fight. If you cannot, then help the people flee. This is an unprecedented emergency. Rally your Golds, put aside petty grievances, and work to save us all.”

By the end of the sentence, Yerin was strolling into the labyrinth far overhead, and Lindon instantly commanded the rooms to bring her closer.

“She’ll want to head to the Bleeding Phoenix.” Lindon tracked the branches of the labyrinth that stretched off to the north, all the way to the Trackless Sea. Most of them were underwater, though a few had ways of making it to the surface without drowning.

And Yerin couldn’t drown anyway, could she? He could put her closer to the Phoenix that way. But she wouldn’t want to be too close. He still didn’t know how much influence the Dreadgod might have over her.

Lindon intended to head after the Wandering Titan. It was on their continent, after all, and even if it was drifting south, it would likely march for a larger population center soon. He’d fought the Titan before, even if it had been suppressed, so Dross’ predictions should be accurate.

[Carry us to the Silent King!] Dross cried.

Lindon was startled. He knew the least about the Silent King of all the Dreadgods, but perhaps that was a good reason to face him down now.

“Don’t underestimate the tiger,” Ozmanthus said idly. “The King is the most insidious of the four, and he tends to know more than you think.”

Lindon didn’t like the idea that this Dreadgod was self-aware. When they had driven the Titan off before, it was only because the Dreadgod was sleepy, simpleminded, and suppressed. And even that had permanently injured Dross.

“We can go to Everwood,” Lindon allowed. “We need more information on the Silent King, and it sounds like the situation there is urgent.”

[Yeeessss,] Dross hissed. [Give me his sweet, sweet dream madra.]

So that was what Dross was after. Lindon had suspected as much.

He only hoped they weren’t feeding themselves to a monster.

2

Kerani shifted her goggles from her eyes to her forehead and leaned back from the engine. Fire-aspect Remnants burned inside the metallic chamber that was bigger than her entire house; she could see the spirits through the viewports, pursuing their strange Remnant tasks.

Even with heat-dampening scripts, it was a sauna in here. Though not nearly as relaxing as the actual sauna she visited on her occasional holidays.

Without her goggles, she could get an unfiltered look at the engine’s control panel. It seemed fine. She’d welded two metal plates together, and the control script was whole again. She gave it a long eye, making sure the light stayed steady.

When she was certain that the script was functional, she sighed in relief and gathered up her tools. Her personal bound spirit was contained in a tank on her back. Burning Swan was a natural fire spirit she’d raised for years, and she could channel his energies for welding or—theoretically—for combat.

She hadn’t seen any duels since graduating the Academy, and she didn’t expect she ever would again. Her grades in the arena had been adequate at best.

Her supervisor, a pudgy woman named Terkell, slammed the door open in an enthusiastic burst and practically danced down the stairs. She had a massive cloud of gray hair and a pair of smaller spirit-tanks strapped to her forearms instead of a large one on her back.

“Oh, my darling, my favorite, how are you doing this fiiiiiine evening?” Terkell sang. She did a pirouette and finished her spin with a flourish as she reached Kerani.

Kerani smiled in spite of herself. Today, she had planned to duck her supervisor and get home on time for once, but Terkell’s enthusiasm was infectious.

“Not so bad,” Kerani admitted. “Finished sooner than I thought, and we didn’t have any further breaches.”

Terkell gasped in amazement, raising her hands to her lips. “You’re a genius! A savant! Without you, we would be ashes in a crater.”

If Terkell saw someone lace up their boots, she would exclaim that no one had ever tied such a perfect knot. When Kerani had finished her hundredth job with the company, Terkell had commissioned a light-sculpture of the “triumphant moment.” The job had been the inspection of rivets in a sewer runoff pipe, and it had taken fifteen minutes.

Still, Kerani’s cynicism melted before Terkell’s positivity like ice under the sun. “Nothing that bad. Maybe a few burns.”

“Burns!” Terkell fluttered her collar as though overcome by the heat, though she’d only been in the engine room for a few seconds. “There’s nothing worse than the heat. To me, you stave off doom. You’ll have dinner with our family tonight, won’t you? I’ll take no for an answer, but I won’t be happy about it.”

Kerani considered the offer instead of rejecting it out of hand like she usually did. A little money saved was a little closer to the vacation of her dreams. A local travel agency had been promoting a tour of the exotic Ashwind continent, home of the dragons.

She’d always wanted to see the place, and since the tour made use of existing portal networks, they could keep travel time down to only a month’s journey either way.

Any use of portals skyrocketed the price, since those were the workings of a Sage, and of course there was the cost of missing several months of work. But steadily, she inched toward her dream.

She was about to accept Terkell’s offer when Burning Swan whispered in her mind.

Enemy, the spirit whispered.

Burning Swan didn’t speak in actual words, but in complex impressions passed through their bond. Suddenly, the familiar clanks and hisses of the engine room sounded ominous, and the shadows in the corners deepened. Kerani extended her spiritual sense but felt no one other than herself and Terkell.

The supervisor frowned, noticing her distress. “Oh my, what’s wrong? You didn’t forget something, did you? I left my spare wrist-strap here last week, and wouldn’t you know it, that was the very day that my first one broke. I had just bought it, too, and it was a nicer one than I usually…”

She continued prattling, but Kerani was paying more attention to her bound spirit. Enemy? she asked. The simpler the message, the more clearly the spirit would understand.

Burning Swan’s mental impression was firm. Enemy.

His thoughts focused on Terkell.

Kerani wondered if she should take Swan to a Soulsmith. Maybe a drudge could figure out where his senses had gone wrong.

Terkell was harmless in every sense of the word. Not only had she once wept when she accidentally shut the door on a lizard’s tail, but even if she did go mad and suddenly attack, she wouldn’t be much of an opponent.

Kerani wasn’t a fighter, but she had still been forged through years of hard work. Terkell was soft, frail, and much older.

The supervisor had one bound spirit of life and one of dreams, which she used to monitor and coordinate her workers. Kerani was in more danger from burning her skin on an overheated bolt.

Even so, she decided to play it cautious. Just in case. “Terkell…you haven’t had any strange dreams, have you?”

Only days ago, after the sky had turned black and the world had panicked, one-eyed leaves had drifted throughout the city and whispered reassurance. The voice of Emriss Silentborn, the Monarch, spoke to the citizens directly and told them they were safe. Protected.

Everyone Kerani knew had gotten the same message. Probably everyone on the continent had.

But the Monarch had left a warning as well: to remain on guard in their dreams. If they met a stranger there who asked to enter their minds, they should deny him.

That had been strange, of course, but it was the warning of a Monarch.

Terkell gasped when Kerani asked about her dreams. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you! I have had the best sleep of my life lately. I have this tea that you drink before bed, and Emriss take my lips now if I know what they put into it, but the second I close my eyes I drift right off…”

She kept chattering, but she didn’t say anything about meeting a stranger in her sleep. Kerani didn’t hear anything wrong.

A wary voice came to her again. Look! Burning Swan commanded.

Kerani’s senses shifted somehow, in a strange direction that she didn’t have words for. She opened her Copper sight and looked at the world, but only a little. She extended her perception halfway too. This felt like Burning Swan had forcibly made her open an eye in her spirit halfway.

The sensation was hazy and frustrating, even uncomfortable, but after only a moment Kerani saw something. A glimmer of white light hovering behind Terkell’s head. Like a halo or, perhaps…

A crown.

Kerani’s breath died and for a moment she couldn’t even speak.

Then she bolted for the exit.

She took the metal stairs two at a time, leaving Terkell sputtering in confusion behind her. Kerani dashed down the metal catwalk, reaching out her perception for a script on the wall ahead of her.

The emergency alarm.

Kerani triggered it with a flow of madra as she flew out of the room, slamming the heavy door after her. She panted as she leaned against it. Through the thick glass of the round porthole at the center, she saw Terkell heaving her way up the stairs.

The enthusiastic energy that had filled the supervisor earlier had wilted, leaving a heavy weight of disappointment that hung visibly on her.

Her muffled voice came through the door. “Kerani, whyyyyy? This isn’t funny!”

Tears filled Kerani’s eyes. She didn’t quite know what to do.

She had heard the rumors of what happened to people wearing that crown. The legends, really. But Terkell seemed fine.

She didn’t know what to do, but that was all right. She didn’t have to know.

Security arrived a moment later, wearing thick tanks on their back and their limbs covered by the energy of their bound spirits. They strode up to Kerani as she stammered out her story.

“Terkell, she—my supervisor…crown! I saw it! My spirit warned me!”

Enemies, Burning Swan said.

And this time, Kerani heard the distinct tones of despair.

Dreading what she would see, she once again half-opened her spiritual senses as Swan had shown her.

Both guards had a faint white ring floating behind their heads.

She backed up against the wall as the alarm died and the door slid open. A panting Terkell made it through, turning to glare at Kerani.

“What has gotten into you? If you don’t want to have dinner with us, I’m not going to force you. Is it my cooking?”

Terkell still seemed normal, disturbingly so. Kerani glanced down the hallway toward the exit. She’d never make it, not with security here. You didn’t get to be a company guard by only getting mediocre grades in your arena classes.

Terkell knelt at her side and gave her a kindly smile. “Poor thing, so frightened! What do you think is going to happen to you?”

Kerani shivered and didn’t answer.

“Come on, then. Shoo, boys, leave her alone. Let’s talk in my office, sweet girl.”

Terkell led Kerani down the hallway, but at the first corner they rounded, Kerani shrieked.

There was a body lying in blood-soaked carpet. He wore a tank on his back and a security uniform, but without seeing his face, she didn’t recognize him.

The first guard strode over the body, the second stopped at the sound of her shriek, and Terkell turned with a frown.

She was standing with one foot casually braced on the man’s skull. “Are you still scared? You’re safe with me, Kerani, I swear.”

“Did…did you…kill him?” Kerani’s accusatory finger trembled.

Terkell looked around blankly. “Who?”

“Him! Him right there! You’re standing on his head!”

Terkell looked all the way around the hallway until her expression softened. “Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear. You need that vacation more than I realized. Stress can get to all of us, sweet girl.”

With a dawning horror, Kerani realized that this wasn’t an act. Terkell really couldn’t see the man’s body.

Enemy, Burning Swan insisted.

Numb, Kerani followed Terkell to her office and sat on a plush chair. The place was so ordinary and familiar that it was easy to forget anything was wrong.

Terkell chattered as she brewed tea, while Kerani remained silent. The supervisor poured two cups and slid one over on a saucer.

“Take a drink and relax, you poor thing. I didn’t mean to work you so hard.”

Kerani took it on reflex. She’d had tea with Terkell hundreds of times. Before she thought about it, she had already taken her first sip.

Someone hammered on the office door.

Terkell didn’t seem surprised. “Could you get that for me, dear?”

Kerani had her hand on the door, but Burning Swan was vibrating in its case, trying to extend fiery wings. Danger!

She removed her hand. “Why don’t you get it?”

“It has to be you.” Terkell sipped from her own tea and smiled. “Go on, girl.”

A man’s voice came from outside, regal and assured. “Let me in, Kerani, and I will explain everything.”

She stumbled back from the door and looked from her tea to her supervisor. “You brought me into a dream.”

The steel container strapped to Terkell’s left wrist was open, and there was no shimmering purple light coming from inside. Her dream-Remnant was missing.

She’d used a technique. Or an elixir in the tea. Or both.

Kerani looked at the window, which was made of the same thick, barely transparent glass as most in this place. She wasn’t strong enough to break her way through.

But she could melt it.

Swan…please.

With a quick flick of madra, she released a panel on the side of her spirit-tank. A wing of flaming madra emerged and plunged into the glass, which began to glow red-hot.

Terkell leaned back so fast she spilled her tea. “Really, now! You’re going to dry out my skin!”

Kerani’s own skin was singed by the time she melted enough glass, and she wasn’t even sure that going out a different way would help her escape. How much of this was a dream, and how much was real?

She had to try something.

She almost leaped through, but the red-hot glass around the hole made her hesitate.

As did the voice from the door.

“There’s no risk to you,” the stranger said. “Life is far safer for my friends than my enemies.”

If Kerani hadn’t been warned, she might have opened the door already. But she knew who the voice belonged to.

The Silent King.

She gritted her teeth and prepared to plunge through the hole in the glass to the desolate, metal-and-concrete streets outside. It was late enough that no one was nearby, and she wasn’t sure if that was a curse or a blessing.

The burning glass was a threat, but one she could risk. She snapped her goggles over her eyes and pulled up the collar of her thick fire-resistant work uniform.

Then she screamed as a face floated out of the shadows from the window. A face, but not a human one.

It was like a floating head with pebbly flesh such a dark purple as to be almost black. One giant eye took up most of its face, and its mouth was stretched into a strange almost-smile with an expression she couldn’t read. It had two boneless arms that undulated slowly.

[I have come to pull you from the abyss of silence,] the spirit whispered. [To free you from the chains that bind your mind and restore you to the waking world.]

Then, as though it had suddenly remembered something, it added, [And don’t be afraid.]

Kerani commanded Burning Swan to attack, but its fiery wing shivered and retreated.

Not enemy, the spirit told her. And…strong.

There came a crash from behind Terkell’s desk. The supervisor had hurled her teacup—part of a set she’d inherited from her mother—to the ground, where it shattered. She glared furiously at the one-eyed spirit with teeth bared.

“Get out!” Terkell shrieked. “I’ll claw out your soul!”

The dark, floating spirit giggled. [That would be impressive.]

The Silent King’s voice from the door was amused. “Intruders. How bold.”

A force slammed into the door, shaking the room. Kerani hesitated only another instant before she reached out to the strange spirit’s tendril.

If this was an elaborate trick by the Dreadgod to get her to walk outside, it was working.

The spirit pulled her out through the glass, coming within an inch of searing her flesh off, but Kerani didn’t land on the street outside Terkell’s office.

She was back in the engine room, standing before a welded steel panel. Had she fallen asleep after finishing her job? How would that be possible?

The dark spirit still floated before her, chuckling in an unnerving voice. [Walk with me, unless you wish to see the void of death.]

“Who are you?” she demanded. “What’s going on?”

[You’ll see,] it said. [And you can call me Dross.]

She and Dross walked up and out from the engine room, but she froze when she entered the hall of the main complex. The guard’s body remained lying exactly where she’d seen it before.

“I thought that was a dream.”

[That dream was a mirror of reality, and a subtle trap. An elaborate boundary field. I almost want to stay trapped myself, to wander its dark halls and admire its intricate folds.] Dross sighed. [But I suppose there’s a battle going on.]

Only as they grew closer to the edge of the building did she feel the distant rumbles in the earth and hear metallic thunder. There was a battle.

She hurried out—past Terkell’s office, which was unharmed and unlit—and flung open the outer door.

At first, she thought the night sky was covered by clouds. The sun had long set, so the sky was dim. But the light was still paler than it should be, and it twisted and flickered unnaturally.

As though the sky had turned a faint, misty white.

In the faint, white light, Kerani saw her fellow employees. They hadn’t gone home as they were supposed to; in fact, it looked like they had been trapped as soon as they’d left the building. Some had dropped their belongings to the grass to stare up at the sky.

Now, they all stared upward…and contributed to the battle.

Striker techniques flew from all over the city, madra flying from spirit-tanks everywhere. The people were eerily synchronized, launching their attacks as though controlled by one mind.

Which was the case, she knew. They were puppets of the Silent King. White rings burned hot behind their heads, visible now to the naked eye.

Everyone she could see looked to the sky with expressions of rage, where they fired upon the same target.

A ball of dark fire that blazed like a black sun.

Thousands of techniques, from all over the city, crashed into that ball with no apparent effect. Behind the fireball stretched a line of cloudships, winged sacred beasts, and other flying vehicles.

She realized quickly that the dark fire was protecting that train of flying traffic. Lances of burning black madra struck out and pierced techniques aimed at the cloudships.

And not everyone was as weak as Terkell. Three figures did battle with the black fireball in the sky, each covered by the image of their Remnant: an eagle of lightning, a shivering blue angular creature made of crystal, and something like a steel fusion of a crab and a praying mantis.

The three Chief Guardians of Dreadnought City. Archlords with such advanced Remnants that they looked fully physical.

Each of them had a white ring behind their head.

“What is this?” She couldn’t think of any question that better expressed the heavy dread in her gut.

[I suspect you know, but the reality is too grim to fully accept.] With one arm, Dross pointed to the dark star. [I’m with him.]

The angular crystal warrior conjured a storm of blades that shredded the tops of nearby buildings. Glass and steel plummeted to the streets below.

Aura of fire and destruction appeared in a swirl of black and red, and the debris was erased. Whoever this dark fire artist was, they were trying to restrict damage to the city.

The blue blades crashed into the ball of fire and vanished, but lightning fell and a spear of silver light struck at the same time.

The fire transformed instantly. It flashed to blue-white light, and all the hostile techniques vanished. Kerani could just barely make out a dot at the center of the light. A person.

“Is that a Monarch?” she asked.

[That’s the Sage of Twin Stars,] Dross said. [And here’s your ride.]

A bathtub-sized wooden boat on the back of a cloud drifted down to her. Hesitantly, she climbed aboard. “How…how many are left?”

[There are more,] Dross whispered. [Many more.]

He did something, used some kind of technique, though Kerani could barely understand the intricacies of his madra. All over the city, she saw dark orbs outlined by purple light: more spirits like Dross.

Then again, they didn’t feel like copies. They felt like exactly the same spirit.

[We will take you to Emriss Silentborn before the Dreadgod arrives.]

Kerani looked to the humans who moved like puppets. “It’s not here?”

Dross giggled softly as Kerani was taken away by the ship. [Not yet.]

* * *

Yerin appeared in a flash of white light on the back of a ship floating on the sea.

Well, half a ship.

After she’d arrived in the labyrinth at the bottom of the Trackless Sea, she’d felt a beacon calling for help and had moved for it. She guessed at some point that beacon had been sailing across the ocean, but now the ship had been torn to pieces. Yerin stood on a floating chunk of wood.

Which was probably the safest place to be, at the moment.

Storm clouds covered the sky, but the lightning cracked red. Crimson stripes were painted across the clouds as aura from the Bleeding Phoenix stained the world. Yerin’s head pounded at the feel of its spirit in the air; if she relaxed her concentration, she thought she might hear the Phoenix’s distant song. She preferred the headache.

The Dreadgod wasn’t close enough to fight, but close enough to be a disaster. There was an island nearby, which held a decent-sized town in the shadow of a mountain. The town blazed with madra of a dozen different aspects as sacred artists and constructs strained themselves to the breaking point to resist the army in front of them.

Like ants, red spots crawled all over the mountain. She could feel them clearly, even without a scan with her spiritual senses. Bloodspawn. They grew from blood and ate madra, either evolving on their own or returning power to the Dreadgod, and now they were laying siege to the town.

If that had been the only problem, Emriss Silentborn wouldn’t have called her. The Eight-Man Empire could have handled it. There were two of them here, and each of them could wipe out an army of bloodspawn with a brush of the hand.

One man in gold armor clashed against a giant sea serpent—a blue-scaled leviathan that gave off enough spiritual pressure that it weighed down Yerin’s soul. The leviathan had been corrupted by a scarlet ooze that covered its skin, a noxious parasite that infused its soul with blood madra.

A parasite that Yerin knew intimately. The leviathan had been consumed by the Blood Shadow, and now it was a husk of itself, moving only to attack and feed.

The gold-armored man plunged down with a blow from a two-handed cleaver that warped space around it, striking the leviathan’s scales and blowing a hole in the ocean. A towering wave threatened to drown the town until he reached out and soothed the aura, flattening the water again.

His partner, another man in gold armor, faced a monster of blood that plunged from above. ‘Monster’ was the best Yerin could do to describe it. The thing looked like a sack full of giant squids that had all melted together.

To her spiritual sense, it felt like a mashed-together blob of Blood Shadows with dozens of powers that fought each other in chaos, and the creature struck down from the clouds with tentacles carrying shining techniques of contradictory aspects.

Yerin would bet that this Blood Shadow would fall apart on its own before the end of the day, but at the moment it blazed with power that dwarfed even the men in gold. It felt like a true fragment of the Bleeding Phoenix, and a casual blow from it could level the town and the entire island beneath it.

In time, the two members of the Eight-Man Empire would no doubt win. Their personal power was enough to match their opponents, and they could draw energy from their six other partners.

But she wasn’t at all sure they could do it while keeping the town intact. Even now, if they hadn’t spared enough attention and held themselves back, the island would have been annihilated.

Yerin gathered all that before her unstable raft slid down the first wave.

Then she acted.

The black blade of her sword, Netherclaw, rang like a bell. The island was probably a mile away, but that was easy for her to reach now.

Plenty of bloodspawn carried weapons or shaped themselves into sharp edges, and some of them had sword madra of their own. Her Endless Sword technique also carried a touch of blood aura since her merge with Ruby, so it affected the Phoenix’s spawn better than it would have before.

Crimson madra and essence sprayed up from all over the mountain.

That would do for many of the bloodspawn, and would lessen the pressure on the town’s defenders, but it wouldn’t be enough to wipe the army out. Before the echo of the Endless Sword had faded, Yerin whipped her blade horizontally and sent out a Striker technique.

The Rippling Sword was a silver-and-red wave of madra that expanded as it flew, scraping the entire island clean between the mountain and the town.

In fact, it sliced a few hills and carved a gash into the base of the mountain. A small one. Yerin doubted the townsfolk would mind.

That swept the bloodspawn away from the island like a broom catching dust, but Yerin’s madra had attracted attention.

A red light grew beneath her, and scarlet jaws opened wide to swallow her and the remains of the ship whole. Rather than a Blood Shadow that had taken over a leviathan, this Shadow had taken on the form of a leviathan, but she couldn’t spot a hair’s difference between them in power.

Yerin leaped, and the force of her jump shoved the wreckage of the boat down the monster’s throat.

She activated the binding in Netherclaw, and a huge, clawed hand Forged itself in midair from blood and sword madra.

The hand struck the inside of the leviathan’s jaws, and her technique wrestled with the monster among the sloshing waves as she called a Thousand-Mile Cloud from her void key.

Then she turned, locking her perception on the other leviathan. The one taken over by its parasite.

It was clashing with its golden opponent, freezing water into waves of ice even as it cast nets of liquid blood.

Yerin gathered her madra, the aura along the edge of her sword, and her soulfire. As the red leviathan beneath her crushed the Netherclaw technique, she launched her Final Sword.

A silver-red sword of light streaked through the darkness.

The blue leviathan sensed it and raised a wall of ice, but the Herald from the Eight-Man Empire was a step ahead. He blew the ice away with a slash of his over-sized cleaver.

Without resistance, the technique landed on corrupted sapphire scales.

The leviathan had still managed to twist, so Yerin’s Final Sword didn’t land directly. The technique carved a chunk out of the serpent the long way, slicing a line down its body.

Which gave the man in gold an opening.

He Forged force madra into a huge, ghostly cleaver, which plunged down like the weapon of a heavenly executioner. It severed the leviathan in half.

Yerin didn’t get a chance to see the Remnant rise, because her own crimson leviathan had latched onto her spirit. Flows of blood madra speared toward her like striking snakes themselves, and she couldn’t move her cloud fast enough to evade them. She sliced through each one with the Flowing Sword Enforcer technique, making her sword shine brighter every second.

She wasn’t fast enough.

One red tendril pierced through her shoulder like a harpoon, but instead of feeling the pain in her shoulder, she felt it in her head.

Her headache magnified a hundredfold in an instant as the Phoenix’s song filled her, grating on her soul. She screamed as she was dragged back, hurled into the depths.

Into the open mouth of the waiting serpent.

Even distracted by the pain, she plunged her sword into the side of the Shadow’s mouth. The entire leviathan’s shape deformed as it started to collapse its own body, ready to crush her and dissolve her at once. It didn’t react to the pain—in fact, she thought it might not feel anything from her sword.

See if it feels this, Yerin thought.

She’d absorbed the Diamond Veins that she’d won in the Uncrowned King tournament, and after that, her merge with Ruby had improved her madra channels even further. Her body and spirit were no longer separate, and her will infused them both.

In other words, she could use a lot of techniques at once without her spirit exploding.

Now seemed like a good time to see how far she could push it.

Yerin activated the Netherclaw binding, and another clawed hand appeared over her head, braced against the walls of the leviathan’s mouth. As the Endless Sword echoed around her, Yerin swept her sword in every direction, launching Striker techniques with every motion.

The Blood Shadow of the leviathan exploded.

She emerged from the center of a wet detonation, and she found herself glad that this wasn’t the physical leviathan, or she would have been soaked in gore.

The gold-armored man with the cleaver hovered over her, a Forged green-and-gray blade over his head. He blinked as he looked down at her, then let his Forger technique dissipate.

Yerin gave him a quick wave before she realized she was below sea level.

Her battle with the Blood Shadow had pushed the water away for hundreds of yards, but now the sea came crashing back. She sloshed around like a crab in a pot, idly wishing the pain in her head would go away.

When she could tell which way was up, she controlled water aura to throw her body into the air. Her Thousand-Mile Cloud caught her.

Now the two members of the Eight-Man Empire had only one enemy left—the monstrous blob-like Blood Shadow in the sky—and they made short work of it. In the first few instants, one blasted the clouds away while the other hauled the bulbous spirit out of hiding and split it into a thousand hideous pieces.

It shrieked as it died, which did nothing to help Yerin’s headache.

She drifted over to the two of them while she held wet hair out of her eyes. Eventually she could pull the moisture out with aura, but that still took time.

The closest Herald of the Eight-Man Empire saw her and put his fists on his hips. He threw his head back and laughed loudly. “A fine showing, young Herald! I see your grudge against the Phoenix has lent you power!”

Yerin controlled aura to pull water out of her ear. “Seems to me the two of you walked the longest stretch of the way without me.”

“The people of Sirifel will be grateful, I assure you,” the second Herald said. He seemed calmer than his partner.

“We have long sought an opportunity to fight at your side, young Herald,” the first pronounced. “Your spirit and your values are a fine fit with ours.”

The second man looked off into the distance. “We’re not being observed by the Monarchs. You can speak freely.”

“Feeling free as a fox in spring,” Yerin said. “There’s something you want me to say, true?”

“We saw your master reveal himself and ascend to the heavens. You do not have to share his wisdom with us, but as his disciples, you understand how this world works.” He saw her blank look and raised a hand. “If you wish to ascend, we would understand. But if not…I say that the two of you would fit our armor well.”

“One Sage, one Herald.” The other laced his fingers together. “A perfect match. I don’t even think our squires would object, would they?”

“If they did, a duel or two with the Uncrowned Queen and the Master of the Labyrinth would quiet them down.”

The two seemed like they were in a good mood, but her headache was distracting.

She pointed in the direction of the largest spiritual disturbance. “Call me a liar if I’m wrong, but don’t we have more work to do?”

“Ah, I almost forgot! Your Moonlight Bridge has a restoration period, doesn’t it? What luck for us! We can fight at your side for another…what was it, three days?”

Yerin had traveled most of the way through the labyrinth, so she wouldn’t need to wait quite so long for the Bridge to come back, but there was no reason to share that knowledge.

“You want to use it up just floating here?” Yerin asked.

He gave a savage grin and hefted a cleaver. “The Ghost-Blades seek nothing more than battle! Onward!”

Yerin was looking forward to fighting at the side of the Eight-Man Empire—she could learn a lot from their sacred arts, even if she wasn’t much interested in their armor.

But she’d feel better when she could return at a moment’s notice. Lindon would be in Everwood by now with his own battle to fight. He wasn’t supposed to come anywhere near the Dreadgod itself, but she had heard horror stories about the Silent King.

Then again, she’d heard horror stories about the Bleeding Phoenix too. She’d lived some of them.

If she did her job here, she could stop those nightmares before they got to someone else.

* * *

The earth artist covered in blue crystal used a Forger technique, and thousands of razor-edged sapphires appeared in the sky behind Lindon.

Each gemstone carried an Archlord’s focused will and practiced madra control. The crystals were an armory that stretched behind him in an endless flock, a barrage that could wipe out cities.

Worse, he wasn’t alone. His partner, a woman sheathed in a clawed Remnant of mirror-bright sword-madra, filled herself with an Enforcer technique. She blazed with light and power, coiling against an invisible platform she made with her aura control, and prepared to leap forward. The edges of her claws gleamed.

The storm artist shaped like an eagle of lightning gathered her own madra. This technique was stranger, twisting Lindon’s perception of reality. She may have been on the verge of advancing to Sage. The storm she gathered between her wings gave off arcs of lightning that tore up ancient paving-stones hundreds of feet below.

In the skies above Dreadnought City, Lindon faced down three Archlords. He let his Hollow Domain fade, switching back to Blackflame.

How’s the evacuation? Lindon asked Dross.

An eerie chuckle filled his mind. [The King himself is our aid. He has removed his drones from the city to bombard you from the outskirts.]

Good. If Lindon could stop protecting the city, he would be free to move as he wished.

The instant his field of pure madra died, the three enemies released their attacks.

Blue crystals blasted forward, slicing through the air in an instant, and Lindon propelled himself downward with soulfire-controlled wind aura. The Forged crystals smashed craters into the street and leveled houses, a deadly rain that blanketed the city.

Lindon dodged what he could, blasted those he couldn’t dodge with dragon’s breath, and slapped some away.

Dross showed him a warning light, and he twisted back to avoid the sword artist’s claw.

Her strike missed him, but the madra carried behind him in a silver wave that sliced a hundred-story building in two. Its top began to crumble, but Lindon called the Burning Cloak.

He landed on the ground and leaped away, leaving behind a crater of his own. Crystals still fell from the sky, seeking him, but he hurled himself after the lightning artist. The clawed sword-artist followed him in another silver blur of speed.

The lightning eagle had gathered up a powerful Striker technique, but she was vulnerable while using it. Then again, she would know that and account for it.

Dross had given Lindon a deeper understanding of these three. The Chief Guardians of Dreadnought City were ancient Archlords, each with a rich history of battles won and lost.

In experience, he couldn’t compare. They would be far more skilled than he was. Even if he could outmatch them in raw power, he would be hard-pressed to defeat any one of them in a fair fight.

But he had unfair advantages.

[She will have Forged spirits to defend her while she is vulnerable. They are only a distraction. The Remnant covering her conceals armor that makes her as tough as a Herald. But it has a flaw.]

Dross knew very little about these Chief Guardians from his own experience, but Emriss knew everything about them. And she shared.

When dozens of crackling lightning-sparrows spread out from the Archlady, Lindon drilled a bar of Blackflame through her stomach.

Her Striker technique dispersed, as did the Remnant covering her. The woman beneath was revealed, an older dark-skinned woman wearing a surprised expression. Her breastplate joined to her armored belt, but there was a weakness at the joint, and he had struck it dead-on.

She was only visible for a moment. She restored her Remnant a moment later and flew away on lightning wings, greatly weakened.

Lindon was relieved. He had been worried, coming here, that the Silent King would throw his drones away in waves to strike a single blow on Lindon. A rain of harmless Striker techniques from mind-controlled citizens still landed on Lindon or burst in the air, but Lindon wasn’t bothered.

As long as the Silent King didn’t put him in a position where he had to kill people who were being moved like helpless puppets, Lindon was happy.

[It’s enough to make one wonder,] Dross whispered, [why isn’t he doing that?]

Lindon supposed that the Dreadgod wanted slaves more than victory, but he didn’t have long to think. The sword-artist was next, and Lindon acted on Dross’ instruction.

He moved so that the Forged sapphire crystals were blasting toward the silver Archlady instead of him. The blue-crystal Archlord unraveled the technique before his ally was harmed, which lessened the pressure on Lindon.

Allowing him to send Wavedancer against the sword-artist. The sword clashed against one claw, then the other claw tore apart his dragon’s breath and the Archlady leaped at him. He dashed backwards.

They exchanged dozens of techniques in a second, flashing lines of madra slicing through buildings or lancing into the sky. Lindon crashed through a stone wall to dodge, hurled a metal carriage one-handed into the sky to intercept an exploding crystal, and burned a hole through the street to attack the sword-artist, who was trying to reach him from underground.

Dross couldn’t project an illusion into their minds while the Silent King controlled them. The Dreadgod of dreams would squash him like a wagon wheel rolling over a snake. But without that distraction, any Sage working that Lindon tried would be broken by the force of their combined willpower.

[Transfer construct,] Dross whispered. [Fifteen feet above us. The time has come to unleash ourselves.]

Lindon sent Wavedancer blasting through a Forged crystal overhead, spun around, and raised both hands. He sent Blackflame pouring through his palms. The madra obeyed him with only a thought, erupting into dark liquid flame that blasted into empty air.

But it wasn’t empty for long.

An instant later, the sword-artist appeared in the path of his Striker technique. Just as predicted.

Her silver Remnant carapace was struck full-force, and she shot backwards, blasting through another tall building.

She flew like a shooting star trailing black fire, propelled by dragon’s breath to smash through several walls. When she was out of the city limits, Lindon could see through a hole in three buildings that stared up at the corrupted white sky.

[He has prepared his next technique,] Dross reported. The stones of the street surged upwards like a sudden, razor-sharp wave. Lindon had already leaped onto a Thousand-Mile Cloud, flying toward the earth artist with the crystalline techniques.

Real stones flew at him from below as Forged ones crashed down from above, but Dross showed him the shifting path he could follow to his opponent. The Archlord covered in angular blue crystal, like a variant of the Akura armor with a pyramid over his head, shifted to face Lindon.

Nine flying swords appeared behind the man, each radiating threatening pressure.

“Release,” Lindon commanded the Remnant covering the man’s body.

Reality twisted to enforce Lindon’s order, but the Archlord’s will clashed against his. He could oppose any working Lindon made.

But doing so would cost him attention.

Wavedancer, controlled by Dross, plunged down like a silver meteor into the man’s back. The blade emerged from his chest, and he stumbled forward in the air.

He would survive. Archlords were resilient. But more importantly, Lindon’s sword pierced the man’s spirit-tank.

The Remnant of blue crystal peeled away, partially dissolved to essence. It flailed its limbs in high-pitched agony.

The Everwood Archlord retreated just as his companion had, leaving Lindon floating in the air over a ruined city.

[Only one to go,] Dross noted.

The sword-artist had returned to the city in a flash, keeping her presence concealed so she could sneak up on Lindon. But she couldn’t hide from Dross.

Lindon drifted to the ground, and a razor-sharp silver claw erupted out of a wall for his back.

He spun and caught it in his white hand. The hand of Subject One.

Then he began to Consume.

He devoured the Archlord-level sword Remnant in an instant, sorting its powers with the Heart of Twin Stars. The portion of its madra he could purify went to his core, its soulfire went to his own stores, its blood essence went to his body, and its dream aura went to Dross.

Ordinarily, he would have vented the remaining sword-madra he couldn’t use, or potentially Forged it into scales or dead matter. But his new arm of pale flesh was hungry. And it ate anything.

The Remnant vanished into his arm, leaving a struggling Archlady with a white crown behind her head.

“Are you ready?” Lindon asked Dross.

[Ravenous.] Dross licked his lips.

Lindon began to Consume the Silent King’s crown.

The white halo, the mark of the Dreadgod’s control, was a technique that worked like a parasite. Not only did it keep the host vulnerable to the Silent King’s commands, but it siphoned off their excess dream aura and transmitted it directly back to the Dreadgod. A combination of dream and hunger madra.

It didn’t take enough from any one person to leave them mindless or dead, but the Silent King fed on millions at once.

The crown resisted at first, its embedded will fighting, but Lindon crushed it. Its power flowed into him, a feast for both his Dreadgod arm and for Dross.

An otherworldly connection snapped into place, and suddenly Lindon was staring up into the muzzle of a white tiger.

It wasn’t exactly a tiger, of course. Tigers were natural animals, and this one was not. It was like someone had molded pale flesh like clay to resemble a tiger, with blazing purple eyes and a radiant aura of hunger. Its teeth were gleaming white steel, its black stripes shifted and moved by the second, and a blazing halo hovered over its head.

The halo resembled Samara’s ring—or the other way around—but this one crawled with half-formed images.

Lindon looked into the Dreadgod’s eyes and steeled himself. This was only a vision, a manifestation of the Silent King projected through the connection.

But he still felt like a mouse staring down the jaws of a cat.

“Bold thief,” the Dreadgod addressed him, and Lindon’s mind and soul shook in the wake of its mental voice. “You stole a piece of my brother.”

When Lindon’s head stopped ringing, he bowed. “Apologies. I meant no disrespect, but I work toward his goals.”

“Dangerous, for one so small as you.” The King’s eyes blazed. “Work toward my goals instead. Then you will be safe.”

Even as set against it as he was, even with Dross to protect him, even though this was only a projection and not the full Dreadgod, Lindon still felt an urge to do as the Dreadgod wished.

“Regretfully, I don’t believe our goals are compatible.”

“Wei Shi Seisha,” the Silent King said, and Lindon froze at the name. “Your mother. She is in Serpent’s Grave, in the Blackflame Empire in Ashwind. Wei Shi Jaran. Wei Shi Kelsa. I know them. I know you. With my many eyes, I see you, who stole my brother’s flesh.”

“They are no threat to you—” Lindon began, but he was cut off.

“Lindon. You took my birthplace and the power of my kind. In return, I claim your life.”

Lindon drew back from the massive tiger, veiling himself and trying to withdraw from the overwhelming pressure. He reached out to the Void Icon for comfort and support, but the Silent King’s presence was overwhelming as the Dreadgod stalked forward.

“Orthos is not safe from me because he is close to you. Akura Mercy is not safe from me because she is the daughter of a Monarch. Yerin is not safe from me because she is a defective Herald. And Dross is not safe from me because he remains silent.”

The dark Dross slid out of Lindon’s spirit and manifested in the air next to him. He was pulled by an invisible hand, struggling as the will of the Dreadgod tugged him closer to the tiger’s jaws.

[I wonder if Eithan can speak with the dead,] Dross whispered to Lindon even as he fought the Silent King. [Maybe I will see him before you will.]

Lindon threw himself desperately at Dross, battling the Dreadgod. It had not been so long since he’d clashed wills with the Wandering Titan, but the Titan had been weakened by the suppression field.

Lindon had grown stronger since then, but this was on another level.

“Enough!” Lindon commanded, tapping into his authority as the Void Sage. The connection shredded itself, fading to nothing.

As the image of the Silent King faded away, the Dreadgod spoke once more. “I will not relinquish you, Lindon. The sooner you dedicate your life to me, the fewer of them will die. Be wary, because I come for you.”

Then the pressure released and Lindon sank to the ruined streets of Dreadnought City. Sweat ran down his head and neck and he shuddered from the fear that still gripped him.

He had the attention of a Dreadgod. That was always going to happen eventually—it had become an inevitability when he attached the Slumbering Wraith’s arm to his elbow, and especially when he’d claimed the labyrinth.

But now, he shivered in fear. It was disturbingly likely that the Dreadgod would make good on its promise.

Dross materialized again, floating next to Lindon. [Once more, I have danced on the edge of oblivion. How thrilling.]

Lindon forced his fears down and pushed his way back to his feet. “Did you find it?”

[The Silent King’s new lair is three hundred miles southwest of this location. He sleeps in a dark cave and keeps his voice quiet, as befitting of his name.]

“Report to Emriss,” Lindon said.

Then he took off on his Thousand-Mile Cloud. He led the cloudships and other vehicles a few dozen miles north of the city, to an ancient ruin that had been preserved for generations. The people here studied it as a relic of the past, and there was even a museum just off-site.

As soon as Lindon’s feet met the courtyard, the ancient stones of the ruins responded to his authority. “Home,” Lindon commanded, expanding his will to encompass all the citizens of Dreadnought City.

The labyrinth obeyed, and everyone dissolved into white light.

He caught a glimpse of blue as they were buffeted by the Way, the strange sapphire world beyond space. This was a place he understood very little, and he only saw it for an instant before they appeared once again.

In Sacred Valley.

The center of the Valley, which had been leveled by the rampaging Titan and then damaged again by battle only a few days ago, was in even worse shape than Dreadnought City. Lindon brought the fleeing civilians in by air so that they wouldn’t have to navigate through miles of debris to exit.

Flying experts from the Akura clan directed the people from the Everwood continent toward an exit. They would be taken care of in camps sponsored by Malice.

Those camps weren’t safe from Dreadgods, and these days that meant they weren’t safe enough, but it was the best anyone could do. This was Lindon’s sixth trip, and he had now traveled over more of the world than he ever had before.

Most of the energy for the transportation came from the labyrinth. It didn’t have an inexhaustible supply of power, but its reserves were impressive.

Transportation through the labyrinth was far cheaper than most spatial transport. There were endless applications for such an ability, and Lindon dreamed about them in his few spare moments.

He still hadn’t slept since Eithan had ascended into the heavens…or rather, returned to the heavens. He also still hadn’t been accosted by the Monarchs.

Yet.

Lindon had been shocked to learn that everyone remembered the sky turning black and Eithan doing battle. The one time he’d been visited by a heavenly messenger before, she had been careful to remove memory of her identity from everyone but him.

It wasn’t strange that Yerin remembered, or Orthos. He could believe that Eithan or Suriel had left their memories intact. What about the rest of the world?

This had been a far larger incident, but memories remained. Were they unable to erase the minds of so many people, or was it something more complex?

In any case, the Monarchs were still too busy with the Dreadgods to chase down Lindon. For which he was grateful.

In the days since hearing Emriss Silentborn’s call for help, Lindon’s encounter with the Silent King had been his closest brush with a Dreadgod. But that had been too close.

Windfall, his home, drifted on its huge blue cloudbase nearby. Yerin wasn’t home, though it would have surprised him more if she had been. She had her own work to do with the Phoenix.

Ziel, Orthos, and Little Blue were nearby, but not aboard Windfall, so it was a surprise to sense that his home wasn’t empty. Lindon flew up and hopped off his Thousand-Mile Cloud to confront the unexpected guest.

Akura Pride.

The short Underlord crossed muscular arms over his chest and glared as Lindon landed. As though it were Lindon who was the intruder, and not Pride.

“What have you done?” Pride demanded.

“Apologies, but shouldn’t you be calling me Sage?”

Pride’s glare intensified, so Lindon relented. A little.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” Lindon said. “I’ve done many things.”

“So you have.” Pride jabbed two fingers in Lindon’s direction. “You’ve strengthened the Dreadgods somehow, and Mercy won’t tell me how. Now you’ve driven them all crazy.”

“It sounds like you already know what I’ve done.”

“What did you do to Mother?” Purple eyes blazed. “She’s ordered everyone to stay away from you.”

Lindon opened his mouth to point out that her prohibition obviously hadn’t done much if Pride was there in person, but he shut the words away unspoken. Pride could sense Lindon’s power, and he’d been warned away, but here he was as though daring Lindon to annihilate him.

That kind of bold stupidity grated on Lindon, but he could respect it.

“I can’t tell you.” Pride swelled up with a response, but Lindon held out a hand wearily. “I mean I cannot. I swore an oath to your mother.”

Pride looked him up and down. “So you did do something. You idiot.”

Lindon could literally kill Pride with a word. Strangely, he was less irritated now that he knew Pride would keep the same attitude no matter how advanced Lindon was.

“You had my sister’s favor,” Pride went on. “You had my mother’s favor. After you killed Sophara, we would have set you up as a king. You could have…” Pride cut himself off and took a deep breath. “You have rivals where you could have had allies. I want to know why. Are you trying to become the youngest Monarch in history?”

“It’s not about my advancement.” Lindon couldn’t talk about the connection between the Monarchs and the Dreadgods, on pain of violating his soul oath. But he could talk about the other reason Malice might be wary around him now.

“Did you see the battle in the heavens?” Lindon asked.

“I saw enough.” The sight of the battle would have been too much for an Underlord like Pride, but he wouldn’t admit that. And his family members would surely have told him the story anyway.

“That was Eithan,” Lindon said.

Pride snorted a laugh. When Lindon remained serious, he spoke. “Who was?”

Lindon remained quiet.

“In the black armor?”

Lindon continued looking into Akura eyes.

Pride grew paler and paler as he realized Lindon was telling the truth. “Oh.” Then he recovered and frowned again. “Did you know?”

“No.”

Pride nodded. “I see. Mother wants to keep Mercy away from you so she doesn’t join you when you ascend.”

“I’m not ascending yet,” Lindon said. “The Dreadgods are still here.”

“That’s admirable, I suppose. Aunt Charity says you’ve been helping with the relief effort.”

“That too.”

Pride muttered to himself, huffed, and stared off into the distance. After a few seconds, he turned back to Lindon. “You’re in a difficult position. I’m sorry.”

[He struggles within himself,] Dross whispered. [A man at war. An internal battlefield. This pleases me.]

“Would you like to come inside?” Lindon asked.

Pride inclined his head.

The tea Lindon served was brewed with leaves from Eithan’s garden. It was probably low-quality compared to what Pride was used to, but the Underlord didn’t complain. He also sat with perfect posture, his back straight as an iron rod, and placed the cup back down at the exact same angle every time.

Lindon resisted the urge to copy him. Pride had been trained in etiquette like this, but Lindon hadn’t, and Lindon wasn’t about to pretend.

He couldn’t help but feel that he was being rude, though.

There had been a little polite conversation while Lindon brewed and poured. It was hard to make small talk when there were so many other things Lindon could be doing, but this was important. Through Pride, he could learn the condition of the world and the attitudes of the Monarchs. Not to mention Mercy’s current fate.

Lindon and Pride were seated around a small table in the kitchen, and Dross drifted back carrying a tray of snacks.

Pride was the one to start the discussion in earnest. “Mercy says you helped with her Overlord revelation.”

“It didn’t take much. She was on the verge of advancement anyway.”

“Why do you think our mother didn’t do that?” Pride took a perfect sip of the tea, twisted the cup, and returned it to the tray with an oddly elaborate gesture.

“She suggested that your family values independent progress over speed,” Lindon said. “I can see the reasoning. With your Books, your eventual advancement is guaranteed up to a certain level. It’s more important to ensure that each step is stable, and that you have full mastery over the previous stage before you move up.”

“That is my mother’s philosophy. Those who sprint tend to trip.” He gave Lindon a meaningful look, but Lindon bit into a kind of sugared cracker that Dross had found somewhere.

He hadn’t tripped so far.

“I came here to speak to you about your involvement with the Dreadgods,” Pride went on. “I didn’t know you were involved with the battle in the heavens too. That makes things even worse. My mother obviously thinks you can still be an asset, or she would have crushed you already, but she’s wary of you.”

“And Mercy isn’t allowed to come here and tell me herself?”

Pride’s hand stopped for a fraction of a second as he lifted a biscuit to his own mouth, then he continued unhurried. “That’s right. I’m delivering her message. But here’s a warning of my own. You can think of it as a request, if you like. Stop sprinting.”

“A bit late for that, don’t you think?”

“You’ll reach Monarch eventually, as long as no one kills you.” Pride’s lips twisted as though he found the words sour. “Even our Books don’t guarantee us Monarch. Don’t rush. Wait until the Dreadgods die down again, work with our family, and don’t provoke my mother. Live a long life, then ascend.”

Confused, Lindon examined Pride. “Pardon, but what do you want? Why are you telling me this?”

“Who else is going to?” Pride kicked the table, and tea sloshed over the sides of both cups. “Who do you think is going to tell the Void Sage what to do? No one’s going to say a word until the Monarchs see you as a threat, and then it’s too late! It might be too late already! You think the Rosegold Emperor is going to wait on the Dreadgods? I don’t want to see you—"

He caught himself and pinched the bridge of his nose. “—Mercy doesn’t want to see you hurt. And I don’t want to see my sister’s friends obliterated because they were being stupid. It’s a waste.”

Dross floated behind Pride’s head, chuckling in a disturbing tone and waving his arms in arcane patterns as Lindon weighed Pride’s words. He looked down at the table, where the tea had spilled.

A touch of red colored Pride’s cheek. “I apologize for that. I haven’t spilled tea since I was a child.”

“In recognition of our cooperation during the tournament, I won’t charge you for the tablecloth.”

Pride gave one silent laugh and relaxed an inch.

“We’re in a corner,” Lindon said softly. “Some of it is my fault, and some of it…isn’t.” Eithan had left them in a very awkward position, demonstrating world-shaking power and then vanishing. “I’ll do what I have to.”

“You can do whatever you wish. I have delivered my warning, and now you can live or die as you please.”

Lindon stood and pressed his fists together, bowing. “Gratitude.”

Pride nodded back.

“Mercy. Is she imprisoned, or is she only forbidden from coming here?”

“Everyone in the head family is forbidden from approaching you right now, Aunt Charity included. Mercy’s stuck in Moongrave, but she’s as busy as she’s ever been. The Dreadgods.”

“Then tell her we’ll be there soon.”

Pride’s head jerked back. “Don’t do anything to set my mother off, Lindon. I warned you.”

“I’ll try not to. But Mercy’s on my team.” Lindon didn’t put any particular emphasis on the words, but he met Pride’s eyes without backing down. “One way or another, I’m coming for her.”

Pride snorted. “Your team? Are you entering another tournament?”

“You can be on my team too, Pride. You’re invited.”

“No, thanks. I have a family. And so does Mercy.” He gave Lindon a crooked smile. “Thanks for the tea.”

An idea occurred to Lindon, but he wasn’t sure how to broach the subject politely. When Pride pulled out a blue gatestone and prepared to crush it, Lindon decided to just say it.

“Pardon, but would you mind letting me inspect your Book?”

Pride paused. He stood there with the gatestone in his hand for entirely too long.

“No,” he said flatly.

He moved to crush the stone, but stopped when Lindon held out a hand. “Apologies. I don’t mean to pry, I’m only trying to learn.”

“Learn about Mercy’s Book.”

“I am also academically interested. As a Soulsmith.”

Pride gave Lindon a look that called him an idiot, but he let the hand with the gatestone fall to his side. “You can scan it. Make it quick.”

A red-and-silver Book, wrapped in chains, manifested over Pride’s head. As a Divine Treasure, it resembled the Remnant of a large tome rather than a natural book.

Lindon wasted no time in thoroughly scanning the Book. Pride grimaced at the weight of Lindon’s spiritual perception, but kept his spine straight. Dross examined the structure of the Divine Treasure as eagerly as Lindon did.

After only a minute or two, Pride released the manifestation. “That’s enough. It’s uncomfortable enough having you stare at me for so long. I hate it.”

Lindon was disappointed, but he appreciated what he’d learned. He gave a shallow bow. “Gratitude. I know this is asking a lot, but I do have a few questions…”

Pride crushed his gatestone and vanished in a shimmer of blue light.

Lindon stared at the shimmering light where he disappeared, idly feeling the warp in space that had taken him away. Even while he tried to focus on what he’d learned about the Book of Seven Pages, their earlier conversation about Mercy drifted through the back of his mind.

[And so he casts confusion into your thoughts. Raises more questions than he answers. Was he here to help, or to sink you into the mire of uncertainty?]

Dross floated next to Lindon’s ear, whispering doubt. Lindon waved him away.

“I don’t understand your new sense of humor.”

Dross popped up by the other ear. [You didn’t understand my old one either.]

Lindon ran pure madra through a device hanging around his neck, and a doorway opened in the air almost exactly where Pride had used his gatestone. This gate led onto a rune-covered stone platform floating in an empty ocean of stars. A waist-high column of dull gray metal stood in the middle, an opening in its center holding a blue flame.

“Whatever Pride thinks, it doesn’t matter,” Lindon said. “We have work to do.”

The Silent King had threatened to attack Lindon’s friends and family. That threat hung over him; when would that attack come? What resources did a Dreadgod have? Could he have already attacked? Did he have agents all over the world?

But worries didn’t solve problems.

Preparation did.

* * *

Lindon strode through the door in the Ancestor’s Tomb, past the hallway of cabinets that was the upper entrance, and into the labyrinth proper.

Here, his awareness expanded as he claimed his authority over the labyrinth.

Its tendrils spread like a spiderweb beneath Sacred Valley and for a thousand miles in every direction. Strands and other, smaller webs branched out all over the world. To him, they now felt close enough to reach out and touch.

What this awareness did not grant him was a comprehensive understanding of the labyrinth’s contents. In spite of the direction Ozmanthus’ echo had given him, there were still depths here he hadn’t explored, buried secrets he hadn’t uncovered, and even places he hadn’t found.

He ran his spirit over the dark spots he found here and there. The places that had been usurped by others, over the centuries, or chambers so ancient he only had access and not control. His authority wasn’t absolute.

Even accounting only for the pieces of the maze he did control, he could spend a lifetime without exhausting all its contents and functions.

And most importantly of all, every inch of its walls was worked against intrusion. Down here, even a Monarch couldn’t spy on him without his permission.

Lindon focused his authority on the room around him and commanded it to “Move.” The entrances blurred until he and Dross were standing in another of Ozmanthus’ workshops.

Like the other workshops and foundries Lindon had found marked with Ozriel’s scythe, this one had largely been stripped bare over the years. Either by a previous owner of the labyrinth, by its wild inhabitants, by time, or by Ozmanthus himself.

Racks carved into the stone stood empty of the weapons they once held, and clockwork machines—designed to be operated by constructs—sat silent. Arms of scripted bronze and steel stretched out from the walls, motionless.

Lindon didn’t summon Ozmanthus this time. It was too time-consuming to do every time, though Eithan’s ancient reflection was a valuable resource. Instead, he consulted the man’s memories.

As Lindon entered, he ran his perception through a dream tablet on the wall. It contained memories he’d viewed before: Ozmanthus creating a network of launcher constructs synced together to protect an entire city, commentating the process.

And then, later, coldly confronting a king that had used that network of launchers to assault a rival instead of to protect himself. The king protested that it had merely been a preemptive military action, and that he had been acting in defense of his people.

Ozmanthus suggested that if he enjoyed preemptive strikes so much, he should appreciate this one, and had erased the man from the neck up.

There was Soulsmithing knowledge Lindon could glean from the creation of those weapons, and he had been diligently doing so. Ozmanthus had also left behind a wealth of sacred arts experience, including a natural sense for madra manipulation unlike anything Lindon had ever seen. Between that and his insight, no wonder he had been called a genius.

But Lindon was having a harder and harder time seeing Ozmanthus and Eithan Arelius as the same person.

He knew they were. Eithan had said so himself, and had proven his identity in the most dramatic fashion possible. Even Ozmanthus’ echo had confirmed it.

It wasn’t that Lindon doubted, but that it was hard to see how time had turned Ozmanthus into Eithan. There was some lesson to be learned from that, even if Lindon wasn’t sure exactly what it was.

In the meantime, he would take every advantage he had.

“What do we have left, Dross?” Lindon asked, when Eithan’s memory had faded.

Dross drifted into existence, choosing to appear so that it looked like he had floated out of the shadows. [Our enemies have centuries if not millennia of experience we don’t, and they have spent that time building up resources. Any of them could crush us, either personally or with a command to their organizations. This is the fragility of advancing so quickly.]

“I understand, so if you could speed this up…”

[We hang under the cloud of doom, and yet we stand up in our futile struggle, never flagging under the weight that will surely crush us.]

Lindon gently grabbed Dross and turned him to look into his large purple eye. “It’s not futile, Dross.”

He could feel the spirit shifting uncomfortably and looking for an argument, but finally Dross’ arms drooped and he sighed. […no, it’s not. But wouldn’t it be more exciting if it were?]

Lindon let Dross drift sullenly into the air and answer his question at last. [There is no substitute for experience…so we’ll steal theirs.]

A grey-and-white copy of a younger Northstrider appeared in midair, projected by Dross. [I have recovered many of my memories from inside his oracle codex, and he left an echo of himself behind in the labyrinth after his exploration. I suspect we’re eighty percent to a combat solution.]

Another echo appeared next to him, this time of Reigan Shen with his chin tilted proudly up. [The trouble with Reigan Shen is that he can change his resources at any time, crafting cruel weapons to tear our souls to pieces…ahem, so we can never have a one-hundred-percent accurate model. But we are close, so close, enough that we can taste success with our outstretched tongues.]

Most Monarchs had never set foot into the labyrinth, but three had. Fortunately, they were the ones Lindon was most concerned about.

The third Monarch appeared, drawing back her bow with a smirk on her face. The young Malice looked like she could be Mercy’s sister.

[Akura Malice. Her powers have grown and evolved since she was the Sage of Eternal Night, and she did not use the full extent of her power while she was inside the labyrinth, suffering as she did from both the degradation of hunger madra and the suppression field. However…]

Dross projected a violet book into midair. […with the knowledge we have of Mercy’s Book of Eternal Night, we can sneak a glimpse into Malice’s dark powers. The Book is an idealized version of her Path, not the one she truly follows, and thus we will be always plagued by uncertainty. But we are close to understanding. With some more observation of her, and perhaps a peek into Mercy’s Book, we will treat Malice like we did Harmony.]

The spirit giggled at the memory, which made Lindon shiver.

“That assumes we can fight her on equal terms,” Lindon pointed out. Which they couldn’t yet do.

[Yeeesssss…if we faced Malice now, she would kill us from miles away. If she were merciful. More likely, she would pull us into shadow and torment us, or twist us into her loyal lapdogs.]

Lindon shivered again and changed the subject. They had other projects than just combat reports on the Monarchs.

“What about advancement for the others?”

[If they were willing to replace their limbs, I would be finished already.] Dross stared pointedly at Lindon’s right arm.

That wasn’t as simple as it sounded, and Dross knew it. Though they had enough hunger madra to now supply anyone they wanted, an arm would have to be compatible with its host spirit. They would also need a spirit Enforcer technique to separate the madra they drained. And without a mind-spirit to filter out stolen thoughts, they would risk losing their identity to the stolen memories.

These were solvable problems, and Lindon had considered looking for the solution. There were still hunger spears stored in the labyrinth, the ones that had once been made for Gold-level soldiers, and there was no reason he couldn’t create higher-level devices made for more advanced stages.

But he needed to work more quickly. He had to bring the others up to the level of being able to fight Dreadgods and Monarchs as soon as possible.

Dross made an irritated hiss as he sensed the direction of Lindon’s thoughts, and began spooling out new projections. [Among the memories of the echoes and some records still stored in the labyrinth, I have options. But I need your authority to explore them, so it is on your decision that our fate rests.]

Lindon looked from a buried elixir that would greatly increase the advancement of anyone on a force Path, perfect for Ziel, to a castle where a black dragon’s Herald Remnant had been frozen in time for hundreds of years.

He pulled up a chair and opened himself to the memories.

“Gratitude, Dross. What’s first?”

3

Lindon strode onto the large stone wedges that made up the platform of the Soulforge. Each wedge was marked with a single symbol so that together they formed a simple script-circle. Starry sky surrounded him in all directions, though Lindon suspected they were points of condensed power rather than actual stars.

From his soulspace, he removed Genesis, his newly crafted Soulsmithing hammer. It was two-headed and small enough to fit in one hand, with one head tinged red and the other blue. Made to bind his powers together and focus them on creation, Genesis was intended to advance his Soulsmithing to the next level.

He had used the hammer only briefly, and he was looking forward to any excuse to wield it now. Though the occasion did dampen his enthusiasm.

“I need a plan, Dross,” Lindon said.

They had discussed this before arriving in the Everwood continent, knowing they were indirectly confronting the Silent King. Dross had begun theorizing countermeasures against the Dreadgod’s possession.

Of course, the situation had become more urgent than either of them had expected.

Dross projected the image of a fist-sized ball, little more than a binding wrapped in dead matter, with a simple trigger and a straightforward effect. It looked something like a purple-and-white striped clamshell, and Lindon grabbed the image in one hand and inspected it.

On the inside, it was more complicated, blending Ruler and Enforcer techniques of a few different aspects at once. But it was still straightforward, effectively boosting the body’s inherent spiritual resistance while attacking the Silent King’s parasitic technique with similar aspects.

“Let me see it work.”

With only a weird laugh, Dross spun it out.

The example he used was the sword-Path Archlady from Everwood with the halo behind her head. Dross placed the clamshell construct in her soulspace, and immediately the madra from the Silent King’s control activated it. Power ran throughout her madra channels, and she shivered until the halo disappeared.

[It will do nothing to resist the Silent King’s focused attention. And it can’t hold him back from stepping on you.]

“It’s better than nothing. Can we do it cheaper?”

Dross had created this recipe by combining elements from several traditional defenses against the Silent King. They would help against remote possession, but no easily crafted construct could stand against a Dreadgod’s direct will.

Finding appropriate dream bindings was easy—Lindon had several in his own void key, and he could theoretically use those from the Path of the White Fox, if he strengthened them himself. But soul Enforcer techniques were rare.

[If we use mind Enforcer techniques or purify and twist some full-body Enforcer techniques, there’s a version that slowly grinds the control away. Like a whetstone grinding away your living bones, one fraction of an inch at a time.]

“First, that’s another one to never say again. Make a note.”

Since Dross had returned with his new, morbid personality, he had used a few expressions that were too disturbing for Lindon to allow. Dross had agreed to seal them away at Lindon’s request, though Lindon suspected he might have agreed only to have a list of what got under Lindon’s skin the most.

[Ah, I see, I see…is it the bone part that disturbs you, or the grinding?]

Lindon shuddered at the last word. “All of it. Now, will the lower-efficiency version of the construct still be effective?”

[In all simulations, it eliminates the parasitic technique. The time required ranges between eighteen seconds and roughly nine minutes.]

“Do we have the required materials on hand?”

[The Silent King threatened six beings besides the two of us. Your three surviving relatives, Yerin, Orthos, and Mercy. If that is all we need, and we are willing to accept a lapse in performance, then we have the materials on hand. Also, this assumes that we do not need protection ourselves.]

“We’ll be safe,” Lindon said.

He was certain he could break the Silent King’s control with his own willpower, but if it came to that, he also had a spiritual Enforcer technique specialized in purifying foreign elements, an arm with stronger hunger madra than the halo technique, and a Sage’s authority that could be used to remove things. Not to mention Dross.

Little Blue would purify any corruption of her spirit before she was even conscious of it, which could have been why the Dreadgod didn’t mention her.

[Safe?] Dross whispered. [We will be in the most danger of all, because the only way he can control us is if we give in voluntarily.]

“One problem at a time. Six constructs. Do they work if they aren’t held in the soulspace?”

[At about twenty percent reduced efficiency.]

“Good enough. Get the materials.” Any solution was better than none.

Dross opened Lindon’s void key and dead matter began floating out. He couldn’t activate Lindon’s key on his own, nor could he use soulfire, but Lindon could allow him to borrow command over both.

Lindon himself was focused on the surface of the altar, even as he felt Forged madra and Remnant parts floating around him.

In an apparent contradiction, weaker souls needed weaker protections against techniques like this, despite being more vulnerable. A defensive construct that was too much for them could cause damage to their channels while purging the foreign energy.

Therefore, he seized the weak materials first. He had started carrying around Jade Remnants with White Fox-compatible madra so that he could make constructs for his family. These would serve as practice for him, and he wouldn’t even need to fuel the Soulforge. Just being made in this place would grant the constructs more authority than they would have otherwise; enough to defeat the Silent King’s will, so long as the Dreadgod was nowhere nearby.

Lindon could have assembled this construct in two seconds using his madra control alone, but he gave it his full attention. A dream Ruler binding and a purified soul Enforcer binding—one that he’d made to simulate the Heart of Twin Stars—went down first, and he fused them together with one strike of Genesis. He used the blue head, channeling pure madra, as this was a purification construct and not a weapon.

The construct formed in moments, infused with power from his will, his madra, and this place. When he bathed it in his own quicksilver soulfire, it ended up pink and pale blue instead of the purple-and-white of Dross’ example, but a quick spiritual scan confirmed that it would work.

He Forged a quick script into it, to preserve the construct and add a few basic protections, then he considered it done.

That would be good enough for one of his parents and would probably be the highest quality construct they had ever used.

He made one more at that level. Kelsa’s had to be a little stronger, and Orthos’ stronger still. When he started working on Mercy’s, he paused.

“What about Ziel?” he asked.

Dross gave a boneless shrug. [The Dreadgod didn’t mention him.]

Was that because the Silent King wasn’t aware of Ziel, or was the Dreadgod playing some game? Maybe this was a mental trick to get Lindon to overlook Ziel…or to get him to focus on Ziel too much, as the one exception.

[Or maybe it’s a nefarious trick to get us to overthink this.]

They didn’t have enough materials for a seventh protective construct. Any bindings good enough for an Archlord were rare, much less soul Enforcer techniques. Lindon began to wish they’d stolen more halos from the mind-controlled people of Everwood; the hostile techniques could be broken down into raw components.

“We’ll find something later,” Lindon said, focusing on Mercy’s construct.

[Yes. Later…let us hope that Ziel is not turned into a prisoner in his own body in the meantime.]

Lindon let that thought pass.

Lindon hammered away at a new clamshell construct, which had taken on a darker purple hue. He kept his tone, and even his thoughts, casual as he spoke.

“And how is your condition, Dross?”

Dross hovered in position, vibrating slightly. [I am greater than I have ever been, and greater than any other mind-construct has ever dared to imagine being. I am the apex of all things.]

“So you’re not feeling…anything?”

[I can never be certain whether I would be more effective with my original identity.] Dross giggled. [But I would not take such a risk as to find out. Who would sell their soul for a chance at power, hmmmmm?]

Lindon had resolved to grow used to the new, dark-minded Dross, but it was difficult. He could work with this Dross, even like him. But he wasn’t quite the same person Lindon had grown attached to in the first place. Lindon missed his friend.

And Dross knew it.

[I am more effective than I have ever been. Perhaps there will be no returning me to who I was, and no need to. Will you throw me away then?]

“I’m not going to throw you away, Dross.”

[Then you had best grow used to me. Think of me as one of your organs. I am just as functional to you as a liver, and I can be just as squishy and sticky.]

“I’ll take your word for it,” Lindon said. He tried to bury his disappointment.

Dross wiggled through the air, enjoying Lindon’s inner conflict as though savoring a song. Lindon shoved the topic aside and returned his entire focus to the creation of the constructs.

Mercy’s was complicated, and Yerin’s more complex still. For hers, he had to modify an Overlord construct that he had purified and artificially raised to Archlord level, which he had planned to use as pure madra equipment for himself.

The residual wills of the two Archlord bindings he was fusing together fought him, trying to take control, each fighting the other to determine the shape of the final construct. He had to master them both, commanding them into shape, and use the blue soulfire burning at the heart of the Soulforge to bind them together instead of his own.

For the first time, the fire inside the altar dimmed a little. He needed to gather some more fuel.

While the constructs for his parents took seconds apiece, and Kelsa’s only a little longer, he found that two hours had passed by the time he left the Soulforge. Each project took longer than the last, but the number of simulations Dross had performed—and the strength of Lindon’s own will—meant there was virtually no chance of out-and-out failure.

Lindon was left with six scripted clamshell constructs in a range of similar colors, each radiating very different levels of spiritual power. He sealed them away in scripted boxes, some of which he had to carve himself with a quick application of Blackflame.

Gathering and making the containers took longer than making the constructs themselves, but when he was done, he had six boxes. Only then did he leave his house on Windfall, looking for his family.

As soon as he stepped out of the door, he found himself in another world.

His cloud fortress floated in a bubble of air surrounded by sunlit ocean. Far above him, waves rippled with light. Shadowed shapes moved with the water.

We haven’t been transported anywhere, Lindon sent to Dross. I would have felt it.

[To your senses, it feels like another world layered over this one. Like skin stretched over flesh.]

This technique felt like a more advanced version of a boundary field; instead of commanding all the aura in an area, it commanded the area itself. Lindon could see how to attack it, but that would mean going against the field’s creator.

And he had a good idea who that was.

One of the shadows that circled Windfall lunged into the boundary of air. The shadow became Northstrider, who landed easily on the grass of the cloud fortress. He wasn’t even wet.

His hair was unkempt, his face unshaven, and he wore clothes that made him look like he dressed himself by robbing the recently dead. But his hands, covered in dark dragon scales, kept flexing into fists and opening again, and his golden eyes glared.

Lindon bowed and saluted respectfully.

“Why did Eithan send you here?” Northstrider demanded. “Tell me what you know of his plans, and I will let you live.”

This was the sort of response Lindon would have expected days ago, if containing the Dreadgods hadn’t demanded the Monarchs’ immediate attention.

“Apologies, but he told me nothing of his intentions. I was more surprised than anyone when he revealed himself as a heavenly messenger.”

Northstrider’s expression darkened, but Lindon had prepared himself for this.

“I swear on my soul that I knew nothing of Eithan’s true identity.”

Northstrider’s glare weakened slightly as the soul oath took effect. A one-sided oath like this wouldn’t have the same binding power as if they had made a bargain between two souls, but it should be enough to convince the Monarch that he was sincere.

Even so, Northstrider’s voice was as harsh as ever. “You must know something of his goals.”

“In the time I knew him, Eithan maintained that his only goal was to raise people who could keep up with him. From what I’ve learned of Ozmanthus Arelius, I believe he ascended into the heavens and found that he had no peers even there.”

Northstrider nodded absently. A reflective black orb appeared over his shoulder, flickering with script in many colors. His oracle codex, no doubt supplementing his analysis of the situation.

“He did battle with someone,” the Monarch said after a moment. “Who was it?”

“I regret that I don’t know.”

Whoever that had been, his appearance had been enough to drown the world in despair and blot out the stars. The fact that the Monarchs had failed to appear meant that he was someone who could not be contained in this one world, and thus his ability was beyond Lindon’s imagination.

He suspected it was beyond Northstrider’s as well. And the Monarch didn’t seem happy about it.

“Forgiveness, but I would like to take this opportunity to ask a question, if I may. Surely you could ascend to the heavens at any moment. Why have you chosen to stay?”

In the labyrinth, Lindon had learned that the presence of the Monarchs sustained the Dreadgods. If they left, the Dreadgods would soon weaken and eventually die.

Northstrider knew that, and yet he chose to remain here. Endangering millions of people by his presence.

Lindon had to know why.

The Monarch folded his arms. “You know already. You have traveled the labyrinth, as I have. You know the relationship between Monarchs and Dreadgods, but you also saw what was in the sky. There are powers that dwarf even me.”

“Surely that is only more reason to leave.”

“I will transcend this world when I will not be treated as a slave,” Northstrider snapped. “I will not bow to the Abidan. I have traveled my own path for centuries, and I will not stop now.”

Lindon couldn’t stop himself from speaking. “But the lives lost…”

“I did not create the Dreadgods. I oppose them where I can, but I will not be forced from my home before I am ready.”

There was certainty in the Monarch’s voice, as Lindon had supposed there would be. Northstrider had made his decision hundreds of years ago, after all.

Lindon bowed his head. “Gratitude for allowing my impertinent question.”

“It’s not as simple a situation as you believe,” Northstrider went on, which was one of the few times Lindon had heard him continue a topic of his own volition. “How many lives do we preserve by minimizing conflict between one another? If we all left, then the first Herald to advance could annihilate an entire hemisphere of the planet with no one to keep them in check.”

“I am certain there is no perfect solution.”

Lindon intended to leave it at that, but Northstrider’s gaze sharpened. “Go on,” he ordered.

So Lindon continued. “…but surely there is a solution better than letting monsters roam loose.”

“Then look for one. You have Dross. Research. Plot. Calculate. Simulate. Bring it to us. But if you cross me…” The pressure of Northstrider’s will froze everything on Windfall and in the water. “…I will kill you.”

Lindon pushed against the willpower, freeing his own motions enough to bow and speak clearly. “I do not wish to be your enemy.”

“Then watch yourself. When you are a Monarch yourself, only then will you understand the burden we carry.”

Northstrider turned, and the watery world was stripped away like a painting torn from a wall. Lindon felt space twist as the Monarch vanished, leaving Lindon aboard his cloud fortress hanging in the sky over Sacred Valley.

[He doesn’t usually give warnings,] Dross observed. [He is more merciful than we deserve.]

Lindon regretted giving so much of his real thoughts away. It would have been more prudent to pretend to be completely under the Monarchs’ command, and then to pursue his own research against the Dreadgods on his own time.

“Even so,” Lindon said aloud, “we learned something.”

They had determined for certain that Northstrider wouldn’t leave Cradle unless forced.

So Lindon had to force him.

* * *

Northstrider slid through the Way, which somehow felt more distant than usual, emerging only when he felt that he’d arrived.

Ninecloud City spread out beneath him, a collection of bright jeweled towers in every color. They reminded Northstrider of candy: dyed bright colors to attract the attention of children, and devoid of substance.

Now, the entire sky was black with clouds, and rain pelted everything in sight—except Northstrider—in a constant deluge. The city shimmered in a rainbow hue, its protective constructs engaged.

As dragons of living madra rained from the sky.

The Weeping Dragon’s Striker techniques fell in the millions, tiny serpentine dragons of crackling blue-gold storm madra. They writhed like worms as they reached the ground, shooting off to seek the nearest target with spiritual power. As they fed, they would blight the countryside like a swarm of locusts.

Northstrider looked up to a bright nine-colored star that shone through the clouds. He flew up to join Sha Miara, blasting through the living techniques with his body. The tiny dragons broke when they hit his skin, and he paid them no heed.

The youngest Monarch was shrouded in bright madra that shimmered in every color, shrouding her from even his eyes. The disguise was shaped into the general outline of a woman, meant to deceive people into thinking that Miara’s mother—Sha Leiala—was still alive.

In the last few months, the Sha family had begun to seed the rumor that Leiala was about to abdicate her rule to her daughter. They must have felt that Miara had grown enough to handle the public burden.

If she survived the coming conflict, she would be worthy of her throne. And Northstrider would make his judgment on the matter clear.

He couldn’t see her real face without stripping her disguise away, but he knew what she would be watching, so he arranged himself to watch the same direction.

A serpent’s coils broke the ocean of clouds. The sapphire scales shimmered with their own internal light, and though the Dreadgod was hundreds of miles away, it still appeared titanic.

Northstrider rolled his neck before his body could tense up. The Weeping Dragon had struck him a great blow, enough that most of the world had thought him dead for many years. He could still feel the lightning scorching him as it fed, trying to tear his soul out from his body.

It was the closest he had come to a true death since reaching Monarch.

“How long can the city defenses hold?” he asked Sha Miara.

“A few weeks.” The disguise covered her voice as well, but he heard the quiver of uncertainty in her tone. “Less, if it attacks in earnest. Would you…ahem. We would be eternally grateful for your assistance in this matter. You would be handsomely rewarded.”

Northstrider didn’t have to focus on his perception to feel the Dreadgod’s power, which rolled through the storm, dominating the entire country at once.

“I am not its opponent anymore,” he said. There was no shame in that. The prisoner in the labyrinth, Subject One, had died. Its power had been distributed among the other Dreadgods.

Not long ago, a Monarch might have been able to kill a Dreadgod. It still would have been a legendary feat, but within the realm of possibility. What stopped it from happening was the cooperation between the Dreadgods…and the knowledge that while one remained dead, the others shared its power.

Sha Miara shuddered at his words, though she must have expected his answer. She had the memories of her ancestors. “I will petition the others, then.”

“The others,” Northstrider repeated. The only reason he was free was because he had no territory to defend. “If not for Emriss Silentborn’s power and preparations, the Everwood continent would bow to the Silent King before moonrise tonight. The Bleeding Phoenix flies for Iceflower, while the Wandering Titan remains on Ashwind. The only continent not facing invasion is Rosegold, and you have a better chance of asking the moon for help than Reigan Shen.”

Miara sighed, and through the technique altering her voice, it came out as a musical whisper. “What other choice do I have, Northstrider?” The weariness in that statement made her sound older than her mother had ever been.

“I will help you hold out as long as I can. This situation is not without hope.” It was not like Northstrider to reassure anyone, and he still would not do so without basis. His oracle codex fed him information, especially predictions and simulations of the Dreadgods and what actions they would likely take.

“The Dreadgods’ ability to travel through space makes them more dangerous to the world as a whole,” he continued. “As does their intelligence. However, at their core, they have the same motivations. If you can make your city too difficult to consume, the Dragon should move on to easier prey.”

“If it can travel the Way, then we will always be under siege.”

Without his centuries of experience and the aid of his oracle codex, Northstrider might have thought so as well. “Their existence weighs too heavily upon the world. They cannot ascend, and they cannot travel freely, but they are still more mobile than they have been since the Dread War. Thus the Dragon is more likely to give up your city for another.”

“Maybe it will,” she said hopefully. “Though it seems wrong to hope that a Dreadgod will—”

Space cracked in half.

From the sky down through the clouds, a dark fissure appeared in the world. For one dark moment, Northstrider felt his fear return. He manifested his codex, terrified that it might display the same message it had before: “A destroyer has come.”

To his relief, there was no such message. But when he heard what the codex actually predicted, his eyes widened in shock.

A moment later, armies poured out from the crack.

At their head flew a beautiful woman with wings of golden lightning. She was followed by eighteen golden sparks—her famous flying blades—and dozens of her disciples. Like copies of her in miniature, they ranged from Archlord down to Underlord.

Their flight was mesmerizing to watch, but such was the reputation of Yushi, the Thunder Fairy.

The next to emerge was a cloudship almost as large as the Weeping Dragon itself. Its figurehead, shaped to resemble a lion, snarled as it pushed through. The ship was made of pale, golden wood, and its cloud base was white flecked with gold.

It flew dozens of flags, each white and gold: a lion’s head on a sun, a lion running across a field, three lions beneath a crown, and so on. All the banners of lesser houses that had sworn fealty to one great House.

House Shen had arrived.

Reigan Shen drifted down to Northstrider, who was both pleased and disturbed to note that for once, the Lion Monarch wasn’t swirling a wine glass. In fact, Shen was dressed for war, in elaborate silver-and-gold armor. Matching constructs hovered over each shoulder—they were Monarch-level launchers, each devastating but otherwise wildly different from the other, though they had been designed to match for aesthetic purposes.

Shen had a sword belted at his side, and he rested a hand on it casually as he lowered himself to Northstrider’s altitude. His hair and beard had been neatly combed and oiled, glistening white-gold like polished jewelry, and he bowed to Sha Miara.

“Monarch,” Shen said politely, “with your permission, we would be delighted to do battle against the Weeping Dragon on your behalf.”

Northstrider could see Sha Miara’s stunned confusion radiating from behind her shining mask. “Yes! I mean, we would be most grateful, and we will not forget the Rosegold Emperor’s assistance.”

Northstrider wasn’t so polite. He pushed his spiritual perception through Reigan Shen’s halfhearted veil and into the man’s armor, looking for a mass of hunger madra. He found it almost immediately, though it had been sealed away into a scripted and space-locked container.

The core binding of Subject One.

“What are you doing?” Northstrider demanded. He began to cycle his madra, even at the risk of attracting the Weeping Dragon.

It would be better to fight one of them now than risk fighting two of them on the same side soon.

Shen didn’t look alarmed in the least. “Would you prefer asking the moon for help?”

“I can trust the moon not to fall on my head.”

“My priorities have shifted. Yours should have too.”

“I know better than to trust—”

“The world has changed, Northstrider!” Reigan Shen shouted, and he had the roar of a lion in his voice. The clouds blasted away from him for miles, and Northstrider set his codex to monitoring the actions of the Weeping Dragon in case it was disturbed.

“Yes, I had a plan for the Dreadgods! Of course I plotted to gain every advantage I could over you. But that world is dead. I cannot be the only one to see it.” He stared in the direction of the Weeping Dragon. “There was a viper among the cubs, and it left its eggs behind. Until we are rid of them, everything else is a distraction.”

“I examined Lindon myself. I find there to be no immediate danger.”

“It will be too late to speak of danger when the stars vanish once more.” Reigan Shen turned his head and raised a hand to his armada, accompanied by a flash of madra. “Until the true threat is gone, we must preserve all the strength we can. We are on the same side now, Northstrider. Whether you can see it or not.”

Spirits unveiled throughout his fleet as House Shen readied itself for war.

4

Yerin’s head lay on Lindon’s lap, and she had an arm thrown over her eyes to block out light. He concentrated on controlling the life and blood constructs that swirled like fireflies around her head; they were really one construct with many separate pieces, and by powering them, he could stimulate her body’s natural healing.

A Herald usually didn’t need medical attention, but she had been suffering visibly during the two hours since she returned. “Guess I can’t set a foot down inside a thousand miles of the Phoenix without a headache anymore. My skull’s about to split like firewood. At least it’s better than going on a mad murder spree.”

Little Blue chirped sympathy and patted Yerin’s temple.

From the nearby table, Orthos raised his head from a bowl of apples as large as he was. “Tell us about the battle.”

“Didn’t see one feather of the Phoenix,” she muttered. “Bunch of bloodspawn crawling over a mountain, like ants. Treated them like ants.”

“Burned them alive,” Orthos said, his face covered by bits of half-chewed apple.

“Close enough. No Redmoon Hall either, which is half a treat. Still have to show my face to the Blood Sage, and now I won’t have to pretend to be sorry for cutting their friends into chunks.”

Lindon wondered why Redmoon Hall hadn’t been present. Now that the Bleeding Phoenix had an entire continent to itself, he had expected them to be reveling in its wake.

“Did you see the Eight-Man Empire?” he asked.

“Oh, right. They’ve got a shine for us. Invited the pair of us to join them. How do you think we’d look in gold?”

Lindon hesitated. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you the details, but we still—”

Her arm was still over her eyes, but she waved her free hand. “You’re waiting for some trouble from Monarchs. I’ve caught it. Doesn’t sound too sharp to tie ourselves to six strangers anyway.”

Lindon trusted in his own perception and Yerin’s, and in the scripts built into Windfall, so he was reasonably certain that no Monarchs could spy on them without them noticing. Even so, it was better to be careful about what they said.

And, of course, there was the oath he’d sworn. He couldn’t reveal the relationship between Dreadgods and Monarchs, but Malice had told him that only Monarchs and those soon expected to be Monarchs were ever informed. That meant he couldn’t explain things to Yerin, or Ziel, or even Mercy.

Which made the current situation awkward.

Yerin trusted him, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t frustrated. He half-expected her to teleport to a Monarch and demand an explanation of her own.

Ziel rose from behind the couch and stuck his horns in Lindon’s face. “What are we talking about?”

Yerin moved her arm away from her eyes. She and Lindon stared at Ziel from inches away.

“Apologies, Ziel, but what are you doing?”

“Popping out from the couch,” Ziel said, with a perfectly flat expression. “I thought it was what Eithan would do. Did it help?”

Lindon couldn’t find the right words.

Yerin made a thoughtful sound. “Bleed me, but it halfway did. If you’re looking for a tip, then veil yourself better next time. We could feel you coming.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Ziel said gravely.

“Don’t push yourself.”

Ziel straightened his spine, visibly steeling himself. “No…no, I can do it. To cheer you up.”

Lindon privately thought that if Ziel wanted to be more like Eithan, he would first have to learn to smile.

“Speaking of him, I’m nine parts sure that’s why we got that friendly invitation to their team. Couldn’t stop asking questions about him. One of them wanted to know if I was his daughter.”

Little Blue chirped out laughter, and Orthos snorted smoke.

“You look more like my daughter than his,” Orthos rumbled.

Yerin moved her eyes up to look at Lindon upside-down. “You get a royal audience with the Silent King? You his puppet?”

“Yes. Apologies, but I have to feed you all to a Dreadgod now.”

“I’d bet my spine that’s really what you’d say.”

Dross drifted out of the back of Lindon’s neck, giving an unnerving chuckle. [Speaking of the Silent King, we have presents for you. Perfectly innocent presents. Don’t we, Lindon?]

Everyone in the room turned to look at Lindon. Mentally, Lindon cursed Dross for the worst possible introduction.

“In the course of evacuating Dreadnought City, Dross and I exchanged words with the Silent King.”

Orthos coughed out a mouthful of apple.

Ziel’s face grew grim. “It can speak?”

“It knew me,” Lindon admitted. “It invited me to join it of my own free will, I suspect because it can’t capture me. And it made some…threats.”

[Against each of you,] Dross said. [By name.]

Yerin sat up abruptly, scattering the healing constructs in a swarm of green-and-red sparks. Little Blue’s gasp was a chime, and Dross drifted over to the Riverseed. [It didn’t mention you. Probably because it has something even more horrible in mind for you.]

Lindon smacked Dross on the back of the head and picked up the trembling Little Blue. “Blue and Dross and I will be fine. Everwood is on the other side of the world. Without something like the labyrinth, it would be difficult to travel through space to get here. Even if it did, it would have to leave its minions behind, and it’s the least-powerful Dreadgod on its own.”

“That’s like calling it the smallest mountain,” Yerin said.

“At least it’s not the biggest one. As far as we know, the only thing it can do at a distance is try to invade your dreams, so we have constructs to prevent that.”

Lindon hadn’t stowed three of his scripted boxes in his void key, but had kept them piled against the wall. He levitated two of them now on dense wind aura and drifted them before Orthos and Yerin.

Ziel walked over to the other box, and Lindon cleared his throat. “Apologies, but I had intended to give that one to Mercy.”

Ziel gave him a dead-eyed stare. “Mercy.”

“The Dreadgod mentioned her by name. He didn’t mention you.”

“…is Mercy here?”

“Ah, no. I do intend to make you one, just in case! Once I find more materials.”

“You’re going to make me one. Later. Instead of giving me the one right here.”

Lindon winced. “The Silent King mentioned Mercy, so I can’t help but feel that she’s in more danger.”

“Couldn’t the Sage of the Silver Heart make her something like this? And if she can’t, wouldn’t her family provide you with the materials?”

Lindon’s face heated. He hadn’t thought of that.

Dross slipped his voice into Lindon’s mind. [I thought of it. But I was hoping for this moment.]

“My sincere apologies, Ziel. I would be honored if you would take that construct.”

“Thanks.” Ziel picked up the box from the ground and removed the white-and-purple clamshell construct from inside.

Yerin patted Lindon on the knee.

“It works best when you keep it in your soulspace, if you have room,” Lindon said, to distract everyone from his embarrassment. “If you don’t, you can wear it in a locket or a bracelet close to your skin. It won’t last as long that way, and it might take effect more slowly, but it will still work.”

Yerin expelled Netherclaw from her soulspace, the black-bladed sword sprouting out of her midsection as though out of a pool of water. She grabbed it by the hilt and tossed it aside, absorbing the construct instead.

Lindon suspected she could hold both the construct and the sword inside at the same time, but it would be better not to risk it, in case of a conflict.

Orthos absorbed his, and Ziel manifested his hammer before swallowing one into his spirit as well.

“I don’t expect these to be necessary—”

[I do,] Dross interrupted.

“—but if they are, they should negate the Silent King’s technique as soon as it’s placed.”

Ziel leaned on his hammer. “Of course, this is only an issue if we’re staying in this world.”

Once again, everyone looked to Lindon.

Yerin shrugged one shoulder. “Not saying I’m panting to leave this second, but…” She glanced at the ceiling. “…every step we waste is a step behind.”

Lindon hadn’t gotten to see much of Yerin since Eithan’s ascension, the Dreadgods having stolen most of their time. But in the few words they’d exchanged, she’d grumbled about Eithan stealing a march on them. And complained some more about him leading her to believe she’d finally caught up.

“I can’t ascend on my own yet,” Ziel said. “I can barely call myself an Archlord again, so I’m a long way from the peak.”

“You made your way back to Archlord?” Yerin asked. She swept her perception through him and her eyebrows raised. “Well, cheers and celebration! When did that happen?”

Ziel shrugged.

Orthos burped and shuffled over to the edge of the table closest to Lindon. “Are you going to bring your family with us?”

Little Blue picked an apple seed off the turtle’s head.

Every question twisted Lindon’s gut. If their ascension was anything like Fury’s, they could bring people along. And he was certain that he was powerful enough to leave Cradle, even if Yerin wasn’t.

But he didn’t want to leave yet.

“I think we ought to…wait a while,” he said. He had to choose his words carefully, or the oath would stop him mid-sentence. Even thinking about dropping a hint had his mouth seizing up. “I want to leave when we’ve reached our limit. And I don’t want to leave the Dreadgods behind, if we can do something about them.”

“Can we?” Ziel asked. He eyed Lindon’s arm.

“Yes.”

Lindon expected Ziel to sigh at the prospect of battling the Dreadgods again, to grit his teeth, or to suppress a tremble of fear. To show some sign of dread. Ziel had never looked forward to a difficult task, at least as long as Lindon had known him.

Instead, a light sparked to life deep within Ziel’s eyes. He loosened up his shoulders as his spirit stirred like a lion coiling itself to pounce.

“What’s the plan?” Ziel asked.

Lindon silently processed his answer. Then he said, “I made you all a promise in the labyrinth. I said that I wouldn’t leave you behind. I will hold up my end, but it is not a promise I can keep on my own. I need your help.”

He rolled a glowing blue marble in his hand and remembered Eithan. “You each have to walk your Path yourself.”

Orthos frowned. Ziel’s new resolve didn’t flicker. Yerin smiled slightly. Little Blue raised a fist in a cheer, but that cheer ended abruptly. Lindon felt the instant when she realized how difficult walking her own Path might be.

She finished her cheer, but it was much weaker.

Lindon stood and moved to the center of the room. The tall windows that took up most of the wall were behind him, showing the skies over Sacred Valley. Yerin sat on the couch, Ziel stood behind it, and Orthos and Little Blue waited on the table.

Dross floated nearer to Lindon, boneless arms undulating. Lindon nodded to him.

The glowing rune-lights on the ceiling darkened, leaving only the moonlight streaming in through the windows. Above Yerin’s head, a pile of treasure appeared: scales of every color heaped over natural treasures, all shining with madra and aura in a chaotic rainbow.

She surely knew it was just a projection from Dross, but she still waved a hand through it.

[We requested some information,] Dross whispered to the entire room. [How to get us ready to fight Dreadgods.]

A general “Ooooohhhh” passed through the room, and Little Blue applauded. Lindon wished Mercy was there.

[Yerin, you were our simplest target. I mean, experimental subject. Victim, if you will. Lindon was able to cheat his way to Archlord with his stolen arm, but for you, we need riches. And more still to advance you as a Herald.]

“The more raw materials we can find for you, the better,” Lindon said. “We don’t want to burn the Heart’s Gem, since it’s your most reliable source of blood aura, and we’ll need a sword source to match it.”

Yerin sank back into the couch and threw her elbows over the back. “Already have more to my name than I ever dreamed.”

“Yes, even the Monarchs aren’t likely to sponsor us with so much, especially on short notice. We will need to find another sponsor. Or, if they aren’t willing, we could find an…involuntary sponsor.”

[To rob blind,] Dross whispered.

Yerin brightened at the thought.

Her illusionary treasure vanished and another image appeared in front of Ziel. This time, instead of a pile of scales, it was an orb like a translucent gray pearl. Shining silver runes dotted its surface here and there, spinning rapidly.

Ziel tilted his head as he looked at it. “That doesn’t look like an even bigger pile of scales.”

“It’s a formation array,” Lindon said. “One of the most sophisticated ever made.”

Ziel stretched his neck to examine the image from different sides, and Lindon stopped Dross from explaining what it was. Lindon wanted to see what Ziel would determine from it.

A moment later, and Ziel let out a sound of amazement. “This is beyond me. The technique is familiar, but I’ve never seen half these runes before.”

“I’ll get to that in a second,” Lindon said. He turned to Orthos, and—reading his thoughts—Dross shifted attention to the turtle.

A serpentine black dragon Remnant roared over Orthos’ head, but Orthos hardly reacted. His spirit felt…content.

Dangerously so.

“I fought a Dreadgod already,” Orthos rumbled. “As an Underlord. I’m satisfied for a lifetime.”

“I told you, I’m not,” Lindon said quietly. He knelt by the turtle and looked into the black-and-red eyes, speaking as though no one else was in the room. “I can take you with me even if you never advance another step. But will you be happy with that?”

Orthos shifted. His eyes flicked to the rest of the room, looking at the others. “Dragons live longer, you know. As do turtles. We don’t sprint through the ranks as human children do.” Orthos lowered his voice, and Lindon could feel his embarrassment as he spoke. “What if…I can’t?”

Everyone in the room heard him, and Yerin even started to speak before she cut herself off, but Lindon stayed focused on Orthos. “You can,” Lindon said, with absolute certainty. “And if you can’t, we can.”

Dross popped through the illusionary image of the dragon-Remnant. [Behold the souls of the ancient black dragons! You could inherit their power, the echoes of their continent-spanning might, and advance as quickly as any sacred beast dares. But if you inherit their memories and their titanic willpower, will you still be yourself? Or will you only be their vessel…]

Dross made his words hang in the air as he slowly sank back into the projection of the Remnant and vanished.

Orthos shook himself, shedding his embarrassment and rumbling as loudly as usual. “Ridiculous. I come from Serpent’s Grave. If any Remnants of the royal black dragons remained, they would be found there.”

Lindon didn’t answer, and the glowing projection faded…only for another to appear over Little Blue. This time, it was a hunger spear—a white spear like the one that Lindon had originally made into his arm—but scripted differently and reinforced with an extra frame.

Little Blue cheered like tinkling bells.

“Spirits advance as fast as they can digest power,” Lindon said. “I have scales for you, and Eithan left some behind. The only thing that can make you more powerful than that is to consume spirits with a higher level of existence than you and purify their madra. Are you up for it?”

She ran around in circles, excited to be included.

Lindon knelt next to her and addressed her directly, as he had Orthos. She froze mid-step to look up at him. “It will be hard,” he said softly. “It will be scary. You don’t have to grow anymore if you don’t want to.”

Only if you want to help, Lindon thought, but he didn’t say as much out loud.

He didn’t have to. Little Blue already knew.

She trembled with uncertainty for a second, which sounded like leaves in a breeze. Then she firmed herself, looked him in the eye and gave a single, resolved chime.

“So we know what we need,” Ziel said. “All we have left is to find these things. And then get them.”

Dross giggled softly.

“No,” Lindon said, “we’ve already found them.”

He waved his hand, and new images appeared over everyone’s head. Over Yerin, a towering cloudship bearing red banners. Over Ziel, a new circle of shining silver runes. Over Orthos, a city of black stone. Over Little Blue, a shifting mass of scarlet ooze.

“Ziel, we had several possibilities for you, but I know you spent time in the Wastelands. There’s a fortified citadel there that was frozen in time by a Monarch using the formation array I mentioned earlier.”

Ziel’s brow furrowed. “That was in the Wastelands? How has nobody taken it?”

“We have reason to believe that the Rune Queen Emala, before dying in the Dread War, left pieces of her Grand Oath Array behind in this city. If you can find those pieces and learn what you can about its operation, I can reconstruct it.”

“I don’t even know what it does,” Ziel said.

“It controls time.”

That silenced the room for a moment.

“No, what does it really do?” Ziel asked impatiently.

Dross waved one arm and a larger image appeared above Ziel. This was a woman with a shimmering river that wrapped around her like a sort of living scarf. She was surrounded by a sphere of power that danced with silver runes.

She stood against the Wandering Titan. A fist that dwarfed her body moved toward her, but she manipulated several runes, and the strike slowed noticeably as she drifted out of the way.

[Time can be slowed, accelerated, or temporarily frozen in a local radius,] Dross explained. [Truly an unrivaled power…if it can be recreated. But the riddle of time has baffled Monarchs since Emala, and of course, it has been overcome once before.]

The battle between Monarch and Dreadgod accelerated, and from the attacks that streaked in from outside the vision, there were clearly others participating. The Rune Queen played a defensive role, but the Wandering Titan’s chaotic golden madra continued to focus on her.

Finally, she and her Grand Oath Array were trapped inside a cage of destructive earth madra, time-frozen techniques pushing in against her. She held them off as long as she could, straining visibly with the effort.

When her works finally failed and the Titan’s techniques crushed her, Dross mercifully ended the vision early.

Ziel pointed to the vision. “That gave me no confidence in using this technique against a Dreadgod.”

“If you’d like, we can find something for you other than the ability to control time,” Lindon suggested politely.

“No, I still want it.”

[Goooood,] Dross breathed. [Sprint headlong into your doom. And not just yours alone…]

He trailed off as Lindon turned to Orthos. “Not all the legacy of the black dragons was left behind in Blackflame City. Their relics can be found all over the continent, and they left behind Remnants and willpower trials for their future heirs. Some still remain unclaimed within this castle, also in the Wastelands. Imprisoned in a field of frozen time.”

Orthos looked to Ziel.

“What a coincidence,” Ziel said.

Dross slithered up Ziel’s back. [Coincidence…yes. My effort is nothing. When I crawl through centuries of memories and spend days sorting through them, looking for the best opportunities, I do it so that I may be forgotten and denied.]

“Dross worked very hard on this,” Lindon allowed.

He had gathered a trove of information from the labyrinth, and every second Lindon worked, Dross was swimming through the memories for patterns and connections.

“I didn’t want to leave anyone alone,” Lindon went on. “Which is why I suggest Little Blue should feed on some Blood Shadows. They’re often more advanced than she is, I know a script for purifying them since I’m familiar with their makeup, and she can travel with Yerin.”

A red moon banner unfurled on the ship over Yerin’s head, and she broke out into a smile.

“I’ll hold up my promise with the Sage, Blue can eat some Shadows, and I get to clean out their vaults. Of all your plans, this one’s my favorite.”

Lindon shifted uncomfortably. “Apologies, but that’s not it. It would be better if, instead of robbing Redmoon Hall, you got them to teach you their techniques. If you had a Path that fully embraced the hunger aspects of the Phoenix’s madra, you would be able to gather all the power you need.”

As Northstrider had once put it to Lindon, she would no longer need resources to advance. Only enemies.

Yerin looked like she’d bitten into something sour. “Rather teach Red Faith what steel tastes like than learn anything from him.”

“Forgiveness. Dross and I could help you optimize your Path, with your cooperation, but our understanding is lacking. It might take us months. While if you learned Red Faith’s techniques, we could do it…”

Dross popped up behind Yerin, making a snapping sound despite having no fingers. [Like that. We will turn you into an avatar of bloody death, a spirit of butchery who grows only stronger with the slaughter!]

“That’s a treat for me,” Yerin muttered. She rubbed a spot between her eyes as though soothing pain. “So I’m going to be the new bright-eyed student of Redmoon Hall, am I?”

Lindon wasn’t any happier about it than she was. “We don’t expect them to capture you, given the likely reactions of the Monarchs, but we have no way to know what secrets they have hidden away. We’ve made some simulations, and we can go over them before you leave, but there are backup plans if you’re not comfortable with the risk—”

Little Blue rang out a question and pointed to the ship. She was asking how powerful Lindon thought she and Yerin could become.

Lindon glanced to Yerin and saw she was considering the same thing. “As strong as you want,” he admitted. “If Yerin can learn Phoenix techniques, she’ll be able to absorb advancement like I can. And the more developed you are, Blue, the more of my power you can handle.”

Little Blue took a deep breath and gave another ringing nod of determination.

Yerin’s red eyes shone as she looked down on the spirit. “Guess we’re in. But I’m going to be firm as fresh iron about one thing: once I learn what I can, I’m stripping the Hall down to their bones. I’ll sleep easier if every chipped scale and chair cushion is in my void key.”

“I like that plan better,” Lindon said. “I wish we could try it first.”

Orthos chewed on a remaining piece of apple stem and looked to Lindon. “And what about you?”

Lindon scratched the side of his neck. “Dross still needs work. He’s my biggest advantage. And I can continue to explore the labyrinth, since I’ve barely unraveled a few threads. I’m convinced there’s something buried there.”

Yerin nodded along. “Yeah. So where are you really headed?”

“Moongrave,” Lindon admitted.

Helpfully, Dross projected an image over Lindon’s head. A massive book of shining violet madra, its cover spinning with elaborate scripts.

“Mercy has been forbidden by her mother to come join us. So Dross and I are going to her.”

“And?” Yerin prompted.

Lindon wished he could give her the full answer. If he really wanted to rid the world of the Dreadgods, that meant going up against the Monarchs. Including Malice.

But there was another, equally true reason, and this one he could explain.

“We think we can modify the Book of Eternal Night. Pride gave us a look at his, and I’ve been inside Mercy’s not too long ago. If I can get a closer look, and especially if I can get the Monarch’s notes on them, I think I can set Mercy up to use her entire Book. She might be the fastest to advance out of all of us.”

As the others absorbed that information, Lindon stretched out his pure madra and activated the lights on the ceiling again. Dross banished his projections.

“If everything works as we hope, we should be able to help the Monarchs fight against the Dreadgod in only a month or two. By this time next year, with a little luck, we could be taking down a Dreadgod ourselves.”

“And you know how to kill them?” Ziel prompted. That had been the main point of delving into the labyrinth at all.

“I do,” Lindon said.

But I don’t know how to do it without the Monarchs wiping us out, he thought.

Ziel held his hammer upside-down and ground its head into Lindon’s floor. That new flame of determination was still bright behind his eyes. “Then I’ll be there,” Ziel said.

* * *

Lindon had an easier time getting his parents to wear the protective constructs than he’d expected.

His mother was as curious about their composition and function as he’d known she would be, and his father grumbled about them and expressed some skepticism. Neither of them really understood what the Silent King was, though they did react when he described it as a peer to the monster that had destroyed the Valley.

Still, Lindon’s father had accepted the protection with minimal complaint. That was progress, as Lindon saw it.

The only one left that the Silent King had threatened was his sister, Kelsa. And he knew where he could find her.

Even with the fastest cloudship, Serpent’s Grave was a long trip from Sacred Valley, but the labyrinth’s branches stretched far. Transporting himself from one end to the other was just a moment of focus and an exercise of his authority.

He veiled himself when he approached the city; he didn’t need to sneak in, but if Cassias or one of the other influential sacred artists in Serpent’s Grave sensed him coming, they would make his visit into an event. He didn’t have the time to spare for that.

The Twin Star Sect, it seemed, had grown since he’d last seen it. There were now as many two-colored star banners around the city as those of the Arelius family, and he saw plenty of people in their robes of pale blue and dark, burnt orange or red.

A few recognized him on sight and saluted him, and he waved to them but didn’t stop. The streets buzzed with tension, so he suspected they had heard of the Dreadgods’ awakening, but they still weren’t in any danger. There was little he could do to help them at the moment.

He sensed Kelsa’s spirit near Jai Long’s, and headed over to a sect training hall at the western edge of the city. On the outside, it was a long building carved out of an ancient dragon’s bones, like most buildings in Serpent’s Grave. But on the inside, he felt radiant light aura filling it. An appropriate place for both Kelsa to train the Path of the White Fox and Jai Long to train the Path of the Stellar Spear.

He didn’t sense anyone else inside, which helped, since he didn’t want to explain to any other members of the sect why he was handing out defensive constructs to prepare for a Dreadgod attack.

When he opened the door, he found Jai Long with his arms around Kelsa.

He had advanced to Underlord, clearly. Not only was his spirit much stronger than before, but he was no longer masked. He had a face that made him look studious and serious, and blue light leaked from the inside of his mouth. Instead of the mask he used to wear, he now had a red strip of scripted cloth wrapped around his forehead.

His chin rested on Kelsa’s shoulder, and his hands had slid down over hers as he guided her madra as though helping her train. But from the way they both turned red and separated the instant the door opened, this had little to do with training.

The light aura Kelsa had been controlling scattered, but the aura training room remained just as bright.

Lindon was surprised at the anger that filled him at the sight. He flexed his right hand, and the scripted band of cloth around his upper arm tightened.

Then he bowed.

“Apologies,” he said politely. “I did not mean to disturb you. That was rude of me.”

“No,” they both assured him at the same time, then Jai Long cleared his throat and Kelsa took over. “He was showing me how to control light aura more efficiently.”

Lindon wondered if she knew the things Jai Long had done before she’d met him. Almost certainly not. He wouldn’t have told her.

“That will be a great help,” Lindon said. He held out a box. “This is a protective construct. It’s just a precaution. Wear it as close to your skin as you can, especially when you sleep.”

Kelsa took it hesitantly. “Yes, I…gratitude. I’ll add it to the others.”

If she hadn’t been flustered, she would have protested. He’d given her too many protective measures, in her opinion, many of which she carried around her belt or in a pocket. He sensed a few of them tucked away in her outer robe, which had been tossed carelessly into a corner of the room.

She didn’t understand the danger. But of course she didn’t.

Lindon bowed to the two of them. “Once again, I do apologize for my intrusion.”

Kelsa mumbled something, which wasn’t usual for her—she tended to speak boldly and directly. Jai Long remained quiet as Lindon walked out the door and back onto the streets of Serpent’s Grave.

The Underlord caught up with him only moments later.

“Forgive me,” Jai Long said, as Lindon stepped off into the shadow of a building to get away from the crowd. Jai Long bowed almost all the way down to his waist. “We did not intend to keep our relationship a secret.”

Lindon sighed. “And what is your relationship?”

“I…we’re…not sure yet.” Jai Long coughed. “But I know that I have treated you badly, and I would understand if you held a grudge—”

“I don’t,” Lindon said.

Jai Long nodded with a serious expression. “I know. When you returned as powerful as you are, I was prepared to die.”

“I would have killed you,” Lindon said, “if I was like you.”

Jai Long paled.

Lindon held anger in his chest, but he didn’t let it speak for him. He kept it in a tight grip, and he used its heat as fuel. “I am grateful for what you have done for my family. But I do not look favorably on those who keep Coppers imprisoned as slave labor, or who kill Jades in their beds over a blood feud.”

Jai Long’s back straightened. “I will take responsibility for my actions.”

“I don’t want that person in my sect, and I don’t want that person in my family.” He looked deeper into Jai Long. “Is that who you are?”

Jai Long couldn’t hold Lindon’s gaze. “I don’t know.”

“Decide. And tell Kelsa what you’ve done.”

“I tried. She said she didn’t need to know.”

“That sounds like an easy problem for an Underlord to overcome.” Lindon removed the veil around his spirit. He didn’t particularly increase the pressure, but Jai Long found it harder to breathe. Lindon took a step forward until he loomed over Jai Long.

He wasn’t much taller than the Jai Underlord, but he loomed nonetheless.

With white fingers, he tapped the Twin Star emblem on Jai Long’s outer robe. “However you decide, remember that I will take anything you do while wearing that symbol as though it is done in my name. And you will answer to me for it. Tell me now if anything I have said is unclear to you.”

Jai Long dropped to one knee. “No, honored Sage.”

“I am glad.” Lindon restored his veil and offered Jai Long a hand up. His left hand.

Hesitantly, the Underlord took it, and Lindon pulled him to his feet. “Now, I think you have training to return to. Apologies once again for my disturbance.”

Dross drifted up from Lindon’s spirit. The dark purple spirit didn’t say anything, but pointed to his one eye and then to Jai Long.

Jai Long shuddered.

5

The stone door in the Ancestor’s Tomb opened as Lindon approached, and he strode for the inner door at the hall’s end.

[Do not worry,] Dross whispered, [I see that this is the perfect time for you to spend some time alone with Yerin. I would leave you alone…if she were here.]

“I could go get her,” Ziel suggested.

“I asked you here for a reason,” Lindon assured him. He, Dross, and Ziel walked into the labyrinth side-by-side, and soon they were surrounded by ancient stone walls filled with unbreakable authority.

Lindon merged his mind with his surrounding, feeling the labyrinth’s weight of significance like an anvil pressing down on the world. This place was ancient beyond knowing, and it had had many owners and guardians before him. Just as it would likely have many after him.

He focused, guiding the weight where he wanted it to go rather than wrestling with it. “Move,” he ordered.

The walls blurred around them, the exits from the stone room vanishing.

“This would have been handy last time,” Ziel observed.

“There are many restrictions to it, and I haven’t figured out the patterns fully yet.” Lindon could order the labyrinth to move things in its range fairly easily, but navigating the halls themselves remained just as confusing. Perhaps more so, though Dross had unraveled some of the patterns.

The halls couldn’t leave them in impossible positions, like splitting a room in half or stretching it across multiple locations, and couldn’t seal the visitors in any chamber with no exits for very long. Lindon didn’t need to learn all the possible alignments the rooms could make, but he wanted to at least become familiar with the rules.

Every time they went anywhere, Dross paid close attention. He hoped that soon, Dross would complete a clear picture of this place.

The walls stopped blurring, revealing another long hallway of small wooden doors. This one hadn’t been as thoroughly raided, and he quickly found the weapon he was looking for: a spear of pure white hunger madra, etched with scripts to funnel the madra into the person attacking.

Subject One would have been unable to reach the weapon, restricted as he was to the lower half of the labyrinth, but Lindon merely opened the door and grabbed the spear.

Ziel stood in the doorway between the ancient stone chamber and the new one. He scribbled something onto a wooden tablet.

“This is why I wanted your expertise,” Lindon said. “What do you think about the different scripts?”

Ziel didn’t look up from his notes. “Well, clearly these are two different traditions, but that won’t surprise you. This outer room might be a thousand years newer, so of course their scripts are different. I’m more interested in the circles that seem to regulate spatial travel.”

He ducked back inside the room as Lindon took them onward again.

Lindon mused aloud over Ziel’s comment. “I have no thorough understanding yet, but they feel to me like…guard-rails, I suppose you could say. I could command this room to move, but without the script to define its location in relation to the others, it might take me a hundred miles away. Or deep into the earth.”

With one finger, Ziel scribbled a few more sentences of light into his wooden tablet. The notes sank inside for retrieval later. “It will be hard to give you a complete picture, me not being a Sage myself.”

“You were an Archlord for years, though,” Lindon said. He gestured for Ziel to follow him. Their chamber had hooked into another hallway, sloping downward, and this one was a fixed point. They had to descend into the next room to continue.

Dross noted that down.

“Not a peak Archlord. And I had always seen myself as more of a Herald than a Sage anyway.” Ziel’s cape fluttered behind him as he walked.

“So you did intend to advance? You didn’t just want to ascend?”

“I gained what power I did for the sake of my sect. I wasn’t going to ascend until I knew it was in good hands. Now…” He rolled his shoulders. “Sounds like we have a chance to do one good thing before we leave.”

This new chamber was made of larger blocks of stone, and each block was darker and smoother than the bricks that made up the earlier parts of the labyrinth. Rather than a deep brown, these were blue-black, and they gave off an even greater sense of weight.

Ziel seemed to sense it, shifting uncomfortably in his outer robe and looking up. “Where are we now?”

“This is as low as I can take us. Lower than Subject One’s prison, but it’s…somewhere else in the world.”

Even Lindon and Dross couldn’t tell where. They could feel that they were far from Sacred Valley, but the power hiding them wasn’t entirely under their control. He suspected it would take one of the Abidan to find them here.

Lindon reached into his left pocket and rolled Suriel’s marble between his fingers. He wondered if she had seen the room they were about to enter.

Over the doorway to the next room was a strange, complex rune. It resembled a circular nest of curling vines, or perhaps the map of a bush with many tangled branches. Even with no power flowing through it, the authority it gave off was overwhelming, so that Lindon had to look away from it.

Ziel winced when he caught a glimpse of it. He held a hand between his horns and staggered.

Lindon caught his shoulder. “Apologies, I should have warned you. I have reason to believe this is the oldest place in the labyrinth. Perhaps one of the oldest places in the world.”

“No, I…” Ziel shook himself. “I have nothing to complain about. I used to assume I’d die by activating a script far beyond my own ability.”

Together, they walked through the circular doorway to the room beyond. This one was a sort of crossroads, with eight doors leading away from it.

Seven doors, Lindon corrected himself.

The eighth exit had clearly been added later, carved into the stone by what he suspected was destruction madra. It wasn’t covered by a door, but was just an opening into darkness.

The symbol over its entrance was a crescent-bladed scythe.

Ignoring that one for the moment, Lindon turned to the first door on their left, which Ziel was already inspecting. The rune over it was an angular figure, maybe an animal, surrounding concentric circles that perhaps represented an eye. Its door was round and made of the same stone as the walls, but it had a window in the center. The window was made not of glass, but of a transparent barrier that reminded Lindon of Suriel’s marble.

Inside the room was a thousand images playing out in different ways. Lindon caught a glimpse of Northstrider in battle with the Wandering Titan, then a Herald summoning lightning against Red Faith, then the Sword Sage drawing his white blade against an unseen opponent. Images from the past and present and future flew by, hundreds per second, each flipping and twisting and mixing and merging with the others.

It was enough to give him a headache.

[Not dream madra,] Dross muttered. [Not dream aura. Something more than those, deep and secret as the ocean.]

It feels older than those, Lindon thought.

[Yes…older than dreams…]

That was how it felt, but Lindon didn’t continue the discussion.

The second chamber was marked with an abstract drawing that suggested a closed fist, or perhaps a shield, and inside it contained intersecting planes of blue light that gave off a strong impression of permanence and stability.

There were seven such chambers, and the sixth gave off radiance that felt identical to Suriel’s marble. That had been one of his first clues about the nature of this place.

Nevertheless, he didn’t voice his thoughts, instead asking Ziel. “What do you think?”

Ziel had been staring at the symbols over the doors, then he dropped to his knees to examine a faint script around the base of the wall.

“You remember what I said about those other scripts being taken from different traditions?” He tapped the bottom of one of the doors. “All scripts are derived from cycling patterns, and so they have certain commonalities. Some of these almost resemble fundamental sigils representing certain aspects. That one over there probably invokes dream aura, and I’m ninety percent certain this one is meant to be powered by force madra. But the rest…”

He shaded his hand and peeked at the symbol over the sixth door, in front of which Lindon stood. This one resembled flames spread like wings.

“I don’t know much about Sages, but I suspect these were early symbolic representations of Icons. Very early. Which suggests a completely different system of scripting that I have no idea how to delve into.”

Lindon clutched Suriel’s marble in one hand and the spear of hunger madra in the other. “Eithan told me that Sages were those who embodied a concept. Often one that had resonated with them since they were children.”

“I guess he’d know,” Ziel said.

“What was your childhood like, Ziel?”

Lindon could have asked that while they were on the surface, but he felt that their surroundings gave the question extra weight. Besides, he really did want Ziel’s opinion on the ancient runes.

Ziel shrugged. “Not a long story. My father was a scriptor himself, and the most advanced sacred artist around. Everybody in a couple of villages relied on him, both for the boundary fields that kept out the aura-storms and to fight off any threats. He died when I was about eight, and I bonded his Remnant. I took over his job. Wasn’t very good at it for the first ten years.” He gave a dry laugh. “Guess I never was.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what was your Archlord revelation?”

“To give my life for the sect,” Ziel said, his voice heavy with irony.

Lindon was silent.

“Yeah. I meant it at the time.”

“Apologies,” Lindon said, for lack of anything more comforting.

“Eh. I think I told you before: the sacred arts have no end, and the mountain has no peak. The higher you climb, the more people want to push you off.” Ziel looked around the chamber, and Lindon saw him again as the man he must have been before. As the Archlord of the Dawnwing Sect.

“If I’m going to climb again, then I’m going to climb.”

“Then I suspect you’ll need these.” Lindon looked around. “I suspect Monarch Emala’s Grand Oath Array was based on runes derived from these. We don’t have the years of study they deserve, I’m afraid, but I’m hopeful you can get something from them.”

Ziel folded his legs and sat on the ground, pulling out a notebook. “Let’s see how much I can get. Before my brain melts.”

* * *

Mercy had fought the Wandering Titan before, trapped though it had been in a suppression field that weakened its power. She had pushed her bloodline armor to the limit and, for a moment, almost matched the Dreadgod in size.

She couldn’t begin to imagine doing that now.

The sky shone gold and the Wandering Titan gave off such pressure that the earth itself shook like a storm-tossed lake for dozens of miles. She could scarcely look at it directly, and her spirit trembled whenever it roared.

Mercy was fifty miles away, and still the Titan’s dark, rocky form struck her with fear. Its tail lashed through a mountain, and when it threw a punch she tasted copper in her mouth.

Her mother was faring little better.

The Monarch, controlling her giant armor, took the blow from the Dreadgod on her staff. The tower of madra, striped in color like a glacier, trembled as the Titan’s fist struck, and Malice herself shot backwards. Mercy was whipped by the hurricane winds of her passage, though Malice covered herself in shadow and transported herself away within a fraction of a second.

Mercy found herself pushing through a hurricane and an earthquake all at once…and she wasn’t even the one in danger.

She stood within the Tower of Seven Moons, a massive structure easily the equal of anything in Moongrave. It was a relic of the southern Ashwind continent, a historical monument and tourist destination for thousands of years. It had survived natural disasters, aura-storms, and attacks, and had even weathered more than one Dreadgod rampage.

Now, the face of the tower trembled. Chunks of stone fell away, and stained glass cracked. A clock-face—one of many around the tower’s sides—tilted and began to fall away.

Mercy bound it up with Strings of Shadow, tying it to the side.

Akura Justice appeared at her side, the Archlord’s long, thin beard snapping in the wind. He made a casual gesture and reinforced her technique, using the same Strings of Shadow technique. “Mercy! They can only buy us ten minutes!”

Then he dashed away again, his figure blurring with speed, to save a group from a falling building.

It wasn’t only Malice that had engaged the Dreadgod. A red light fell from the sky, striking the Titan like a thunderbolt. A sword at its feet let out a thousand silver flashes, and snowflakes shimmered as they froze one of its arms in an icy mist.

No less than seven Sages and Heralds, some independent and some owing allegiance to the Akura clan, had come out to support Malice in her battle against the Titan. For the past century, at least, this would have been enough to drive the Dreadgod off to easier prey.

Now, the Titan pulled its fist free of the ice, caught the bolt of red light on the shell that covered its back like a stone shield, and flat-out ignored the sword-strike. Its tail was a blur of motion, catching a tiny figure that Mercy could see only as a speck, and in the same motion it stomped down with one foot.

A wall of chaos and golden light erupted from its footstep. A technique of furious power that would swallow the earth in a wave of devastation.

Malice summoned pulses of shadow that clashed against the expanding tide of earth madra, but the speck struck by the Dreadgod’s tail was rapidly growing larger. It was a sacred artist dressed in black-and-violet, holding a silver shield bigger than they were.

No, bigger than she was.

Mercy reacted instantly, Forging enough Strings of Shadow to form a massive spiderweb in an instant. Aunt Charity crashed into the sticky, elastic strands.

She tore through the first few layers, coming to a stop only feet from the wall of the Tower of Seven Moons. She lolled in the grasp of the Strings. The Heart Sage was covered in dust, her skin pale and her eyes unfocused.

The demon-faced shield she had carried since before Mercy was born had been broken. Its metal was warped, its face no longer animated, and it leaked life and madra in streams of silver-and-purple.

Mercy pulled the shield away. At first, she tried to pull it straight off Charity’s arm, but a sickening sound and a strangely soft sensation made her realize that Charity’s arm had been snapped beneath the shield.

It sickened her to think what would have happened if Aunt Charity hadn’t caught the Dreadgod’s blow on the shield. What if she had been hit directly?

“Mercy,” Charity asked, her voice faint. “What are you doing here?”

Mercy reassured her. “You’re at the Tower, Aunt Charity. You traveled…a long way.”

“You shouldn’t have caught me. Waste of madra. If I survived a blow from the Titan, I can survive the landing afterwards.”

Her words were stronger by the end, and she struggled up to sit in the grasp of the Strings of Shadow. With her one good hand, Charity reached into a shadow-shrouded void key, pulling out a pill that shone like a green star. She popped it into her mouth, and her arm knitted itself back together with a sickening crunch.

Charity didn’t make a single expression of pain. Mercy did her a favor and winced on her behalf.

“What’s the situation?” the Sage asked.

“The evacuation is almost complete, and the Seven Moons Sect is ready to activate their final defensive constructs. Uncle Justice says we have ten minutes. A little less now.”

As though her words had activated the script, rune-carved towers began to rise from the ground in every direction. Energy ran through them as they shone white, giving off energy almost comparable to the Titan.

But not quite.

“I have new orders,” Charity said, and now she sounded like her usual self. She stood and flexed her freshly healed arm. “We are abandoning the tower. Retreat to Moongrave.”

Mercy’s eyes widened, and she glanced back at the battle for another second before flinching and returning to Charity. “It’s that bad?”

“If this battle goes on much longer, we will be risking your mother’s life.”

Charity reached for her shield and saw the damage. Her fingers froze for a second, then she passed her silver sickle from one hand to the other. “Get back to the portal as soon as you deliver the message. The Titan is supposed to be the least intelligent of the Dreadgods, but I’m sensing—”

The Titan vanished.

It took a second for Mercy’s eyes to process. The impossible had just happened before her eyes. It was like a mountain disappearing, or the moon. She felt as she had when she’d looked outside and seen the stars winking out, though then at least she had her mother’s company.

A moment later, the Dreadgod reappeared, and it was right on top of them.

It must have still been a mile or more away, but as it blocked out the sun and loomed over the Tower of Seven Moons itself, Mercy felt like the Titan was only inches from her face.

Her weight tripled in an instant, stone cracked all around her, and she couldn’t catch a breath. Her spirit shuddered, and a black hand covered the sky as it reached out for them.

Charity seized Mercy’s robes and hurled her like a spear.

Mercy flew backward, the world a blur around her. Then she was swallowed by shadow. The sudden, absolute silence was as painful to the ear as the constant thunder had been a moment before.

She emerged seconds later, tumbling onto a surface of condensed cloud madra. She slammed into a running figure and was immediately trampled by dozens more, a chaotic forest of stomping feet.

That sort of damage was a trivial inconvenience to an Overlady. She rose to her feet and sent the people around her sprawling, but she was beyond caring about them for the moment.

Mercy stood at the center of a crowd of tens of thousands, all barreling out of a sky-high pillar of darkness. The portal between Moongrave and the Tower.

The sky above her was the familiar shrouded gray of the Akura capital city, and she was surrounded by a skyline of glorious dark buildings.

But she had eyes only for the pillar.

She needed to see Charity come through. She needed it.

Or, hopeless or not, Mercy was going back inside.

One of the Heralds flew through next, followed by a Sage.

Then a castle-sized gauntlet of amethyst armor. As Mercy’s mother strode through, her bloodline armor bled away to purple essence, streaming into the sky in a glowing cloud. Mercy released her breath, and her heart began to slow. Aunt Charity drifted through the air behind Malice, and she was still in one piece.

The Monarch wasted no time. The instant she emerged from the black portal, she turned in midair to address the flood of people beneath her.

“Flee,” Malice commanded, and Mercy felt the same compulsion to obey seize her as everyone else did.

She turned and ran. Most around her were running in a mad scramble, though some used techniques to leap, fly, or dash. Mercy found herself on top of Suu, pushing the staff as fast as it would go.

Her mother’s orders still held her, so she didn’t stop when she heard the Titan’s roar. But she did look back.

A black stone shoulder, large as a cliff, shoved through the shadowy mist. The Titan’s head came next, and its blazing yellow eyes met Malice.

Its spiritual pressure caught Mercy, making her staff shudder in midair and slowing the flow of her madra. Hundreds of people, closer and weaker than she was, fell like grass before a scythe. Their Remnants rose and were reduced to shining dust in the same instant.

The Dreadgod itself stared pure hatred at the Monarch. It strained to come through the portal, but it looked like Lindon trying to force himself through the crack in a door. The towering portal of shadow cracked and began to collapse, sending wisps of dark madra flying in every direction.

Malice hovered in front of the Wandering Titan. Her black hair drifted behind her like strands of night, black even against the skies of Moongrave, and she was nothing but a speck before the Dreadgod’s face.

The Titan roared, and the ground around the portal cracked. A building too close to the courtyard collapsed. More people fell.

Mercy herself felt the world go silent as something in her ears failed. She had thought the Titan was deafening enough when she fought it in Sacred Valley, but now she knew the difference between standing in the middle of an avalanche and having an avalanche scream at you.

Malice raised a hand, and Mercy heard the word with her mind and her spirit rather than her ears. It was the only sound she could hear.

“Close,” the Monarch ordered.

The pillar of shadow winked out.

Mercy hoped for a moment that the Titan’s head would be severed by the closing gateway, but instead it slid back as the opening vanished. The last pieces to disappear were its golden eyes, still locked on Akura Malice with hatred.

And hunger.

With the Titan gone, the weight on Mercy’s body and spirit lifted. She tried to turn Suu around, to go help the fallen people who had been injured but not quite killed by the Titan’s presence.

She couldn’t do it. Her mother’s command still held her.

Helplessly, Mercy continued flying to safety.

* * *

Sector Seven

Suriel drifted through the blue light of the Way with Ozriel at her side. He spent most of their trip humming, but her silence slowly quieted him.

“I am sorry, Suriel,” he said, moments before they arrived. “I did regret hurting you. I still do.”

“You could have told me.”

“Could I have?”

Her Presence spun out onto her shoulder and answered him. [No. After your disappearance was confirmed, Makiel kept Suriel under close observation. If she had known of your location, her actions would have conformed to certain patterns which—]

That’s enough, Suriel thought, and her Presence cut off.

Ozriel held up two manacled hands. “I shouldn’t be making excuses. I could have come up with a plan to include you, and it’s possible we could have deceived Makiel together. The success rate was low, but…”

He sighed. “…I still wish I had tried. Sparing you the pain would have been worth some more risk. And I didn’t expect to come back to all the worlds on fire.”

“I hoped you would show more remorse.” Suriel didn’t have the same rage as the other Judges—she understood Ozriel, at least to some degree—but she couldn’t say she wasn’t angry.

He could be forgiven for trying to solve an impossible situation, but he had tried to solve it in the same way he always did. By himself.

“It’s hard to hear about this level of destruction and not be grieved,” Ozriel said. “The difference between us and the other six is that we were grieving before.”

The Way shuddered around them as they crashed through a barrier. It shattered before them and didn’t even slow them down, but the barrier wasn’t designed to keep them out.

“That was made to detect Judges,” Suriel said. “They’re ready for us.”

Ozriel tipped backward as though letting himself fall into a pool of water. “No, they’re not.”

Effortlessly, he splashed into the closest Iteration.

Iteration 074: Spawn

Gerravon of the Silverlords remembered Ozriel.

The Reaper had been the most feared enemy of their organization for millennia, and hearing that Ozriel was back had caused many Silverlords to pull out of Abidan worlds permanently. But the Mad King insisted that the Reaper was not what he once was.

So Gerravon plundered Spawn, an Iteration rife with unique life-forms. His people gathered creatures from all over the central three planets, transporting biological samples into Void-striding transport ships the size of countries.

His core power was known as the Hundred Hands of Terra Mara, and his will manifested a giant hand that scooped up an entire section of rainforest. The Hand vanished, reappearing inside a transport, where it would transplant the rainforest into a biological containment chamber without Gerravon’s conscious intervention.

A dozen more of his Hands clashed against Abidan all over the Sector, but those battles had faded quickly. Now the Abidan were either fleeing or devoting all their power to protecting themselves, leaving this treasure trove of a world unguarded.

Then the boundary alarm the Silverlords had placed around the Sector broke, and he felt two Judges heading his way.

Everyone in the Sector heard the alarm at the same time, and Gerravon abandoned his prizes. He recalled all his Hands, and all over Iteration Zero-Seven-Four, the other Silverlords prepared themselves as well.

Void portals opened and transports ran through, traveling to one of the Vroshir homeworlds.

His heart sped up and his eyes sharpened as he searched space for any intrusions. They were using a classic Judge trap, designed around the fact that the Judges could only focus their full power on one world at a time. While the Vroshir in one Iteration stalled the Judge, the others could escape. And since Abidan prioritized stabilizing worlds over eliminating the enemy, the stalling group could often get away as well.

They were executing this plan over half a dozen different Sectors, but it looked like Gerravon and his group were the unlucky ones who would have to put it to the test.

They would see if this trap would hold against Ozriel. To see if he was really weakened, as the Mad King claimed.

Gerravon had knowingly taken the risk for the potential rewards, but he had very much hoped the Reaper wouldn’t show up at all.

The entire Iteration shook as Death entered.

Seals triggered around Ozriel, the black-armored figure that floated above Spawn’s central planets. He was surrounded by symbols formed from a dozen different energy systems, all calling on the Void or the power of strange worlds to imprison him.

A Class Two Fiend erupted from the Void like a twisted mutant serpent large enough to take bites out of planets. It swallowed Ozriel whole, but Gerravon wasn’t going to wait around to see the results.

He ran. One of his Hands grabbed him, and when it opened a second later, he was on the bridge of one of the transport ships. A swirling portal into the dark Void opened in front of them.

Gerravon felt the trembling pulses of power throughout the universe and, in spite of himself, he cast his awareness behind.

The seals and the Fiend were gone. Just gone.

His Presence alerted him that, of the sixteen transports, now only fifteen remained. There was no cause that he could sense; nothing had changed except the number of transports.

Then it changed again. Fourteen.

As the oldest Silverlord in this operation and the one with the most experience, Gerravon was the first to pull out his trump card. Several of his Hands moved throughout the three planets and triggered weapons. Cascade bombs.

In seconds, the central planets would crack and die, weakening the Iteration’s connection to the Way. If Ozriel stopped the bombs, that was attention he couldn’t pay to the Vroshir.

There was only one problem.

Gerravon’s three Hands disappeared from his awareness the moment he gave them the order. No explosions occurred on the planets.

Now there were only ten transports left.

Another Vroshir—a longtime partner to the Silverlords—had bound the force of ten billion spirits, an entire doomed world, inside herself. She had been drawing on them for power for centuries, but now she sacrificed her own life to release that power. Billions of ghosts erupted into space, seeking vengeance, seeking an enemy…

They were wiped out in an instant. Scrubbed clean. Erased, as though they had never been.

“Deploy all shrouds and veils,” Gerravon commanded. He was sweating like a mortal.

Every individual Silverlord had unique powers and their own ways of hiding themselves. Even some of the transports were fitted with irreplaceable artifacts or equipment that would help them hide from Abidan eyes.

As one, thousands of different mechanisms triggered stealth. They created decoys of divergent futures, manipulated probability to make themselves less prone to chance discovery, wiped themselves from minds and awareness, dispersed energy signatures…they employed every method to hide and disguise themselves.

And, against Gerravon’s expectations, their transport made it through the Void portal.

He let out a breath of relief, and someone clapped him on the shoulder. He assumed it was one of the bridge crew until, with a chill, he realized his Presence hadn’t detected anyone next to him.

Slowly, the old Silverlord turned his head to the right.

Ozriel stood next to him in black armor, white hair flowing behind him, a satisfied smile on his face. “So Daruman told you I was weak, did he?”

Gerravon closed his eyes and remembered his life.

“Weaker,” the Reaper said. “He should have said weaker.”

“Would you spare me if I asked?”

“Would you rather face trial for plundering worlds and leaving them to die?”

Gerravon considered that. Then he condensed all his Hundred Hands into a single strike that would obliterate this transport, his entire fleet, and most of Spawn to hopefully leave a crack in that pristine black armor.

Instead, he felt his power dissolving along with the very origin of his existence.

“That’s what I thought,” Ozriel said. “Good-bye, Gerravon. I have business with your friends.”

Iteration 075: Verge

Suriel engaged in a cosmic tug-of-war with a group of Vroshir.

The transports in Verge had already mostly made it away from the Iteration by the time she arrived, and she continued pulling them back through space while trying to shut their exit.

But they had powerful reinforcements.

The portal led only a short hop through the Void. On the other side, she could see—and feel—their destination.

Amorenthus, one of the Vroshir homeworlds. A concentration of their power. It looked like a myth, like a fairy legend common to many worlds, an idyllic paradise of rainbow skies, floating islands, and shining water.

The powers built into the world supplanted the efforts of her enemies, armoring them against her authority. She held some of the transports back, but several slipped through her grasp even as she concentrated.

Until Ozriel arrived.

For someone who loved to pop up unexpectedly where he wasn’t wanted, he could make as much of an entrance as anyone. All over the Iteration, supernatural senses screamed that the end had arrived.

He didn’t have his Scythe with him, but he reached his hand across the gulf of space and spoke a command.

Suriel sensed many hostile powers die in an instant. Several of the transports slowed, the energy propelling them having been wiped away. She seized them and pulled them back into Verge.

With fewer Silverlords to oppose Suriel, their portals began to slide closed. She pushed back the influence of Amorenthus and seized the portals, healing the tear in the world that led into the Void.

Until Ozriel zipped through the closing portal after the Vroshir.

She gawked at him while she hurriedly held the portal in place. Her Presence spun out possible motivations for his actions: he was defecting, he was committing suicide, he was offering a deal to the Vroshir in exchange for his freedom.

There were multiple points against each possibility, but Suriel suspected she knew what he was really doing.

He wasn’t leaving or giving up. He was doing his job.

Recklessly.

She followed him only as far as the Void portal, unwilling to move further into the Void. “What are you doing?” she shouted after him.

He waved a hand behind him. “I’ll be right back!”

Even Ozriel couldn’t invade a stronghold like this.

“I can’t bring you out of there!”

For a moment, she considered ordering him to stop. Because of the manacles, he would have to obey her.

But she didn’t.

“I have faith in you,” Ozriel said. He overtook some of the original transports and emerged into the golden sunlight of the Vroshir homeworld.

Instantly, a network of satellites and guardians all over the world sighted on him. A barrage like that could penetrate even his armor.

One black gauntlet drew back. “I have something for them.”

Ozriel’s hand came down.

Explosions lit the sky of Amorenthus like orange jewels as millions of guardian installations detonated. Ozriel put his back to them and winked at her, the sky behind him a backdrop of flame. “It’s been too long since they’ve seen my signature.”

He slipped out of the universe just as their portal closed. If he had been caught, he wouldn’t have been able to escape, not with his power restricted as it was.

Of course, he wasn’t away yet.

Twisted force exploded out of the Void where the portal had once been, like transparent grasping tails. He resisted, throwing up barriers, but he was still too close to Amorenthus. His shields broke, his movements slowed, and the pattern of attacks from the tendrils had no gaps. One by one, the potential futures including his escape were closed off.

Until Suriel joined her power to his. She covered him until he escaped the Void, and only then could she sew Verge up once again.

Ozriel put a hand to his chest and exhaled. “Whew. That was close, wasn’t it?”

“What did that accomplish?” Suriel asked. It sounded sarcastic, but she meant it. She could feel the broader flows of Fate bending according to his actions.

“You’re the one who still has unrestricted Hound access. You tell me.”

“I’ll need time to unravel it.”

“I intended it to strain the relationship between the Mad King and the Silverlords and get them to withdraw their support, though I doubt it will accomplish that much. Realistically, it will narrow down Daruman’s choices.”

Future possibilities spun before Suriel’s eyes as she looked into Fate. The Mad King was difficult to observe in the best of times, warping Fate by his very presence, but she could see him being pushed into a smaller cluster of possibilities.

Even blind, Ozriel still had a master’s touch.

Which made her even angrier.

“You can do that, but you couldn’t come up with a better way of saving us than to risk everything?”

Ozriel blew out a breath and ran a hand over his head. “When I left, I was confident it was the right thing to do. Now…I don’t know.”

That hardly addressed Suriel’s anger, but pieces of a broken moon blasted past her and reminded her of the wounded Iteration in which they rested.

“I’ll get the full story out of you,” she said. “Until then, we have people to save.”

6

Lindon wished Yerin would open her void key so that he could take a look inside. “So you have both messenger constructs? And the gatestones?”

Yerin was visibly struggling to keep a smile from her face, but she responded gravely. “I’m all packed up.”

“You have your backup weapons...” Lindon had made sure of that himself; he and Dross had projected that the Herald and Sage in charge of Redmoon Hall might have countermeasures for an Archlord weapon that largely functioned on blood madra, so Yerin was bringing a few other swords along. They weren’t quite as good, but they should do if Netherclaw was disabled.

With Dross’ reminders, Lindon went down his mental list. “You should have plenty of scales. The Enforcer construct I made for the Silent King will work against other mental attacks as well.”

The shadow of an enormous cloudship passed over them.

An Archlady with her Blood Shadow in the form of a snake landed on a nearby cliff and shouted down to them. “Yerin Arelius, you are expected! Reveal your weapons and drop your veils for a security inspection!”

“Worst thing that’ll happen is I won’t be able to stop myself from cutting somebody’s nose off,” Yerin said.

Her tone said she wasn’t worried about it, but that was the worst thing that could happen. No matter how well-prepared they were, she was putting herself in the hands of two people who could overpower her.

She and Dross—and even Eithan—had told him about the Blood Sage. The man wasn’t trustworthy exactly, but he was predictable. If she cooperated and handed over the process by which Ruby had been created, the Blood Sage would be her greatest ally.

It was only if he thought he could get more out of her by dissecting her that he would cause a problem. The soul oath that bound Yerin also bound Red Faith…though not the Herald that had once been his Blood Shadow.

Lindon had been the one to suggest this course of action, which Dross expected had a “reasonable” chance of going well. And now that he was standing in front of it, this seemed like too terrible of a risk.

Little Blue was veiled and curled up inside Yerin’s soulspace, but Lindon could feel that she was only holding onto her courage thanks to his own confidence. If he doubted the plan too much, she might panic.

There were more Emissaries of Redmoon Hall surrounding them now, their Blood Shadows in various forms, but Lindon wasn’t listening to them. As far as he gathered, they were panicking at the lack of response and trying to get some reassurances that Lindon and Yerin weren’t about to murder them.

They could wait.

Lindon pretended they didn’t exist and kissed Yerin goodbye, which he thought would help him accept the situation. It didn’t work. He leaned over her and muttered, “There has to be a less risky way to do this. How would you feel about replacing your arm?”

Yerin looked to his Remnant hand. “That’s a thought. Maybe we’ll call that a backup. Still got the Bridge as my ticket away; he can’t stop me from zipping out whenever I want.”

“Yes, he can,” Lindon said. “It’s called a spatial lock, and that’s why you have the gatestones. If he locks down space, you should be able to stress the field by throwing the stone, then use the Moonlight Bridge while the lock is disrupted. You know, now that I think of it, one gatestone and one extra probably isn’t—”

The voice of the next Redmoon Emissary shook the canyon in which they stood like thunder. Sand danced like fat popping in a pan. “Void Sage! Overlady Yerin Arelius! We require acknowledgement of your intentions!”

Irritated, Lindon looked at the man without removing his veil. He spoke quietly. “Pardon, but who requires it?”

The man, an Overlord, didn’t flinch. “The Sage of Red Faith!”

“Then bring him out.”

“The Sage will arrive soon! He instructed us to keep you here and determine your intentions!”

“Our intentions are peaceful, so why don’t we all wait here for the Sage? Quietly.”

“We have to determine—”

“Quiet,” Lindon commanded.

The man’s mouth moved and his throat worked, but no sound came out. Yerin gave a low whistle. “That was a fun one!”

“I’ve been practicing. There’s a trick to that. If I ordered him not to speak, he could break the working. So I remove the sound as it leaves his mouth.”

The Overlord looked horrified, and the other members of Redmoon Hall had not said another word.

“That will fade in a minute or two,” Lindon went on. “I was planning to use it on Eithan.”

Yerin sighed. “Probably wouldn’t have worked.”

“I think he was looking forward to me trying it. I found several constructs in his outer robe before he veiled them. He had recorded responses ahead of time.”

“Sometimes I—” Yerin began, but she was cut off by the Sage of Red Faith’s arrival. His spirit appeared on the cloudship over their heads, which he must have used to anchor the coordinates of his transportation.

A moment later, he dropped from the sky.

Lindon had only seen the Blood Sage on a few occasions, and the man looked like a skeleton with the bare minimum of skin and flesh to qualify as “alive.” He was thin to the point of starvation, with long white hair and scarlet lines running down from his eyes like tears of blood.

He landed in a squat and didn’t straighten up, piercing Yerin with pink eyes. “You have arrived, as I knew you must. None can resist the song of true power for long.”

“Told you I was coming, didn’t I?” She glanced back at Lindon. “My friend here trusts you almost as much as I do, so he wants your word. You’re not going to kill me, are you?”

The Sage’s eyes widened. “Kill you? While you are assisting me in understanding your experience, you are far safer with me than with a young Sage who has barely explored his powers. You are safer than a bird in its mother’s nest. I will not only leave you unharmed, but I will protect you even from the Phoenix itself.”

Yerin scratched a spot over her eye. “Yeah, now I’m not stone-certain about this either.”

“You must also consider that I witnessed the rise of your mentor, Eithan Arelius, into the heavens. Clearly he is a prominent and powerful figure among the Abidan possessed of authority I cannot comprehend. Would I risk provoking him merely to harm you? If I treat you well, he might even descend once more and provide his insight into my project. Distrust me as you must, but I am no fool.”

Yerin turned and put a hand on Lindon’s left arm. “Safer than facing down a Dreadgod, true?” She winked at him and leaped past the Blood Sage, soaring through the air until she landed on the edge of the Redmoon Hall cloudship.

Leaving Lindon face-to-face with the Blood Sage.

Lindon inclined his head. “Red Faith.”

“Twin Stars.” The Blood Sage tapped two fingertips together. “I would not be averse to your input on this project. You were the closest witness to several stages, and your perspective could potentially provide me further insight. Your own unique madra composition is of interest to me as well. Not to mention your arm, which is a one-of-a-kind treasure whose utility I fear you don’t fully appreciate.”

Lindon was tempted. If he and Yerin were together, then the Sage couldn’t try anything too crazy.

“Gratitude, but I have other business. I would prefer not to have more enemies, so I hope I can trust you.”

Red Faith blinked in obvious confusion. “Did you not hear what I said a moment ago? To harm Yerin would be entirely irrational, not to mention that the only true enmity between us is between you and the Lion Monarch. Or her and the Phoenix. My personal interests are separate from my relationship to either entity.”

Lindon bowed his head. “Gratitude. I didn’t want to call Eithan back so soon.”

The Blood Sage staggered back, but before he could question anything, Lindon hopped on a Thousand-Mile Cloud and soared back toward the labyrinth.

* * *

Yerin looked across the deck of the Redmoon Hall cloudship and adjusted her sword in its belt. Sacred artists in black-and-red robes swarmed everywhere, though they stopped and bowed when they saw her.

Now that she was aboard the vessel, she could sense the presence of the other leader of Redmoon Hall: the Herald who called himself Redmoon. That name was needlessly confusing, in Yerin’s mind.

She peered over the edge and saw Lindon and Red Faith exchanging words, which made her feel stupid for jumping up here so soon.

But she had resolved herself. There was only one way to treat Redmoon Hall, and that was to take control and show no weakness.

Yerin looked around at the Emissaries. Some trembled at the sight of her, and others looked like they were an inch from drawing swords.

“Don’t want to start us off playing the wrong tune,” Yerin said, “but the next person who stabs me with their eyes is getting a free trip overboard.”

She probably wouldn’t have gotten away with that in other circumstances. Most of the Emissaries here weren’t worth mentioning, but there were a couple who could at least hold their own weight in a battle.

But if they started a fight and Red Faith found out about it, the best they could hope for was to be left behind.

Not to mention that Lindon was still nearby, and the two of them together could do some real damage to this shiny cloudship.

The Emissaries of Redmoon Hall found other things to stare at.

* * *

The walls of the labyrinth stopped blurring, and Lindon led Orthos and Ziel to the exit. He could have transferred them directly, the same way he had moved Reigan Shen’s armies away from Sacred Valley, but it was much easier to move the labyrinth rooms one at a time. As long as he was dealing with few enough people that they could fit in the same room, he planned on doing that.

Ziel led the way out of the upper hall, which here was an ancient stone corridor that looked as though it hadn’t been touched in centuries. Dust covered everything in a thick layer.

He pushed through cobwebs without acknowledging them at all. Some webs tangled up in his horns, but they didn’t seem to bother him, so Lindon didn’t mention them.

When they made it outside, they found themselves on the highest layer of a blunt pyramid that reminded Lindon of the Transcendent Ruins back in the Desolate Wilds. They could see for miles.

Not that there was much to see.

The sun set over a flat, sun-baked mesa. The pyramid was surrounded by crumbled stone ruins—a town that had sprung up around the entrance to the labyrinth, then died out after the entrance closed.

These ruins were hardly lifeless, though.

“Dreadbeasts,” Orthos said, disgusted. He blew smoke at the specks crawling in and out of the ruins. “What is there to find out here? Are they eating rocks?”

The question was punctuated by the crunch of Orthos biting into a rock.

Ziel blocked out the setting sun with his hand as he looked into the distance. “Guess that’s where we’re headed.”

Orthos squinted and spoke around a mouthful of gravel. “Where?”

Lindon and Ziel had picked it out immediately, but Orthos’ eyes hadn’t been tempered in soulfire so many times. Lindon pointed for his benefit. “Apologies, it’s difficult to see with the sun so close. You should be able to make out its outline.”

“It’s covered in spikes,” Ziel offered.

With his Archlord eyes, Lindon had no trouble seeing their destination in detail. The ancient castle was fortified with black walls that looked as though they belonged in Moongrave, rising to sharp peaks. It had once been surrounded by a great city, but unlike the ruins around the labyrinth, that city had been reduced to dust long ago.

Only the castle remained, protected by the chains that bound it.

“Shatterspine Castle was the home of one of the last black dragon emperors that ruled the Blackflame Empire. The records are unfortunately thin, but it seems that he was a Herald who had a great rivalry with a Sage on the Path of the Last Oath. Their battles over the years helped reduce this land to the Wastelands, but she ultimately won by creating the Grand Oath Array. She sealed his Remnant rather than fight it, along with much of his family.”

Orthos grunted, and Lindon couldn’t tell if he could see the castle or not.

“Why hasn’t a Monarch looted the place?” Ziel asked.

Lindon sighed. “The completed version of the Grand Oath Array was discovered by Northstrider at least two hundred years ago. He used some of its principles to help design pocket worlds, but he didn’t think the Array was worth much besides academic study. Without insight into runes like the ones at the bottom of the labyrinth, you can’t use the Array, much less rebuild it.”

“Anyone who can make headway on those runes without their eyes bleeding has my admiration,” Ziel said. “That’s not a joke. I tried reproducing them last night based on my sketches, and my eyes began to bleed.”

Dross appeared beside Lindon and stared at Ziel. [Do tell. Don’t spare the details.]

Bleeding eyes were much more than Lindon had expected, but Ziel seemed fine, so he continued with his speech. “Emala died in the Dread War, but she first broke apart one of her Arrays to maintain the seal around Shatterspine Castle. You’re after those pieces and as much of her madra as you can find. Even if we can’t manage to recreate the Array, you should benefit greatly from studying her techniques.”

Ziel glanced down to the seething mass of dreadbeasts and ruined stone at the foot of the pyramid. “I know something of her.” Ziel’s Path of the Dawn Oath was an offshoot of Emala’s Path of the Last Oath, so Lindon would have expected no less. “Her scripts may still be intact, but I won’t be able to learn them without guidance.”

[This is my greatest contribution to the cause. You will be bound in chains of debt to me for the remainder of your mortal life.]

“Dross found this,” Lindon said. He tossed a polished stone to Ziel, which was covered in white patterns like spiderwebs. “It’s a dream tablet containing all the memories we could get from her echo in the labyrinth. Apologies; it’s nothing like her complete inheritance, but it should help somewhat.”

Ziel took the tablet with a strange look on his face. “It wasn’t so long ago that I was the one recommending dream tablets for your training.”

“I’m pleased I can repay you in some small way,” Lindon said.

Orthos snorted smoke.

[We send you now into the maw of a forgotten castle of the black dragons, locked in time by the working of a Monarch with skills beyond mortal comprehension. If the two of you can siphon but the fraction of power within, you will soar to the skies…but only if you do not crumble before their mighty will.]

Ziel nodded. “Yeah.”

Orthos eyed Dross. “I liked you better the other way.”

“Ideally, you’ll want to find and trap the Herald Remnant,” Lindon reminded Orthos. “The problem is that the Remnant of a black dragon Herald will be overwhelming for you. You’ve felt what it’s like for me. Start with Truegolds or Underlords weaker than you are, and only work your way up after you’ve crushed their wills completely. I’ve left you the—”

Orthos turned his left foreleg, where a scripted container like a locket had been strapped to his limb. A void key dangled from his neck as well, and he had grumbled incessantly about decorating himself like a gold dragon. “Did you give Yerin this much fuss when you left her?”

Lindon cleared his throat and ignored the question. “You’ll have to fight your way through the Remnant will and his memories with your mind intact. The constructs I’ve left you will help with that, but the spirits will fight you. I can’t do anything about that, because you have to establish your own authority over the Remnant.”

“I’m not a Jade,” Orthos rumbled. “I don’t need instructions on taking in a Remnant.”

“This process actually isn’t related to advancing to Lowgold, which is why you have the—”

“I understand!”

Lindon had to accept that he’d prepared as much as he could, and if they intended to advance more quickly than anyone else, they had to be prepared to take some risks. He took a deep breath and looked out over the dreadbeasts.

They had ignored the pyramid thus far, but now they were looking toward the new flesh and drooling. Lizard-like dreadbeasts the size of wolves scuttled over the ruins.

“At least I can clean up here before I take you,” Lindon said.

Ziel immediately sat down on a nearby rock.

“We can handle ourselves,” Orthos said. “Only this many cannot stop us.”

Lindon opened the cases he’d prepared for this moment. Powerful natural treasures of fire and destruction radiated out, and he wove those strands of aura together into a spinning hurricane of dark flame.

In moments, the Void Dragon’s Dance descended on the pyramid. While the three of them remained in the eye of the storm, black fire scorched the surface layer of all the surrounding ruins. Thousands of dreadbeasts were wiped away before they had the chance to scream.

Orthos shut his mouth. “I suppose that was faster,” he allowed.

Lindon let the technique disperse, and when the clouds of fire and ash blew away, there were no signs of dreadbeasts anywhere on the surface. Even most of the smaller rocks had been obliterated, leaving the larger chunks of stone in the ruins rounded down, as though they’d been eroded for decades in a river.

That had been relatively easy, but now Lindon had to try something more difficult. He squared his madra and focused his will.

Then he reached out his right hand, which snarled at the edge of his control. And he opened a void in space.

“Open,” Lindon commanded.

With white fingers, Lindon tore the world apart.

Since he was opening a portal that didn’t lead far away, it was relatively easy, but the effort still tired him. His portal also shook at the edges and had already begun to shrink.

“Pardon, but we should move through quickly. I regret to say that my skills need work.”

“Still too humble, even when tearing a hole in the world itself,” Orthos grumbled as he walked through. “Hold your head high and proudly announce what you’ve done!”

“Maybe when I have more practice,” Lindon said.

Ziel walked through without a word. His hammer and shield would be in a void key, since Lindon could still feel the protective mental construct in his soulspace, but he still couldn’t help but worry.

“You have your shield?” Lindon asked, as he followed Ziel through the portal and let the shimmering gateway disperse. “And the weapons I left you?”

“I was fighting with Sages before you were a Copper,” Ziel responded. “Then again, I lost. So never mind. Yeah, I have the weapons.”

Orthos was craning his neck to look up the side of the obsidian castle that stretched over them. “Incredible. I can feel the dignity of my ancestors in every stone.”

Lindon was just as impressed, but for a different reason.

Centuries ago, grains of sand had blown past the entrance to this castle. They were still there, frozen in mid-gust. Clouds overhead were locked in place, and a bird on one of the rooftops spread wing to take off. It had been in that position for almost a thousand years.

Lindon called a rock to his hand with earth aura and threw it at the field around the frozen time. It clattered against an invisible wall and fell to the ground.

[You could have tested the barrier with your hand,] Dross said, disappointed. [Perhaps we would have been sucked inside and frozen for ten thousand years, emerging only to find the blighted wastes of all we once loved.]

You see, that’s the outcome I was working to avoid.

[Boring.]

Ziel knelt, brushing at the hard-packed ground and extending his spiritual perception down. “Hope you have a key, because we’re not breaking this script.”

Lindon’s right hand strained against his will and he felt his own hunger rising in response. The runes on the black cloth around his upper arm shone, straining the cloth further. Malice’s prop wouldn’t be there to help him much longer. He had to hope he could handle the full force of the Slumbering Wraith’s arm when the seal wore off.

“Fortunately, I have a key,” Lindon said. Then he knelt by Ziel and pressed his hand to the ground.

Lindon began to Consume.

There were a number of places like Shatterspine Castle in the Wasteland. Long-abandoned battlefields from ancient experts and powerhouses that could turn fortunes around. Once, Sages and Heralds had competed to find their way into this place. They had found the Grand Oath Array’s working impossible to unravel, and brute force had not availed them.

Perhaps they would have succeeded if they had continued their efforts for longer, if they had worked together, or if Northstrider had deigned to help.

But in the end, they had moved on to easier treasures to claim. As useful as a Herald’s Remnant would be, it was locked inside its own separate prison within. The Grand Oath Array itself wasn’t even within, only clues and fragments that could lead to understanding of its mechanisms. The effort was not worth the reward.

For them.

Lindon Forged the force madra instead of venting it, and a perfect orb of cloudy gray appeared in his left hand. It radiated such power that Orthos and Ziel both took a step back, but Lindon let it drop and continued absorbing.

Dross screamed out harsh laughter, and Lindon couldn’t tell if he was delighted or in pain. He was sorting the residual will that remained inside the technique, but even spread between Lindon and Dross, it still pushed against them as though trying to burst them from the inside.

A second pearl of force madra rolled out behind Lindon, then a third.

When Lindon was soaked in sweat and about to take a break, the field faltered. Sand blew by slowly, as though drifting underwater.

When it dropped, the bird finally took off from the roof and soared into the sky. It fluttered to a halt very quickly, spinning as though to get its bearings.

It wasn’t a sacred beast, only a bird, but Lindon suspected it still must be very confused.

Lindon rocked back onto his feet and caught his breath. “Forgiveness. I’ll leave the rest to you.”

Ziel looked to the pearls of force madra. “Don’t know what else you’re doing, but it feels like you could keep everything here for yourself.”

“I could,” Lindon said, and Orthos chuckled.

“That’s more like it!” the turtle said approvingly.

“I want you two to inherit what you can,” Lindon went on. “For you to have authority over it, you must earn it yourself. Anything I retrieved and handed you would give you little benefit.”

“Makes sense, as long as we don’t have to share.” Ziel extended a finger. “And I think we’ve found a friend.”

A speck in the sky was approaching quickly. It didn’t take long for Lindon to identify it as a vulture that seemed to drag a cloak of shadows with it.

[The omen of death appears, drawn to our desecration of an ancient script!] Dross said.

Lindon sighed.

It was a few more minutes before the shadowy vulture finally arrived. It perched on a nearby wall and took a moment to settle its feathers.

“I remember you, Lord Ziel,” the vulture said, in a surprisingly clear and feminine voice. “The Beast King will be pleased to see you in fighting shape once again.”

Ziel sat down and propped up his chin on one hand. “I don’t remember you.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Lindon said over a bow. “I am Wei Shi Lindon Arelius.” He wasn’t certain if he should still use the name “Arelius” now that Eithan was gone, but he supposed Eithan had more right to hand out the title than anyone.

The vulture inclined her head, bowing back. “And who are you, descendant of the black dragons?”

Orthos raised his chin proudly. “I am Orthos! I come to find the tomb of my ancestors and claim his inheritance.”

“A turtle of your lineage ought to be ambitious. The Beast King is occupied in his battle against the Dreadgods, but I hear his voice in my soul. He celebrates the return of the Dawnwing Sect’s young Archlord. He has sent me to ensure that you arrived safely, but I see you have the protection of a Sage.”

Orthos glanced at Lindon, and the two shared a moment of resolve through their bond before Orthos responded. “Soon, we will no longer need it.”

“You have the arrogance of the dragons, if nothing else.” The vulture flapped her wings and extended her neck, eyeing Orthos from another angle. “If you can advance fast enough to help us against the Dreadgods, we’d be grateful, though I personally can’t see why you’d bother. Advancing in a hurry is for humans.”

Orthos snorted. “A dragon,” he said, “does not back down from a challenge.”

7

Most of Mercy’s job didn’t involve the sacred arts. She was known as a representative of her family, and the closest to her mother that most people would ever get, so she was there to listen and reassure more than anything else.

She would never say so out loud, but she was better at listening and reassurance than any of her relatives who outranked her.

Even if Uncle Fury were still here, he was fundamentally incapable of listening to anything that sounded boring. Which meant most things. His version of reassurance was “Don’t worry, I’ll kill it!”

Aunt Charity was a great listener, but people tended to find her unnerving. It was rare that they walked away reassured rather than pressured.

Her mother…was another matter entirely.

There were Archlords and Overlords throughout the family that could perform this function, but it meant something different when the daughter of a Monarch received people personally.

She met a member of the Council of Moongrave and assured him that there would be no further damage to the city, and that the clan would cover expenses. She asked about his family and found that his youngest daughter had not only reached Lowgold but was showing great promise in applying her sacred arts to a fledgling delivery business.

Distant relatives who were only technically members of the Akura clan came to her with questions, but what they really wanted to know was that they had access to the head family. She answered their questions, heard their problems, and dropped in details about their situations to show that she was paying attention.

Local sects wanted to know the clan was backing them. Foreign emissaries from the Ninecloud Court and Dreadnought City complained that they hadn’t been able to contact their Monarchs. She even authorized the reallocation of resources to house and care for those who had been displaced by the Titan.

That much was fairly normal, but there were two things that everyone was worried about, and that made Mercy’s burden that much harder to carry.

For one thing, all the Dreadgods were awake at once. Most people didn’t know that they were more powerful or intelligent than usual, but all four hadn’t rampaged at the same time since the Dread War. That made people understandably upset, especially since everyone in the city had seen the Wandering Titan attempt to cross a portal to attack Moongrave.

That was the more immediate worry, but there was another disaster everyone had witnessed. They had all seen the sky go black and the world shake. Not everyone comprehended the battle in the heavens, and not everyone realized that the shattering of stars was a threat beyond Monarchs, but they had all seen it.

Some asked her if that had been the work of a fifth Dreadgod. Still others assumed Malice had sheathed the world in shadow because she was displeased with them, or because she was fighting with another Monarch.

Mercy met with everyone she could, staying vague about the cause of the incident, but spreading the word that her mother was personally keeping them safe.

Most of her visitors went away from her in good spirits, which pleased her. She preferred it when she could send people away happy.

But her own confidence was shaken when a messenger construct darted into her room in the form of a white hawk. It burst as it conveyed its message in a loud male voice.

“The Titan has changed course. It has not stayed to feed on the Tower. I repeat, the Wandering Titan has not remained in place to feed. It is marching due northwest. We project that it is on a straight-line course to Moongrave. I repeat…”

The messenger didn’t identify himself, but technically it wasn’t necessary. He was clearly one of the clan scouts they had left to observe the Titan’s movements.

Mercy made a mental note to find out which team had sent the message first and reward them, but it stayed in a distant corner of her mind. Most of her thoughts were buzzing.

She’d fought a weakened Titan, and she would hesitate before doing that again. Now it was coming here, to the city where she’d been born, with its full power.

Mercy called an end to her visitors for the day and deactivated the rune-lights in her office. The shutters slid down over the windows until she was in darkness. Shadow aura was strong here, and she had an easy time conjuring her Book of Eternal Night.

The construct floated in front of her as she flipped through its thick pages. The fifth page contained her Dream of Darkness, and she spent most of her training time immersing herself in the technique.

Which was kind of like bathing in nightmares, so she looked forward to mastering that technique so she could leave the page behind.

This time, she sent her spiritual awareness to the sixth page. The Archlord-level madra was too much for her to handle right now, and Aunt Charity had advised her to slowly reach the peak of Overlord before she moved on.

She had already advanced faster than her aunt thought was wise, so now she couldn’t express interest in the sixth page without causing trouble. But she could peek on her own…

From the darkness of the room, Akura Malice strode out.

Mercy’s mother was sheathed in a violet dress and wore silver chains in her hair and around her neck, all set with amethysts. Her hair drifted like part of the shadows, and she tapped black lips with fingernails of purple crystal as she walked.

In shock, Mercy made her Book vanish like a child shoving a cookie in her mouth to hide it.

Instantly afterwards, she realized that it would have made her look less guilty if she had just left the Book hovering there, but by then it was too late.

Malice smirked. “Looking ahead, are we?”

“I’m sorry. I heard about the Titan.”

“Yes.” Her smirk twisted into a grimace. “It’s been an eventful week, hasn’t it? It’s hard to remember a time I’ve hated more since advancing to Monarch.”

Mercy hesitated to ask, but everyone in the city was worried about the Dreadgod. Including her. “How much danger are we in?”

“Less than we were from the heavenly invaders.” Malice pulled a chair out of the darkness and folded herself into it. “It is hard to appreciate the scale of mundane threats when one has watched the stars vanish, isn’t it?”

“That’s why I was looking at the sixth page. I don’t like these terrible things happening when I can’t do anything about them.”

“Nor should you. Let that weakness and that helplessness drive you, and soon you will never be weak or helpless again.” She bit a corner of her lip. “Or so I thought.”

Mercy appreciated any opportunity to talk to her mother as a person, rather than as a Monarch, but she was frightened by how much the war in the heavens had disturbed Malice.

Frightened, because that had been Eithan.

And she worried what that feeling of helplessness would drive her mother to do.

“I’m sure Lindon and Yerin didn’t know,” Mercy said.

“I have no doubt. I am concerned about how Eithan may have positioned them without their knowledge. How he may have positioned all of us.”

Mercy tried to appeal one more time. “I know them. I can make sure they stay our friends.”

“You can befriend anyone,” Malice said, “as long as you’re not in competition. They are valuable allies to us, and if they help us weather this crisis and join their master in the heavens, then I will remember them fondly.”

“They’d be more likely to cooperate if I could talk with them.”

Malice sighed. “Let’s assume that, for whatever reason, they began to see me as a rival.”

Mercy’s mouth fell open. Why would Lindon and Yerin consider Malice a rival? Even if they advanced to Monarch, they had never shown any desire to conquer territory. If anything, they would see Malice as an ally.

“What will their first move be?” Malice asked.

Mercy knew what answer her mother was looking for, but she also knew what Yerin and Lindon would actually do first. “Advance,” she said at once. “They don’t do much else. It’s going to be their first solution to any problem.”

Malice tilted her hand toward Mercy, conceding the point. “And then? If they have you at their side?”

“I know you think they’d use me to get to you,” Mercy said reluctantly. “Or turn me against you. But that’s not true! Yerin wouldn’t even think of it, and Lindon…”

She suspected that Lindon wouldn’t come to her with a plan to overthrow Malice. He would keep her in the dark and plan around her, or he would warn her and then go ahead with his plan anyway.

“As I said, I’m not concerned about his plans. Even if he’s a Sage now, he’s a young one, and for the most part our interests do align. I worry about Eithan’s plans, which Lindon may not even comprehend.”

“That’s…” Mercy tried to protest, but it was too likely. “…no, I could believe that.”

“Given all that, you can see why I’m less than thrilled that Lindon is on his way to our gates.”

That may have been a bigger shock to Mercy than finding out the Titan was coming. “What? He’s here?”

“On his way. The nearest branch of the labyrinth is several days’ flight from here. I could bring him now, but I fail to see why I would.”

She was inspecting Mercy for a reaction, but Mercy was dumbfounded. “Why did they—”

“Not they. He’s alone.”

There was only one reason Mercy could think of that Lindon would come here alone. He had heard about the advance of the Wandering Titan and he was coming to prepare.

“The Titan destroyed his hometown,” Mercy said. “He’s been looking for a way to kill the Dreadgods. We could use his help.”

“Maybe that’s it,” Malice murmured. “I admit, I was looking forward to using the labyrinth for our own ends. Why don’t we go see if he’s here for the Titan, hm?”

“Are you taking us to him, or bringing him here?”

“Let’s split the difference.”

The darkness of Mercy’s office peeled away, and Mercy found that they were now sitting on a dark cloud overlooking the outer walls of Moongrave.

The walls, like most other parts of the city, were black and spiked. They rose high over the surrounding lands, and the local gates were guarded by hulking lizard-like Remnants so advanced as to resemble sacred beasts.

These Remnants walked like men, wore armor and carried weapons, and had been artificially raised to have strength comparable to Heralds. They were deadly opponents.

Normally traffic from outside streamed through the gates between them; even air traffic was stopped here and made to fly through the gates.

Now, with the gates shut, most people had been redirected to other entrances. No one was approaching for miles.

Until the shadows twisted in midair and a cloud fortress appeared.

Windfall’s cloud base was a deep blue, and most of it was taken up by a garden of sacred herbs the size of a tilled field. It had a pair of trees, a pool of crystalline water, and a three-story house…as well as a tiny hut where Eithan had supposedly made his home.

Mercy didn’t feel Lindon’s presence onboard, but that was the point of the security scripts Lindon had been so proud of. In theory, even Malice couldn’t scan the fortress without breaking or disabling the scripts first.

It took the cloud a moment to slow, by which point the guards had risen into midair to meet it. They were silent and did not level their weapons, but just by their presence, they threatened to tear the fortress apart.

“Why didn’t we just bring him inside?” Mercy asked.

Malice still lounged on her chair, watching. “I want to see what he’ll do.”

Only a moment later, Lindon emerged from the front door of his house. He walked calmly out to the edge of the cloud and bowed in the direction of the two guards.

He wore an outer robe of the Twin Star Sect, and his was light blue with highlights that bordered between orange and red. His large frame was dwarfed by the lizard-men, but he pressed his fists together unhurriedly.

“I am Wei Shi Lindon Arelius,” he announced. “I believe the honored Monarch is expecting me, and I am grateful for the transportation here.”

Akura Justice had worked harder than perhaps anyone in the entire clan these past few days, so Mercy expected a subordinate of his to appear, but apparently he had been warned by Malice in advance.

The old Archlord rose from behind the walls with black-clad hands held behind the small of his back. He dipped his head to Lindon when they met.

“Sage of Twin Stars, I am Akura Justice, and I greet you on behalf of the Monarch.”

“Akura Justice. A pleasure to meet you again. Gratitude for your assistance in the Uncrowned King tournament.”

From above, Mercy saw Justice tighten his hands behind his back. From what she gathered, Justice hadn’t expected much out of Lindon prior to the tournament. He must have done or said something he regretted now.

“It was my honor,” Justice said. “Be most welcome to Moongrave. With all respect to the Sage, may I request that you tell us the purpose of your visit?”

Lindon looked into the sky, and Mercy felt his spiritual sense leave the protection of his script. Malice must have been veiling them, because Lindon’s perception swept through Mercy and her mother as though they weren’t there.

Only a moment later, Lindon returned his attention to Justice. “Of course. I’m here to request an audience with Akura Mercy, if I may.”

Mercy’s back stiffened.

Malice chuckled at her reaction, then spoke off to the side. “Tell him no,” she said.

“Mother!”

Justice clearly heard the command, because he froze for a moment, then he turned slightly to glance up in their direction. He wore a troubled expression and stroked his beard, visibly searching for the right words.

“My apologies to the Sage, but it seems Mercy is currently consumed by her duties. You may have heard, but we very recently learned that the Wandering Titan is on its way to our city.”

Lindon’s face darkened to the point that Mercy thought he might begin cycling Blackflame. “Unwelcome news. When will it arrive?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have many more details myself. If you will follow me into the city, I’m certain we would be delighted to have your assistance.”

Malice looked over to Mercy. “Not here for the Titan, then.”

So Lindon had learned that Mercy was forbidden to leave and had come to her instead. That lifted her spirits considerably…or it would have, if her mother hadn’t been drawing attention to it in such a pointed way. Her cheeks heated.

“You’re making this bigger than it is,” Mercy protested.

“Perhaps I am. Perhaps he has grown bored of a girl who only knows how to swing a sword.” Before Mercy could say anything in Yerin’s defense, Malice continued, “Or perhaps it is as I feared, and he is trying to get to me through you.”

Mercy seized on that. “Why would he do that?”

“Who knows?”

Justice was leading Lindon forward as Windfall followed them, presumably powered by Lindon remotely and piloted by Dross.

“I have changed my mind,” Malice said into the shadows. “Keep him out of the city. Make up some excuse.”

“No, wait!” Mercy cried. “What are you doing?”

“What will he do, do you think?”

“I have no idea!”

“Neither do I. Let’s find out together.”

Justice looked like he’d been asked to throw himself into the mud. Stiffly, like a puppet, he held out one hand. Lindon drifted to a stop behind the hand, confusion on his face. The gates had only opened halfway.

“I…apologize,” Justice grated out. “There has been an…issue…with our guards, and they have…inexplicably…decided to identify you as an intruder. Since I cannot guarantee your safe entry, I cannot allow you into the city.”

Belatedly, the two reptilian Remnants moved to flank Lindon. They raised spears, which shone red, but they didn’t attack.

It was a flimsy excuse, but not a terrible one. Remnants were notoriously chaotic, and Mercy had heard stories of them misidentifying people. However, those that followed orders did not suddenly stop for no reason.

Lindon looked from Justice to the two guards, and suddenly he wore the expression that had once been his standard: like he was searching for someone to punch.

“I see,” Lindon said softly. “Then I suppose if there is no threat to my safety, we may proceed.”

Akura Justice protested, but Lindon shot through the air.

A spear swept at him like a staff, in a blur that Mercy was only able to follow when it stopped. Cold. Against Lindon’s right hand.

The impact kicked up a wind that tore at Lindon’s robes and whipped up sand for a mile behind him, and Mercy almost choked. He hadn’t used either of his full-body Enforcer techniques.

Malice raised an eyebrow. “He has quite the impressive physique for a Sage.”

“Mother!” Mercy didn’t like the look on Malice’s face.

“Don’t worry, he’s too young for me.” She glanced to the side again. “But not for you…”

“Mother!”

The Remnant guard jerked its spear away when Lindon started to Consume the power of the weapon. But it didn’t attack again, and the other merely posed menacingly.

“They don’t seem so aggressive,” Lindon observed.

“They are…straining at the very limits of their restrictions,” Justice said. “Please! I could not bear the punishment if you were injured here!”

“I’ll be careful,” Lindon promised. He leaned forward, but then Malice whispered something into the shadows.

Justice rushed in front of Lindon. “No need! I’ve been told that the issue has been…resolved, and you are now permitted to enter Moongrave with our apologies.”

“Gratitude,” Lindon said as the guards moved back. “And Mercy?”

“Ah, she’s still occupied.”

“Pardon, but where is she occupied?”

“You can tell him,” Malice said.

As Justice told Lindon where Mercy worked, Mercy turned to her mother. “I’m confused. Can I see him or not?”

“He’s here, so let’s put him to work. But keep an eye on him. Make sure he’s working for our family and not against us.”

Mercy threw up her hands. “Am I missing something? Do you think Eithan left him to side with the Dreadgods?”

“Who knows?” Malice said softly. Then she faded into shadows.

Grumbling, Mercy mounted her staff and prepared to make the long, cold flight back to her office.

* * *

The irritation was starting to erode Lindon’s wariness. He tried to keep his guard up against Malice; she had already found out that he knew the connection between Monarchs and Dreadgods, and then she’d seen Eithan fight the mysterious enemy in the sky. She was dangerous, and he’d come here resolved to keep both eyes open.

But he hadn’t expected his time to be blatantly wasted on her very doorstep. If Malice wasn’t going to allow him into the city, then why would she transport him most of the way there? Why not just leave him to crawl his way there on Windfall? She could even strike him down as soon as he appeared from the labyrinth.

Dross had his own ideas. [She wants to keep us lost in the mists of doubt. Make us think that she’s testing us, only to strike when we least expect it.]

Not only was Dross more paranoid now, but he also had a much greater appreciation for Moongrave’s color scheme. Which he had plenty of time to express as Akura Justice took them on a tour of the city that was apparently mandatory.

“And over here we have the monument known as the Seed of Honor, representing the moment Malice founded our city over four hundred years ago.” The Seed of Honor was a bronze monument of Malice pulling back a bow that resembled Suu.

“Apologies, but I am familiar with the city,” Lindon said. He hadn’t visited the cultural or historical landmarks before, but he was no more interested in them now than he had been before. “With a Dreadgod on the way, shouldn’t we hurry?”

Justice didn’t look any more comfortable than Lindon was, but he was insistent. “Mercy is not quite ready for you yet. In the meantime, I’d like to draw your attention to the inscription on the base of the Seed of Honor, which reads…”

Dross chuckled at his misfortune, and for lack of any better options, Lindon paid attention to the tour.

Which he found fascinating.

That annoyed him most of all.

Much later, Lindon found himself asking questions about the decorative trees that grew all over Moongrave, with their wide-petaled glowing flowers that came in several different colors. The tree they inspected at the moment had blossoms of white, violet, and blue growing from the same branches, all shining in the darkness.

“They flourish in abundant shadow aura,” said Justice, who had fallen into his role as a tour guide since Lindon had started paying attention. “Their species was initially taken from Everwood, but now we have the only native population, so it’s known as the Moongrave amphelia.”

“How do they get three colors on the same branch without disrupting the madra flow?” Lindon asked.

“Ah, it’s quite the clever graft. You see, when the tree is young, our life artists can mold—”

Both Lindon and Justice turned at the same time as they sensed the spirit approaching them at high speed.

Justice stroked his beard. “It appears our tour has come to an end.”

“Gratitude.” Lindon bowed to him. “And my apologies for what happened at the gate. I suspect you were caught in an unfortunate position.”

Justice sighed. It looked like he was about to say something, then he waved his hand. “Think nothing of it. Enjoy your time with young Mercy, but I expect I will be calling on you soon to prepare our defenses.”

“I’ll be counting on you, then.”

Since advancing to Archlord, Lindon had found the surrounding aura obeyed him more easily than ever. The wind picked him up and carried him as he flew to meet Mercy.

He’d been forced to leave Windfall behind; the city’s skies were bustling and the cloudship docks were crowded, but Justice had opened a hangar specifically for cloud fortresses. Lindon was glad for that, since it would have been difficult to navigate while dragging an entire flying island behind him.

[It’s very convenient…as long as they don’t have any nefarious intentions. Like holding our home hostage.]

Lindon had considered the same thing, but he wasn’t sure why they’d bother. The Akura clan had enough experts that they could keep him under control even without Malice’s personal intervention.

Mercy waved brightly as she saw him, pulling her staff to a halt in midair. “Lindon! I’m so sorry about all that at the gate! I was watching, but I couldn’t do anything about it.”

Lindon had assumed Malice was watching, but he hadn’t thought the Monarch would show anything to Mercy. He wondered why that was, but he had to put it delicately in case he was still under her eye. “Pardon, but do you know whether I passed her test?”

Mercy’s response was much more dry than usual. “Who knows? I really am sorry for that. But…” She hesitated. “Why did you—I mean, why are you…”

Mercy interrupted herself with a shake of her head. “Why don’t I show you my office? It’s at the top of the tower over there. I have an area of the sky cleared so I can come and go when I need to.”

“Lead the way,” Lindon said. That helped him. He needed a private place to talk where he could potentially avoid Malice’s attention, and it would look too strange if he went back to the hangar and sat aboard Windfall.

The tower to which Mercy led him reminded him of the towers the Uncrowned King competitors had used in Ninecloud City. It was far from the tallest building in Moongrave, but the spire stood out among its neighbors, and Mercy flew him up to a balcony on the top floor.

Guards on every level, including those hovering over the tower itself, saluted her as she flew up. She didn’t seem to notice.

They arrived in a space that was comfortable but surprisingly cramped. A desk sat against one wall with bookshelves behind it, as well as a tall window looking out over the city. Documents were piled neatly on the surface of the desk, and he could sense the presence of dream tablets in several drawers and boxes.

Mercy shifted nervously as she gave him the very brief tour, describing her usual daily routine. Her madra-gloved hands closed and opened on her staff, and she put more energy into her descriptions than usual.

She was nervous, and Lindon thought he knew why. He expanded his Hollow Domain, which made her pause mid-sentence. Then he tightened his will and made another command.

“Silence.”

It was a strange application of his authority, but he suspected it would work. In combination with his technique, he made the entire office feel like an empty space. A void.

As long as this Domain stayed up, Malice wouldn’t be able to scan them. At least, not without collapsing his boundary field first. Which she could easily do, but not quietly.

Mercy shot him a questioning look, and Lindon realized that his one word could sound like he had been telling her to shut up. “Apologies! I should have warned you, but I’ve made it so your mother can’t hear us.”

Rather than looking relieved, Mercy tightened her grip on the staff. She looked him square in the eyes, then glanced away almost immediately, then returned to him again.

“What are we talking about?” she asked carefully.

Not only did Lindon have to be careful about his oath, but he wondered what Malice had told her. Maybe…maybe Mercy already knew the connection between the Monarchs and the Dreadgods, and she had been silenced just like him.

“Your mother swore me not to speak of certain matters,” he said, and he already felt the oath tightening his throat. “Has she…told you why?”

Mercy’s brow furrowed. “About Eithan?”

Lindon let out a breath. In a way, he was relieved that she didn’t know. Though if she had, it would have made this easier.

“Apologies, but I can’t say any more than that. If she hasn’t told you…” He had to let it hang there. He had thought too hard about dropping her a hint.

Instead, he moved on to his main proposal.

“How do you feel about robbing your mother?” Lindon asked.

Mercy’s purple eyes grew wide.

8

The inside of Redmoon Hall’s cloudship base looked like what Yerin had always pictured of their headquarters. It was a tall, dark space with tanks of blood hanging from the ceiling. The blood was brighter than natural, and radiated much more aura than it should have, so she assumed it came from some blood-aspect sacred beast.

In her soulspace, Little Blue trembled. The Riverseed was wrapped around the clam-shaped dream construct, hugging it to her chest, and the two together filled Yerin’s soulspace with only a little room left over for a hunger spear. Yerin had been surprised to learn that Blue took up so much space. It meant that she had almost as much spiritual weight as an Archlord weapon.

Yerin tried to radiate comfort to Little Blue, but she didn’t have the same connection to the Riverseed that Lindon did. And Yerin’s own stomach was twisting.

From a throne at the end of the hall, the Herald Redmoon looked down on them. At Yerin’s side was the Sage of Red Faith.

The man and his former Blood Shadow glared at each other as though they’d both rather cross swords than words, but Yerin couldn’t decide which of them disgusted her more.

Redmoon was the twisted opposite of Red Faith. Just like Ruby had looked like Yerin’s own reflection in a red-tinted mirror, the two were twins at their core. But the Herald’s hair was bright red, his skin was tinged pink, and his Goldsigns were two streams of white leading down from his eyes instead of scarlet.

Both men ignored her, focused on one another, and chewed on their thumbs with identical expressions.

“Our minimum goal has been met,” the Sage said. “The Phoenix was released, and its power increased thanks to the resonance with Subject One. With the removal of his core binding, Subject One will not reconstitute for years, so he cannot interfere with us. It is safe within acceptable limits to offer our services against the Phoenix.”

The Herald picked up speaking in the same voice, and though they disagreed, to Yerin it sounded like one man arguing to himself. “And how many of us do you imagine will work against the Bleeding Phoenix? We cannot advance our goals without the support of an organization, and to oppose the Phoenix is to bring the end of Redmoon Hall.”

“Then should we seek support from the Bleeding Phoenix?”

“It is intelligent enough now. We should learn its will.”

“I do not worship the Phoenix as your followers do.”

“Many of our Hall are true believers. And who can blame them for worshiping a greater power?”

The Sage of Red Faith sneered. “It is the act of a fool to hang one’s own fate on the mercy of a Dreadgod.”

The Herald Redmoon mimicked his expression exactly. “Then should we seek the mercy of our jailers, or should we remain imprisoned?”

It was confusing enough to track their conversation, but Yerin had pieced enough of it together to have some idea of what was going on. After Lindon had banished Reigan Shen and the Dreadgod cults from Sacred Valley, Redmoon Hall had separated from the other cults, only to find themselves stuck.

They were pinned between two Monarchs: Akura Malice and Northstrider. Both had warned them, somehow, that they should stay where they were and make no attempt to contact the Phoenix.

The only thing Yerin didn’t understand was why the Monarchs hadn’t just wiped them out. If she had traveled here with Lindon only to find Redmoon Hall reduced to kindling and scarlet smears, she wouldn’t have shed a tear.

Anyway, apparently the Sage wanted to offer their services fighting against the Phoenix, while the Herald wanted to contact the Dreadgod and trade their loyalty for freedom.

Which put Yerin in the very strange position of being on the same side as the Sage of Red Faith.

Though Yerin had done nothing, not even moved her madra, both heads snapped to her at the same time. It was a struggle not to draw Netherclaw.

“Here is one matter even you should see clearly,” the Sage said.

“Agreed,” Redmoon responded. “I will thoroughly record her experiences for analysis and collect madra samples. You—”

“You think I would trust this operation to a Herald?” The air around Red Faith boiled, and he seemed closer to throwing techniques than at any point since entering the room. “My drudge is more qualified to perform this operation than you are. I was analyzing spiritual composition before the Phoenix laid your egg.”

“You are notoriously unreliable,” the Herald said coldly. “If you harm the subject, not only would that cost us her willing cooperation, but we also cannot ignore the threat of reprisal.”

“When have I ever placed my project in existential danger? What about you, who seeks the Phoenix’s favor? What if it demands you turn her over to satisfy its hunger?”

Redmoon hissed but waved a hand. “Conceded. I will trust you this far, but if you betray our project, I will be sure all those in the Hall—and the heavens, if necessary—know who is responsible.”

“I take responsibility for all my mistakes.” Red Sage gave his former Blood Shadow a pointed look. “All of them.”

The Herald didn’t bite the hook, but the air between them was thick. Blood aura seethed around both of their angry spirits.

From beginning to end, Redmoon hadn’t said a word to Yerin. She raised a hand. “Real treat to meet you,” she said.

Then the Blood Sage marched past her, and she followed him.

He led her down a hall to a room crowded with materials that reminded her of the tools she’d seen in the depths of the labyrinth. She hesitated to even set foot in the room, considering the death aura that hovered in the air, but the Blood Sage didn’t consider her hesitation at all.

Red Faith strode in without a pause, absently swinging a chair around as he rifled around in some shelves for an elixir. Glass clinked as he pointed to his side.

“Sit so that I may examine you. I can bind you if you wish, but the pain will be minor. Negligible, to one of your constitution and advancement. Have you had any mental enhancements?”

Yerin’s mind ran through all the emergency measures Lindon had left for her, but she sat in the offered chair. While her whole body was tense and she watched every motion of the Sage, she found that she oddly did trust him.

At least, she thought she did. She suspected he wouldn’t lie to her about his intentions, now that she was within his power. If he planned on stripping her skin away and carving her up from the inside out, he’d say so. He would probably expect her to understand.

“Can’t see why there’d be pain at all,” Yerin said. “Give me a dream tablet and tell me what you want to see, and I’ll squeeze it in there as best I can.”

The Sage vigorously shook a violet mixture in a sealed vial until it shone brightly. “That would be sufficient to retrieve your recollection of one incident, but I intend to extract your entire experience of raising your Blood Shadow according to my techniques, which will be simpler if your mind is temporarily enhanced. Any preexisting mental enhancements may have unforeseen effects with this one, so I need to understand the situation correctly. And I may also require extracted memories from your manifested Shadow—”

“Ruby,” Yerin interrupted.

The Sage tilted his head to one side until it almost touched his shoulder. “Interesting. Do you find that your sense of identity has been at all corrupted by the addition of your Shadow? Are you suffering from any delusions, nightmares, or hallucinations that suggest you yourself are, or ever were, Ruby?”

“Can’t see how we’re both making it through this when every word you say makes me want to snap your neck like a winter branch.”

He shook the elixir again. “Irrelevant. Unnecessary of me to even ask when I will understand in but a moment. Now, mental enhancements. You received a supplemental cognition booster from the Eight-Man Empire, didn’t you? Have you received anything else?”

“Guess that’s what you’d call it, sure. No other changes to my brain except dream tablets and some—”

Her hand snapped up and grabbed his wrist as he was about to drive the elixir into her shoulder. He had attached a needle to one end and had attempted to inject her with it.

The Sage frowned. “Why are you objecting now? I was always going to administer this formula. A cognition booster should have no influence on its effects, aside from potentially speeding up the process.”

“Don’t like you doing anything to my mind except listening to it,” Yerin said. “You start putting something into my head, and I’m putting something into yours.”

She extended one of her red-chrome sword arms and slid it close to his temple.

He didn’t avoid it, and his expression showed nothing but annoyance. “This is the most efficient method of retrieving your experience. It’s similar to the procedure used for leaving behind an inheritance to one’s disciples. It is nothing to fear.”

“You want to swear to me on your soul that this won’t knock me out, slow me down, or hurt me, and then I’ll let you use it.”

The Sage hesitated, confirming her suspicions. “The only purpose of this compound is to enhance your memory. It will be similar to a…a daydream. There will be no danger while I am here to defend you. Even my Shadow is committed to your protection while you are cooperating with us.”

“Got a bargain for you: let’s try it like normal first, and I won’t gut this ship on my way out.”

Red Faith scowled. “It will only be more difficult for you to produce clear memories, and if your experience isn’t to my satisfaction, then you will waste both of our time. The concentration necessary to produce a coherent dream tablet is enough that you will be all but incapacitated with or without my formula. This is foolishness.”

Yerin looked down at his wrist. “Then I guess I’m taking your hand with me as a trophy.”

He tugged at her grip, which she released. “Very well. Make your attempt. Should you fail, I will insist that you try again.”

“Not itching to be anywhere else.”

That wasn’t true on any level. Not only did she have other business, but she hated being in Redmoon Hall. But sometimes you had to do things you hated.

Red Faith drummed his fingers on the violet elixir for a moment, and she was sure he was considering trying to inject it by force. Finally, he spun around and seized the arm of a complex steel frame, which he extended until it was in front of her face.

The steel arm carried a scripted purple lens, and he fixed a blank dream tablet to the side opposite her. “Focus on the moment you first separated from your Blood Shadow. As much as is possible for you without the assistance of my elixir, relive that moment vividly.”

That was easy enough, since the memory tended to stick in her mind. She was lying in a basement that shook with a battle overhead. Outside, Akura Malice fought the Bleeding Phoenix. Dust fell from the ceiling as the building trembled, and Mercy was off to one side, desperately fighting a tide of bloodspawn.

A tide that Yerin was sure she’d soon join. Her Blood Shadow, the parasite that had infested her as a girl, was struggling to take over. To heed the song of the Phoenix and break free. It was taking all of her mind and spirit, all of her willpower, to restrain it.

Lindon leaned over her, his face soft with concern. He told her to fight. Told her he wouldn’t leave her. Then, with his Remnant arm, he reached into her spirit.

…but Yerin had another memory overlaying that one. She existed only faintly, a spirit locked in darkness, trapped in a small area. She heard a song that promised freedom and fought to reach it, to feed, to satisfy the hunger that was all she’d ever known.

Then a hand of even greater hunger seized her and pulled her free. She felt his spirit and his firm will as she emerged into the light, and felt the fear of her host body.

Ruby’s memories. Her birth.

Dream aura streamed from Yerin’s mind, through the lens, and into the tablet. The flow cut off as Red Faith removed the lens.

He clicked his tongue. “Memories this obscured will be of minimal use in research. We will finish the process, but if there are any inconsistencies or pertinent details missing, we will repeat this step. It would be far more efficient to accept my clarity elixir, and then we could assuredly complete the transfer in one—”

“How efficient is it to talk instead of work, would you say?”

Red Faith stared at her, and she had to glare back so she didn’t shiver. His eyes weren’t filled with hatred or anger at her defiance. They were cold fish’s eyes, just watching her as he calculated.

After a few more seconds, he swung the lens back into place. He didn’t even trade out the dream tablet; maybe this one still had room.

“When did you begin practicing my techniques for a humanoid Blood Shadow? What was your motivation for doing so, and what was your experience using them?”

“You want me to focus on one thing, or six?”

“Those are prompts meant to focus you on the next stage of the Shadow’s development. If you have a strong memory associated with the initial training of the Blood Shadow or use of my techniques, that is the recollection to focus on.”

Yerin remembered Eithan giving her Red Faith’s tablet, making her choose, and her first time hearing the Sage’s voice in her mind.

When the memory was finished and Red Faith reviewed it, his pink eyes widened. “Eithan Arelius was the one to procure these techniques for you? And in your opinion, it was he that encouraged you to practice my methods?”

Yerin guessed she could understand it, but she hated how popular Eithan was now that he had left the world behind. “Just about shoved them down my throat.”

A rictus grin spread across Red Faith’s face. “As expected…as expected. The eyes of heaven can truly discern value. We walk the steps of the future together.”

The Sage took her through the pain of having her life aura shaved away by Meira, and of fighting side-by-side with a humanoid Blood Shadow for the first time. It was strange, now that she was assessing her memories from both perspectives.

She remembered eyeing the Shadow, afraid that it would devour her from the inside out.

She remembered eyeing her host body, afraid that it would devour her from the outside in.

As they proceeded, the Sage complained less and less. He muttered about clarifying levels of existence and developing identity, but whenever Yerin came back to herself, he insisted she move on to the next memory. Whatever he wasn’t satisfied about with the clarity, he seemed to be growing excited.

There was one set of memories she tried to suppress. Ruby’s growing awareness of Lindon was too embarrassing to share because it mirrored her own. Now, Yerin knew for sure that the Blood Shadow’s initial attachment to him came from Yerin’s own thoughts, her own attention, her own dreams and feelings.

When the Shadow got a chance, it watched Lindon itself. When it didn’t, it watched him through her eyes. But it wasn’t just Yerin’s attachment; Lindon was one of two beings the Blood Shadow was clearly aware of, the other being Yerin herself.

The Blood Sage snapped at her for blurring memories, and she knew she was being childish, so she tried to project them a little more clearly. But she was still sure that those memories would be the lowest quality of all.

At last, she came to Ruby. Receiving an independent body and then a name. Then time of her own, spent with Lindon. A few days of freedom.

Though it was her own memory, Yerin dreaded reliving the moment of combining with Ruby. She knew it wasn’t the case, but she somehow felt like it was the instant of Ruby’s death.

Instead, she felt the two of them grow more and more similar even before they combined. Their mutual concern about losing the Uncrowned King tournament made their thoughts almost identical. Their fears became one.

As Yerin, she felt like she had put down a burden she’d been carrying all her life.

As Ruby, she felt like she’d finally been released from prison. Now, she had all the freedom she wanted.

Yerin stared off into the distance. She didn’t notice that the lens and dream tablet had been removed until the Blood Sage handed her a handkerchief.

Only then did she realize her cheeks were wet.

“Thanks,” she muttered. She dried her eyes, then wasn’t sure if she should return it or not. That had been a surprisingly human gesture from the Sage of Red Faith.

It didn’t last long.

“Compose yourself. We can’t get anything useful out of you in that state. I will analyze your experiences and we will continue tomorrow when you’re useful again.”

He held up a needle. “In the meantime, I need blood samples. Before you resort to violence, understand that I am not injecting you with anything. Do you understand?” He snapped his fingers and drew her attention to the empty glass syringe. “Empty. I am extracting a sample of your blood, not injecting you with anything.”

When she didn’t respond, he made an irritated sound in his throat and grabbed a jug of clear liquid. “I will first demonstrate on this water. You see, when a syringe is empty—”

Yerin thrust out her wrist. “Take it all, if it means you keep your teeth together.”

“That would be counterproductive.” The needle stuck on her skin at first, but when Red Faith focused and pushed with greater intention, he pierced through and into the flesh. “I will be taking a tissue and madra sample as well, but those can wait until you have regained control of yourself.”

“Did you train to make people hate you, or is that some kind of bloodline technique?”

The Sage focused on the blood slowly filling the syringe. “I say what I say and do what I do without any regard for the opinion of others…” He pulled the syringe free and dabbed at her skin. “…at all. It has always been strange to me that others don’t do the same.”

Yerin’s arm had healed already, but she watched the Sage focus his perception on the sample of her blood. “I’d say you’d have an easier time with your research if you didn’t act like you were hunting babies to eat.”

“Yes, I imagine people would likely cooperate more readily if they didn’t see me as a deranged cultist. That is more Redmoon’s niche than mine, but there is always some name people will call you.” He swirled the blood around and locked it in another machine while he scribbled some notes. “Before cultist, I was called the mad tool of a Dreadgod. Before that, a crazed researcher of forbidden knowledge. Earlier still, it was ‘ghost child.’”

He held up a scripted ring and inspected the blood through it. “I do not require the comprehension of others. My research will benefit every sacred artist in this world whether they understand it or not.”

For a second, that made sense to Yerin. She could see the logic from his perspective.

Then she remembered the people she’d seen killed by Blood Shadows. Including her own parents.

Whether he was responsible for that specific incident or not, and whatever his intentions were, he had knowingly put other people through the same experience she’d survived. And worse.

Yerin hopped out of the chair. “We done?”

The Blood Sage continued his monologue as though he hadn’t heard her. “It is because of Redmoon that our organization is known as a ‘cult’ at all. If I were in charge, we would be known as a research society.”

Yerin had to keep herself from laughing out loud.

He tore off a piece of paper and handed it to her. “Your analysis results. They will guide your own sacred arts, and while you are here I expect you will qualitatively benefit from my guidance on your techniques. Which you could have received earlier, had you cooperated.”

Now he had her attention. That was what she was here for.

When she reached for the paper, he pulled it back. “Never mind. I forgot you were uneducated. I’ll read it to you.”

Yerin snatched the paper from his hand and read it.

The Sage of the Frozen Blade had given her a basic language construct during the Uncrowned King tournament, but it wasn’t until recently that she’d really learned to use it. Lindon had taught her.

He was a more fun teacher than the Winter Sage.

“What do you mean saying I have an aspect deficiency and a madra imbalance?”

The Blood Sage gave a heavy sigh. “When something is deficient, that means it is lacking. There isn’t enough of it. An imbalance—”

“Scraped that together myself. What do you mean by saying it?”

“You’ve been neglecting your hunger madra.” The Blood Sage climbed up on a table and crouched on the edge; it was so casual that she wasn’t sure he was even conscious of doing it. “As you are aware, the Bleeding Phoenix is not pure blood madra. It is blood and hunger, which coexist as perfectly blended aspects. All other aspects it takes in from those it feeds upon are kept isolated from one another in semi-gelatinous spheres we see as drops, which gives the Dreadgod the appearance that it is bleeding.”

Yerin didn’t recall asking why the Phoenix looked the way it did.

“You have been replenishing your spirit with blood aura,” the Sage continued, “but there is no hunger element to it.”

“Monarchs themselves told me I didn’t have any more fences between me and advancing. You tell me that’s not true, and I’m calling you a liar.”

His face twisted comically, like he couldn’t swallow what she was feeding him. “Advancement? You have, of course, grown to a satisfactory degree as an Overlord Herald. You could advance to Archlord at any time, though you still need the requisite self-comprehension. This is purely about the present effectiveness of your sacred arts.”

Yerin was surprised, and a little suspicious, to hear that. “Haven’t felt my peak yet.”

“Your body and spirit are closer to perfect harmony than any other Overlord’s. The minimum required to advance is lower, but your full capacity is now higher.” He hesitated. “If you are capable, picture this flask as your spirit—”

“I’m keeping up,” she said shortly. “Work on my Path, and I’ll get stronger. How strong?”

His eyes glowed with a fervent light. “I would not dare to guess.”

Which was almost exactly what Lindon had told her. Good to know.

“So I need more hunger madra in my diet. You know where I could find hunger madra…”

“The traditional way is to intake pieces of the Phoenix that it sheds as it moves across the land. That is how Emissaries have grown since time immemorial, and now it is more accessible than ever, so long as we can be free of the Ashwind continent and return to the Dreadgod.”

The Sage chewed on his finger, but Yerin’s mind had moved ahead of him.

“There’s plenty of the Phoenix right here.”

Red Faith watched her without reaction.

“Your people and the Herald’s don’t dance to the same tune, do you?”

“As you have witnessed, Redmoon Hall is not the unified force it should be.” He gnawed a little faster on his knuckle. “I have earned the respect of those rational individuals who see the Bleeding Phoenix as it is: a readily available opportunity to earn great power. Redmoon works with those mentally deficient enough to treat the Phoenix as a genuinely divine being.”

Yerin suspected Redmoon would have used dramatically different words to answer that question. “Your people ever fight each other?”

“We allow the occasional duel. Blatantly killing and feeding on another’s Blood Shadow is too far, and grounds for expulsion from the sect. A raw Shadow from the Phoenix would be easier for you to digest as well. More expedient.”

Just as Yerin was going to continue pleading her case, he continued. “It is only too obvious what you plan to try. Redmoon will see immediately that you are targeting his people, but he will allow it while it benefits our research. Which your growth would accomplish.”

“Can’t imagine he’d let me grow enough to put a sword to his throat.”

“No. He will decide upon a level of loss that he will tolerate. He will not allow you to develop so far that you and I could join forces and defeat him.”

Yerin could feel the uneasy balance between the two Redmoon Hall factions in her mind. There had to be a way to tip the scales the way she wanted.

She rested a hand on her sword. “Jump that river when we get there. You ready?”

The Sage shook in place like a restless child and nodded furiously.

“Good. Got one more condition.”

He froze.

“I have a partner.”

* * *

Yerin burst out onto the deck, in the middle of a crowd of Redmoon Hall Emissaries. There were thousands of Hall members onboard the ship, but only those who had bonded a Blood Shadow were considered Emissaries.

Those were the only ones worth mentioning.

She caught sight of one of those that Red Faith had pointed out. It wasn’t hard; his Blood Shadow floated around his midsection in a ring and sprouted needles in time with his heartbeat.

Yerin had asked if there were any special Blood Shadows in the Herald’s faction. Like Yan Shoumei and her enhanced Shadow, Crusher.

While Crusher was a special case, of course there were Emissaries at every level of advancement who stood out. Some of whom could potentially provide a challenge even to Yerin.

“You Alden Zaius?” she asked. Netherclaw was bare and propped against her shoulder.

He nodded. Alden Zaius was an Overlord at least twenty years older than her, his skin scarred and rough. She knew from experience that scars like that would have been healed by advancement, so they must be relatively recent.

He was one of the toughest-looking men she’d ever seen if you didn’t count Monarchs, and the spikes rising from the ring-shaped Blood Shadow with every beat of his heart didn’t make him any softer on the eyes. No more than his Goldsign, which was made of more red spikes that covered his head like hair.

Yerin tapped her sword. “Looking to take your Blood Shadow.”

Alden scowled at her and his madra stirred. “I know who you are. The Sage will protect you.”

“Sage told me you were cracked in the head enough to worship a Dreadgod. Let me put in my Monarch eyes and tell you the future: I’ll be running this place inside the year. Only takes one person to finish their research, and you’re looking at her.”

Alden barked out a laugh. “Even if Redmoon allowed that, the Hall would never follow you.”

“Might be not. If they did, it’d just be for my power.” She extended a wrist. “Why don’t you take it?”

Now, Alden Zaius froze.

She’d been hoping he would fall for her taunts immediately, but this was good enough.

“Who knows what my blood essence would do for you? Can’t say I do. Got to imagine that would be a good test for the Sage. Wouldn’t be bad for them either if I took your Shadow and ate it like a nighttime snack, so I can’t see them twitching a finger to save either of us.”

Yerin’s Goldsigns stretched. “Does a duel sound sweeter to you now?”

Alden glanced down. The Herald’s madra remained stable from below, though Redmoon was clearly monitoring the situation.

The Overlord Emissary obviously took that as permission, because his eyes lit up. He spread his hands and circled her. “Not here,” he said.

“You lead on.”

He hopped over the edge of the ship and she followed. There were still many other Emissaries spread out here; the ship couldn’t go far, so many of them had made camp on the ground.

They looked up as Yerin and Alden landed on a hill covered in grass and sparse trees. For now. Yerin was sure that neither the trees nor the hill would make it more than a couple seconds into the duel.

“The Sage will know that you came to me with this,” Alden warned. “He will not punish me.”

Yerin tapped the flat of Netherclaw against her shoe. “You’ve got a bright opinion of yourself, don’t you?”

In an instant, red spikes shot out of the ring floating around his body and speared toward Yerin. She dodged one and met the other with her sword.

Her feet stayed in place, but the hill cracked beneath her.

Gray spikes rose from below her at the same time. Not sword madra, as she’d expected. Not quite. It was force madra, but if it was any sharper, it would be considered sword-aspect.

She leaped up, but a Ruler technique seized the force madra around her and sent her body plummeting down onto the spikes.

Yerin forced strength into her arm and slashed down. She smashed the first Forged spike with her blade, and the collision between the two dug a trench down into the earth.

The second impaled her through the stomach.

She clenched her teeth and grunted as it drove all the way through her, though it missed her spine. The spike withdrew quickly, and he didn’t follow up the attack. Waiting on a signal from the Herald.

Yerin stood up and launched a Rippling Sword.

Red lines of madra connected the hole in her middle, knitting her stomach back together. It still hurt, though not as bad as she imagined it would have before her merge with Ruby.

His Blood Shadow protected him from her Striker technique, but he had to tap deeply into his soulfire to block her Endless Sword.

Then her kick caught the ground beneath him and shattered his half of the hill. The earth exploded into soil like a splash in the ocean.

“Round—” Her mouth filled with blood as she spoke, and she spat it out. “…round two.”

The stronger she’d gotten as a Herald, the closer her body and spirit became. And the easier it was to heal herself with just blood madra.

If she had a Bloodforged Iron body like Lindon’s, she thought she might be invincible by now. But she liked her own Iron body just fine.

Alden Zaius was an Overlord with decades of experience, and he righted himself in midair immediately.

She appeared behind him in a flash of white.

Memories of the Uncrowned King tournament had been shared all over the world, and his faction had been one of the ones participating. He might have been there himself. He would certainly know about her Moonlight Bridge, and he did react immediately, sending a burst of force out from his Blood Shadow to push her back.

But knowing about it and being able to account for it in battle were two different things. Yerin’s black sword sliced through his Shadow before he pushed her back.

She tore a hole in his Blood Shadow. It would re-form, but it would take a second.

Yerin used the Moonlight Bridge again. This time, she appeared above him.

She punched him.

A shield appeared over his head, catching her fist. When that broke, there was a Forged spike of force madra. When that broke, he pushed out desperately with force madra.

That slowed her fist down for a fraction of a second before the punch caught him in the skull.

Alden slammed into the crater where the hill had once been, kicking up a cloud of dust.

His half-dispersed Blood Shadow was crawling together, but Yerin stole a chunk of it. She couldn’t yet Consume it like Lindon could, but Red Faith had given her pointers on drawing in blood essence. And the nature of a Blood Shadow was to find a new host.

When she pulled on it, the fraction of the Blood Shadow joined her spirit. Instead of satisfying her appetite, she felt a new spike of hunger.

Ruby knew that feeling. That meant it was working.

Yerin opened her soulspace and Little Blue stumbled out. She chirped a warning, mildly wary of the Blood Shadow being so close.

The spirit tugged on what looked like a white log, and a moment later the hunger spear followed her out of Yerin’s soul. Little Blue staggered under the awkward burden.

“Likely be easier if you were bigger,” Yerin pointed out. Lindon had said the same thing before they left, but it seemed Little Blue was attached to the first part of her name.

The Riverseed squeaked something that Yerin roughly translated to “I’ll do it myself.” She plunged the head of the spear into the remaining half of the Blood Shadow.

Blood madra flowed up the spear and into Blue’s arms. She shuddered, but maintained her grip on the weapon.

Yerin sat down next to her and patted her on the back with a finger. “Hang in there, Blue.”

Little Blue struggled as she absorbed more power. Her body even darkened, turning slightly purple. Finally, she could take no more and let the spear drop.

Yerin caught it and returned it to her soulspace. “Not so bad. You know how to cycle it?”

Little Blue chirped brightly, though she looked tired. Yerin propped the spirit up on her shoulder.

Then she looked out of the circle of devastation her battle had left to the remaining Redmoon Hall members. “Left him alive,” she announced. Then she hefted Netherclaw. “So who’s up next?”

9

No matter how many times Lindon assured Mercy that she could speak normally inside his Hollow Domain—his authority prevented them from being overheard, and they could sense anyone close enough to eavesdrop—she continued to whisper.

“Lindon, you can’t be talking like that,” she assured him, barely louder than a breath. “Why would you want to…rob…my mother, anyway? Aren’t you on our side?”

There was a lot implicit in that question that Lindon couldn’t address, but he could at least answer her main concern.

“Apologies. I put it like that because I thought it would intrigue you. I think, if we get the plans to your Book of Eternal Night, then we can disable the protections that prevent you from accessing pages you can’t handle.”

Dross projected a picture into the air: hand-drawn notes and diagrams in Lindon’s handwriting.

“I destroyed these after Dross memorized them,” Lindon continued, “but they’re based on my analysis of Pride’s Book and what I’ve seen of yours. It’s not the inherent nature of the power itself that stops you from opening pages beyond your ability, which is what I’ve always assumed; in theory, you could have opened the seventh page as a Lowgold.”

Dross drifted into existence, staring at Mercy with an eye that was now a darker purple than hers. [You would have been reduced to less than a memory in an instant if you had. You want to see my rendition?]

Mercy shuddered. “That’s another good point. Won’t that kill me?”

“There are a lot of possible outcomes besides death,” Lindon hedged. “You’re an Overlady now, not a Lowgold. But anyway, the point isn’t to let you fight like a Herald now, it’s to advance you as soon as possible. All the potential power you need to make it to the peak of your stage is in the Book; if we can access it, you can make it to the peak of Overlord as fast as you can process the madra. Maybe by tonight.”

Lindon watched a war on Mercy’s face. She was clearly fighting concerns he knew nothing of, some of which he could guess, and others he couldn’t. She bit her lip, shifted her gaze, looked into his eyes, appeared to be about to say something, and then looked away again…all in the span of a second.

[She’s hesitating,] Dross whispered into Lindon’s mind. [Convince her!]

I don’t feel like your motives are pure, Lindon thought back.

[I have a bet with myself that she will turn inside-out. But I have grown fond of Mercy, so if she lives, I am pleased. And if she dies, I am entertained. My plan has no flaws.]

Lindon tried not to scowl at Dross while Mercy wrestled with herself.

Finally, she looked him in the eye and asked, “Why?”

“I promised that I wouldn’t let you stay behind me,” he said. "I won’t fight alone again.” Belatedly, he added, “If you’re willing, of course.”

She relaxed, but she kept searching his eyes. “Lindon, can you…you don’t have to swear a real oath or anything, but…you’re not trying to bring down my family, are you?”

Lindon hesitated.

She had phrased that question in a way he could answer honestly, but if he did, it would be incomplete. He could tell her with one hundred percent sincerity that he had no intention of destroying the Akura clan, but leave out that he thought he might have to work against Malice.

Intentionally or not, she’d left him a way out.

“I don’t want to,” he said. “But I might have to fight…”

He tried to add “your mother” onto the end of that sentence, but his oath stopped him. He wanted too badly for her to pick up the clues and follow them to the truth.

“…your family,” he finished.

She didn’t step back in disgust, as he’d feared. She laid one black-gloved hand on him with hurt and regret in her eyes. “I’m so sorry about the way we’ve treated you, Lindon. Believe me, I know how my family can be. But we’ve fought together so much, and I know we’re on the same side. Can you give me the chance to prove it to you?”

With a frustrated sigh, he sank into the chair behind him…then he sprang up. “Pardon, that’s your chair.”

“I don’t mind!”

“No, it’s…” He ran a hand through his hair, then settled on the easiest track. “I swore an oath.”

She looked at him blankly. “Not to sit in my chair?”

“…no.”

If the oath had a list of things he couldn’t say, then he would have figured out a way around it immediately. But it triggered based on his intentions, meaning he could only stretch it so far.

And, as he learned long ago, oaths were stronger when made between more powerful souls. His oath was like a living thing, a spirit wrapped around his throat.

[Oh sorry, that was me,] Dross said, taking his tentacle from around Lindon’s neck.

Lindon didn’t explain anything more to Mercy, letting her come to her own conclusions. A moment later, she did.

“I trust you,” she said, and smiled brightly.

Lindon felt a weight leave his chest, and he bowed to her. “Gratitude.”

“So, robbing my mother…” She blew out her cheeks with a heavy breath. “I don’t know if she’d be angry enough to kill me or if she’d be impressed. She wants me to be more ruthless.”

“Pardon, but is this something you want to do? This is about you more than anything.”

“Of course! How embarrassing would it be if I kept letting you and Yerin show me up?”

[Too late,] Dross said, but fortunately only to Lindon.

“I could only make limited plans without knowing where she hides the schematics of your Books. If she always keeps them on her, then our only chance is to convince her to give them to you.”

[Please tell me she won’t! If she just gives them to you, there would be no danger at all.]

Mercy let out a breath. “Just an hour ago, she gave me a lecture on how I need to slow my advancement down. I guess you’re going too fast.”

Lindon had heard those warnings, and he planned to respond by speeding up.

“Then let’s assume she’ll be impressed by your resourcefulness in robbing her,” Lindon said. “Unless the Book is in her personal void space, in which case we’ll have to revert to a backup plan.”

“You have a backup plan?”

Dross projected Plans Two through Seven into the air. Lindon pointed to Plan Two.

“Removing the Book. I’m certain we could keep your level of advancement, though not all your techniques. And that’s easier than modifying a Divine Treasure.”

He moved his finger to the next plan. “Northstrider.” Inside the Hollow Domain, fortified by void authority, Lindon could speak the Monarch’s name without worry. “He has the resources to reverse-engineer the Book, and I’m sure he would love to get his hands on one of your mother’s creations. I don’t know if we can trust him, though, and of course he’s busy with the Dreadgods.”

He started to move on to the next plan, but Mercy looked at them in awe. “When did you have the chance to make these?”

[You’d be surprised how little of their time humans really use,] Dross responded. [You waste so much of it eating. Bathing. Sleeping. Lindon’s dreams are much more productive with me lurking in the depths of his mind.]

Since the rise of Dross’ current personality, Lindon’s nightmares had been much more vivid.

“I’m sorry all that effort will go to waste, Dross,” Mercy said. “I know where the plans are. All the Books are kept in a library here in the city, as part of a trial we have to go through when we advance to Gold.”

“Is there a duplicate Book of Eternal Night there, or are the plans stored there as well?”

“All the information about the Books is kept there. We’re not allowed to bring any of it out unless we bond a Book. They’ll let me in to take a look…” She hesitated.

“You can’t access it on your own?” Lindon guessed.

“…I have to ask. There will be a record, and my mother will hear about it as soon as she cares to look. Some other member of the family will look into it immediately, and they’ll come question me.”

Lindon nodded. That was a surmountable obstacle. “What security measures are there otherwise?”

“Even if nobody sees me, there are constructs watching. And a script-circle. Plus the plans are probably in a restricted void key.” Mercy’s shoulders slumped. “That’s a lot.”

[We will be as ghosts in the night, drifting through unseen.]

“We can do this,” Lindon assured her. “We just need some more observation.”

She glanced out the window. “We’ll be done before the Titan gets here, right?”

“If we’re not, that means the Titan traveled through space to arrive directly. We’ll all have more to worry about than your advancement.”

* * *

Charity watched from across the city of Moongrave as the top of a tower was shrouded in blinding light.

That was how her owl, flying around the tower, interpreted Lindon’s barrier. If the owl crashed into that domain, it would create a clash between her authority and his, which he would certainly notice. And she couldn’t fly it close enough to the tower to eavesdrop without them noticing.

But just this much meant Lindon had put considerable effort into speaking with Mercy privately.

Charity clenched her jaw. This was the problem with people advancing too quickly, too soon. An older, wiser sacred artist would work to avoid even the appearance of antagonizing a power like the Akura clan. He was going to try something foolish and damage his own bright future.

She just hoped his mistake wasn’t so bad that it couldn’t be fixed. If he underestimated a Dreadgod and was killed, or dragged Mercy into some foolishness and enraged Malice…

Something caught the edge of her senses, and she whipped the owl’s head around. She saw a tiny red messenger construct flitting by, one of ten thousand that zipped through the city’s skies every night.

There was nothing that seemed strange about it to the eye, but it wasn’t the owl’s vision that had noticed it. It wasn’t one of the owl’s senses at all. Charity had sensed the attention of another person focusing on her, just for a moment. Another will, watching her.

But she was far away from the owl, and such senses were unreliable remotely. It was just a messenger construct anyway. Even if someone was using it to watch her, all it would see was one of her owls flying in the night sky. A common sight.

Charity cut off her connection to the owl and resolved to warn Lindon before he got himself in trouble, putting the construct out of her mind.

* * *

Back aboard Windfall, Lindon turned to Dross. “So Charity’s watching us.”

Dross giggled. [What is the use of a million eyes with wings if you don’t use them to spy?]

“That’s what Eithan would have said,” Lindon responded absently. The messenger construct Dross had hijacked to monitor his meeting with Mercy had been spotted by one of Charity’s owls.

Honestly, Lindon was impressed that Charity could sense such a brief brush of Dross’ attention. He had only glanced through the owl for a moment.

“How can we use this?” Lindon asked Dross.

As requested, Dross began to work.

* * *

Orthos had barely crawled from his egg when he first heard the stories of the black dragons.

There were holes in his memories now, eroded by time and the damage caused by the Path of Black Flame, but these were still pristine. When he would shove around his smaller siblings, his mother would stop him.

Would a black dragon do that? They were the kings of the continent; far too proud to bully the young.

When he struck down prey larger than he was and dragged it back to their cave, she would praise him. That was a hunt worthy of a dragon.

He had never been ashamed of being a turtle. Others might not recognize his value, but he knew his nobility. He was the greatest of turtles, and a descendant of dragons.

And he explained as much to Ziel as they worked together to move debris in the spacious castle his ancestors had left behind.

He hadn’t wanted to waste soulfire on transforming back to his normal size, but he couldn’t dig nearly as fast when he was only a foot from nose to tail. Now that he was larger than a human again, he could dig through the collapsed hallway at speed.

Orthos burned the debris he could, but the chunks of masonry were made to withstand black dragon’s breath, so those he grabbed in his mouth and dragged away. Ziel smashed entire collapsed walls into manageable segments or levitated them away; he was strong enough to grab them and haul them away by force, if he could get a grip on them, but some were shaped or positioned too awkwardly to move easily.

Then there was the concern that disturbing the pile too much might bring half the castle down on them.

While they worked, Orthos reminisced. When his mouth wasn’t full.

“This castle must have been built by the empress Natarianath or one of her children. She’s one of my most noble ancestors. She protected her kingdom with fang and flame, turning back the tide from the Trackless Sea again and again.”

“I see,” Ziel said.

“The wall that now protects the northern coast of the Blackflame Empire was her work.” Orthos lowered his head to roll a twenty-foot boulder that looked like it might have once been the base of a statue. “She died pierced with a thousand spears when the fish-men ambushed her from the bottom of the sea, betraying their treaty.”

“Hmmm,” Ziel said.

“I can’t recall much about this Herald grandson of hers, Noroloth, but I have heard stories of a black dragon prince who had a rivalry with a rune-using Sage. Once, she tricked her way into his cavern, pretending to have an elixir that would heal his oldest son. Instead, she poisoned him, and he was never able to sire another egg. In revenge, he found the library where she stored her scripts and torched it.”

“Uh-huh,” Ziel said.

“Not that they thought of all humans as their enemies, of course. The difference between black and gold dragons is that we have an appreciation for destruction. We know when it is necessary, and we understand when it isn’t. Gold dragons don’t respect what they can do, which is why they are such tyrants.”

“Sure,” Ziel said.

Orthos went on for five more minutes before he began to suspect Ziel wasn’t paying attention. He gripped a fallen section of floor in his mouth and dragged it away—it was at least five times bigger than his body, and he marveled at his own Underlord strength.

The pile of debris shifted, and they both watched to make sure the ceiling didn’t cave in further. As they did, Orthos glanced at Ziel.

“What do you think?” the turtle asked.

“About what?”

Orthos’ mood darkened. So he hadn’t been listening. “About my words. It would serve you well to pay attention to your elders.”

“Gold dragons are tyrants because they ruled unopposed for too long,” Ziel said, with no particular inflection in his voice. “Many Monarch factions end up in a similar state when they have no rivals. Our record of the black dragon rule is too fragmented to know whether they were better rulers, but we know they certainly left more buildings behind than the golds ever constructed, in contrast to their destructive reputation. My own sect recorded the rivalry between the founder of the Path of the Last Oath and the children of Empress Natarianath. They said that the dragons were the ones in the wrong, so I was interested to hear the opposing perspective.”

Ziel’s green horns shifted as he tilted his head to the side. “I think we can make it through now.”

“Oh,” Orthos said.

Orthos had underestimated the human. Or maybe he had underestimated how fascinating his ancestors were.

Probably both.

While the outside of Noroloth’s castle remained intact, the inside had been ravaged by his battle against the Monarch intruder. Many of her scripts remained, silver runes floating in midair, which he suspected only hadn’t dissolved to essence because of the script that had locked the entire area.

They had to proceed slowly, clearing one step at a time, lest they come upon an active script that might kill them or trap them inside. Even now, some of the smaller scripts still had other bubbles of the castle frozen in time…or had reduced everything inside to a spinning vortex of dust.

Every time Ziel came upon any new script, he dutifully noted it down.

They were making good progress into the castle, but their care was scraping away Orthos’ patience. He couldn’t feel the Herald’s Remnant, and this fortress was the size of a city. He wanted to burn his way through the walls in search of it.

He wasn’t capable of that, given that this castle was built to withstand the attacks of Archlords and Heralds, but he wanted to. And they were crawling across the floor slower than a couple of…

Snails, Orthos thought firmly.

They hadn’t gone far past the collapsed hallway when they found another ring of shining silver runes. Ziel stopped to examine them, and Orthos waited patiently. Lindon and Dross had given him their best guess at the castle’s layout, but no one knew what changes the battle had wrought. This might be their best way forward to Noroloth’s Remnant.

“Preservation script,” Ziel said. “It’s another one.”

They could only see half the script. The ring of Forged symbols passed through the walls, and only half of them were visible from Ziel’s side. The circle revolved slowly, one rune passing into the wall and another emerging as it turned.

Ziel waited for half an hour, reading the entire script, as Orthos wandered and snacked on debris. He wanted to explore further, but there was no sense in getting separated now.

Finally, Ziel raised his hammer to his shoulder. It was the first movement he’d made in too long, so Orthos took it as a sign. “Well?”

“This wasn’t meant to hold for years,” Ziel said. “It was Forged quickly, like my techniques.” A green symbol flashed around Ziel’s hand and fizzled out, by way of demonstration. “Look, you can see some essence floating up here and…here.”

“Does that mean we can break it?”

“Yeah. But it suggests to me that Emala intended to come back here. When she sealed the castle with the Grand Oath Array, she must have thought it would preserve these lesser scripts until she could make it back.”

Which she hadn’t, if Orthos understood Lindon’s story correctly. The Rune Queen had left this castle and died soon after.

Ziel looked down to Orthos. “There could be an enemy in there.”

“An enemy of hers should be one of the black dragon Remnants. Let me lead the way.” Though just in case, he added, “…but stay close.”

It was not cowardice to know one’s own limits, it was foolishness to ignore them. Ziel was an Archlord, and Orthos was only an Underlord.

Asking for help prickled his pride anyway.

Ziel leaned close, examining the script. Orthos wondered how he was going to unravel it, until Ziel pulled his hammer back and smashed one of the sigils. The rest fizzled to essence in seconds.

“I could have done that,” Orthos said.

“Not everything needs a technical solution.”

“Good. Or I wouldn’t know what to…do you hear that?” Now that the frozen time had been released, a gust of air blew from the door, carrying with it an overpowering stench.

And that sound wasn’t the groaning of the metal, but the howling of wind.

Ziel had heard the same thing, because he threw the door open wide. And immediately halted.

A hole had been torn in the far end of the room, though it looked like it led to a larger area of the castle, not outside. The hole was still smoking.

So were the bodies.

Dead humans lay scattered around the room, some two dozen of them, and it was clear what had killed them. Black dragon’s breath. Their wounds were seared shut, some of them cut into pieces from the heat of the Striker techniques.

Remnants, broken into chunks, dissolved all over the room. The slaughter looked as though it could have happened moments ago…and if the Last Oath Monarch’s scripts really locked places in time, then maybe it had.

“Should have let them rot,” Orthos grumbled. He didn’t understand the point of preserving them at all, much less in two layers of preservation script. If she had wanted to preserve the bodies, the one on the entire castle would have been enough.

Ziel looked over the bodies with cold indifference. “Strengthens my theory. She wouldn’t have used the script to preserve this room if she intended to use a longer-lasting one on the whole castle. She must have Forged this to last for a few days, and when she realized she would take longer, then she used the Array to lay the working around the whole place.”

“But why preserve it at all?”

He shrugged. “Hope of survivors? My guess is that she wanted intact corpses to bring b—”

Orthos sensed a flash of power and dashed out of the way, but a Ruler technique controlled all the wind aura around him, sucking air from his lungs.

Ziel dispersed it with a wave of his hand. The pulse of broken wind disturbed the smoke.

A rattling breath broke the silence. Ziel controlled force aura to shove a body aside. Beneath that was a survivor.

A second glance made Orthos realize it wasn’t a survivor. Just another victim who hadn’t realized he was dead yet.

The gray-haired man wore sacred artist robes of green and white, but most of them had been scorched black. He’d been affected by a Blackflame technique Orthos had never seen before, one that left veins of black twisting through his flesh, dissolving him from the inside.

Orthos met the man’s eyes, and he saw no fear of death inside. Only hate.

Ziel stepped up, and Orthos shuffled aside to make room. He knew what had happened now. These were some lesser sacred artists who had accompanied their Monarch to attack the fortress of the black dragons.

They had gotten what was coming to them.

Emala, back when she was a Sage, must have brought lesser Lords and Golds with her to help with her siege. They had paid the price for their intrusion.

Ziel knelt at the man’s side and brought out his hammer. “Close your eyes. I’ll make it quick.” He didn’t sound sympathetic, but clinical and professional. It was one of the things Orthos liked about him.

When the dying man saw Ziel’s face, he changed. He tried to speak, coughed, and shuddered back. He seemed desperate to get something out.

The man patted his pockets, then awkwardly lunged at a body next to him. He fumbled at the pockets as Ziel watched him and waited for a response.

After a few seconds, the dying man brought out a purple-streaked river stone roughly the size of a coin. A dream tablet.

With the last of his strength, he pressed it into Ziel’s hand. Then he gave another rattling breath and sank down.

He still wasn’t quite dead. His chest rose and fell irregularly. But it was only a matter of moments.

With his head, Orthos indicated the entrance. “Come. Let’s not wait for his Remnant.”

He started to walk, but Ziel stood in place. He was frozen in place, holding the dream tablet. His cold expression cracked.

Revealing fury beneath.

A moment later he seized his huge hammer in one hand and dropped to his knees. He grabbed the man by the outer robe and shook him. “Why would you show me that? Huh? Why couldn’t you just die!”

Ziel raised his hammer and green sigils floated around it. Orthos dashed further away. From the amount of power gathering, Ziel was going to destroy everything in the room.

Only seconds later, the green ring faded. The waves of power slowly died, and he lowered his hammer. Then the man.

A Remnant was climbing out of the corpse.

Orthos eyed Ziel carefully. Clearly, he had seen something upsetting in the tablet, but Orthos didn’t know what would prompt that reaction. “Ziel? Are you all right?”

Wordlessly, Ziel tossed him the tablet.

Orthos caught it on the back of his head, then activated it.

He’s in a human body, and he’s running in terror as a massive form blocks out the sun. A black dragon. Its shadow stretches over their entire town, and its spiritual pressure crushes them all, even the Overlord that was meant to be their protector.

Its scales shimmer red, and he recognizes this dragon: Noroloth, son of the emperor. He was never supposed to come this far east.

For that, everyone the human knows is going to die.

He casts one terrified glance back at the people he’s known his entire life fleeing in all directions. Clouds of black-and-red fire gather overhead, slowly spinning. The sky is the color of blood and charcoal.

Why were the dragons coming for them? What had they done?

When the sky rains fire, he screams.

Orthos emerged from the dream tablet, but he wasn’t as easily riled as Ziel had been. He had lived long enough to know that matters were rarely as simple as they seemed on the surface.

For one thing, the man in the memory had been convinced he was about to die, but clearly he had survived to leave that dream tablet behind. Probably he had been one of those who died in this attack of vengeance on the castle.

For another, Orthos knew that to simply butcher a village of humans went against everything the black dragons stood for. They would have considered it shameful.

Noroloth had gone mad.

He recognized the symptoms of madra corruption from the Path of Black Flame. It wasn’t as common in dragons as in other species who practiced their sacred arts, and he wouldn’t have expected Heralds to have such weaknesses, but he would bet that was the case.

If that were true, Noroloth was as much to be pitied as anyone else. Orthos had spent decades of his life in such a state.

It could just as easily have been him killing those humans.

Ziel was breathing heavily in the hallway, leaning on his hammer and cycling his madra. The Remnant was nothing but shining dust, drifting upward. Orthos joined Ziel in the hall.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Orthos rumbled. “If it helps you, I’m certain the dragon was as much a victim as the humans. Spiritual corruption turns you into…an animal.”

“The dragon who burned my home was blue,” Ziel said.

Orthos stayed silent. The Weeping Dragon had attacked Ziel’s sect, but it had been the Storm Sage who destroyed the people. Along with torturing Ziel himself.

It must have been the emotions layered in the dream tablet that had really provoked Ziel. The fear. The despair. The pain.

Orthos had some of those memories too. He stayed quiet, offering nothing but his presence as Ziel gathered himself.

“He learned the wrong lesson,” Ziel said at last. “He kept drinking in the pain. Should have cut himself off.”

Orthos pushed the door shut with his head. “If you cut off a tree, it withers. It needs the rain to grow.”

Ziel sighed. “Sure.”

As weary as Ziel was, sometimes Orthos forgot that in the end, he was still a young human. With his body and spirit repaired, he had a long life ahead of him. He would learn.

They marched on through the unbroken hallway, each in their own thoughts. They weren’t as careful as perhaps they should have been, which Orthos would freely admit.

But they were paying enough attention that, when the ground crumbled under Orthos’ feet, they both reacted.

Orthos leaped, but he couldn’t get good footing, so he only flew a few feet to the side. The ground there had fallen too, into a black abyss.

He would certainly survive the fall. It wasn’t the impact he was wary of.

It was whatever was down there.

But Ziel had reacted at the same time, Forging a script-circle over the hole. A plane of force appeared between the symbols, and Orthos landed on that.

He huffed out smoke. “I could have grown wings when advancing to Underlord. I thought a shell would be more useful. If we find the spirits to get me to Overlord quickly, maybe I’ll try for both.”

Green light lit the hallway as Ziel ignited more scripts around his hammer. “Move,” he said.

Orthos hopped off the platform a second before a bar of black dragon’s breath pierced it from below and continued into the ceiling.

A veil had been dropped to allow that technique, so Orthos sensed his attacker before he saw it. The black dragon erupted from the darkness, snarling, its eyes blazing red circles. Its spiritual pressure drowned Orthos.

This was no ordinary guard, but a member of the nobility. Orthos didn’t recognize him, but it was easy enough to tell. The dragon was an Archlord.

His gaze passed over Orthos and settled on Ziel, and more dragon’s breath kindled in his jaws.

Ziel gripped his hammer, and—almost a thousand years after the fall of Shatterspine Castle—another battle between human and dragon began.

* * *

Iteration 074: Verge

Other Judges moved to check the Vroshir advance in other Sectors, and Suriel had been given the opportunity to move on. With Ozriel under her command, she could intervene in virtually any conflict and make a difference.

But there were just as many reasons to stay in place.

Most of the damage to the cosmos wasn’t coming from the Vroshir directly, but from the indirect effects of chaos unchecked. Even many of the Judges weren’t capable of repairing the worlds they saved after the fact.

That was Suriel’s job.

So she stayed in Iteration Zero-Seven-Four, Verge, and stitched together what pieces of reality remained.

The Way knitted planets back into one piece, and lives reappeared. That was the easy part; it was the brute-force work of restoration. The real healing, the part that required her unleashed Razor and her full concentration, was far more complicated.

She felt the wounds the Silverlord invasion had done to the destiny of this world. It was in a similar situation to Cradle, in a way; removing the memories of those who experienced the battle would cause more deviations than it solved.

However, leaving those memories would mean that everyone in the Iteration would make drastically different decisions than they would have before this event. They were aware of the outside world now.

There was only one change Suriel could make to the future that would line Verge up with its original destination.

She had to accelerate it.

Ozriel reappeared beside her with a monster in one hand that resembled a man-sized leech made entirely of abstract geometric shapes. He crushed it and the Class Three Fiend dissolved into nothing before her eyes.

“That should be the last of them. You could check with the Spider to be sure, since my eyes have been cruelly blinkered…but anything that can hide from me with six-star sight should be too deadly for this world.”

Should be, Suriel thought. That sounded like Ozriel was making dangerous assumptions, given that he could hardly see the future at the moment.

But her Presence concurred with his assessment, and Telariel the Spider was currently the busiest of all seven Judges. Suriel nodded while she made delicate cuts all over the world with her Razor.

The weapon blazed in her hand like a tree made of sharp light, and Ozriel examined it curiously.

“A subtle operation,” he observed. “You wouldn’t be removing their memories, or we’d be correcting deviations here for another month, so…speeding them on the way to apocalypse, are we?”

“I don’t know if you remember Verge, but it had a shorter lifespan than most Iterations to begin with,” Suriel responded. “It was always destined to end when their Highest Kings began binding Fiends to serve their purposes.”

“What a pity that someone couldn’t descend and warn them about the dangers of what they are destined to do.”

“They’re summoning monstrous beings from beyond reality. They know it isn’t safe. But in every branch of Fate, they choose to do it anyway.”

She found a prince and a rogue researcher who were supposed to meet several decades later. Their relationship was a faint line in Fate, and she empowered that connection so that destiny would draw them together sooner rather than later.

Ozriel put manacled hands on his hips. “Sure would be a great time to have some Executors. Toss ‘em in, wait until the Fiend summoners are destroyed, and haul ‘em back. It’s like fishing!”

“You know how that always turns out.”

On the other side of the world, Suriel touched up the ruins of an ancient temple, restoring it enough that it would be discovered years sooner than otherwise. In its depths were insights into the Void that would lead to the summoning of Fiends.

Ozriel observed the world, watching her work. “It must hurt you to heal them so that they can destroy themselves.”

“It used to,” she said. “Now, I’ve seen how bad it can get. I won’t risk this world deviating from Fate and dissolving into corruption.”

In only a few years, she’d seen the Abidan control fall apart, and what kind of destruction that had wrought on innocent worlds. If they interfered and caused the inhabitants to deviate from Fate, it would only be worse in the long run.

“If only there were someone who could interfere without warping the very fabric of reality around them,” Ozriel mused. “People who could change the future without violating the Eledari Pact or ruining Fate completely. Some kind of Exec—”

Suriel whirled on him, and she shoved her blazing Razor under his chin. “Stop! Don’t talk like this is a joke. It’s not a joke, it’s not a game, and the solution is not so simple. These are people’s lives. You know that, so don’t make light of them.”

She returned her weapon to the task but continued talking. “More than anyone, I understand why you left. You saw them as people, as individuals instead of numbers. I respected you for that. Don’t lose it now.”

Once again, Ozriel didn’t react as she’d expected. She expected him to take off his jovial mask and reveal the ancient weariness beneath, but his smile didn’t retreat. It only softened.

“You know,” Ozriel said, “when I first descended to Cradle, I took myself seriously. I worked according to my predictions and my best calculations, though of course I had to leave most of myself behind to fit in a mortal body. I acted like I was there on a sacred mission, and I failed as spectacularly as I ever have.”

The Reaper looked out over the world of Verge and spoke of his failure almost proudly. “By my actions and my blindness, I led many of my descendants into death. I considered revealing myself then and there to change Cradle by force. The biggest temptation was to give up on my goals and get you to restore my family to life.”

Suriel almost said she couldn’t have done that, but he forestalled her.

“I know! They were killed by their enemy in Cradle, and I was playing by the rules when I set the events in motion. It would have been more of a deviation to resurrect them than to leave them dead. Even so, I wanted to ask. But I didn’t. I stayed the course.

“Having failed once, though, gave me something of a…fatalistic humor about the whole situation. If I was going to try anyway, why not have some fun with it? And over the years, a crazy thing happened: I did have fun.”

He gave her a smile that invited her to join him. “Just because the job is grim doesn’t mean you have to be, does it?”

Ozriel had said that to her already, centuries ago. He had joked around more than any of the other Judges she had ever known, but always with an…edge. A palpable sense of sadness that hung behind every smile.

Now, it felt like he had pushed some of his burden aside.

She envied him for that.

“Did you succeed?” Suriel asked him. It was a foolish question. She was better able to answer that question than he was, since she could look into Fate, but she wanted to know what he thought.

“In part, that’s up to you,” he said. “In part, it’s up to my students.”

Suriel thought of Wei Shi Lindon and felt a heavy regret. She knew Ozriel had deceived the entire Court, but she still took it as a personal failure that she had been staring at him all this time and still missed him. Since his return, she hadn’t looked for Lindon even once.

Somehow, she felt like she’d failed him too.

Ozriel saw her expression but continued happily. “I guess everything comes down to you and me, doesn’t it? Isn’t that comforting!”

Suriel looked back over the world that was destined to destroy itself out of greed and ambition. She couldn’t fix them. She couldn’t even save them. The best she could do was speed their path so she could save others.

“I hope it works,” Suriel said.

“So do I.” He watched a moment longer and then conjured a pair of cups from another world. “Tea?” he offered.

Silently, she accepted.

10

The Sage of Red Faith crouched in midair in his laboratory, suspended in a cocoon of cloud madra and surrounded by shadow so he would not be distracted by physical sensations.

Instead, he immersed himself in Yerin’s memories.

Her most personal recollections were vague, which he found frustrating. What was the point of privacy when it inhibited accuracy? It wasn’t as though he cared about her relationship with the young Void Sage or with anyone else.

Though he did consider requesting more memories of Eithan Arelius. He had only restrained himself so far because he didn’t want to reveal his intentions openly to Yerin; his impression of her from the beginning had been one of unnecessary defiance, and her memories had only reinforced that conclusion. If she knew he wanted her knowledge of Eithan, she would begin withholding it out of sheer spite.

But as irritating as it was to have potential information denied by petty personal concern, he still had plenty of material to work with. He had brought Yerin in for six sessions of memory recording now, and while some of the information was redundant, there was much to learn even from overlapping accounts.

Mind-spirits buzzed around his head, echoing his own thoughts and keeping him focused, and he had elevated his own consciousness with an elixir.

Thanks to those constructs, he knew that he was approaching a conclusion.

He was also fully aware that he was trying to escape that conclusion.

The Sage of Red Faith tapped into a stored memory, reliving his own relationship with his Blood Shadow. After working in the labyrinth and studying the original nature of the Phoenix, he had withdrawn one of its eggs for his own examination.

He had intentionally created a Blood Shadow and established a symbiotic relationship with it, confident in his willpower. He was more aware than anyone else of the spirit’s mutability; it would take on the traits of whatever it fed upon, and he could think of no better model than himself.

Red Faith had developed the cycling patterns to feed the Shadow his own excess dream aura and blood essence, even pieces of his lifeline. When it needed raw material, he would kill one of his enemies, feeding the choice pieces of them to his Shadow.

For years, he had thought that was his mistake. He should never have supplemented its diet with others, which had corrupted the copy of him he was cultivating.

The Shadow grew more and more unruly over time, unwilling to become the subordinate copy of himself that it was created to be. Even as they grew into a pair and dominated other Sages and Heralds—even challenging Monarchs, at the height of their power—the Shadow became less willing to admit that Red Faith was the host, the original, and it was his will they shared.

Now, the Sage of Red Faith could not escape the clear contrast between his relationship with the Blood Shadow that would become Redmoon and Yerin’s relationship with the Blood Shadow that would become Ruby.

When the time came for him to merge with his Shadow, each had attempted to dominate the other. They tried to take as much as they could with minimal concessions.

Yerin and Ruby, by contrast, had reached the same conclusion at the same time. They had cooperated perfectly, willing to give up control to the other to accomplish a mutual goal.

The Sage’s willpower slipped his restraint. His cocoon of cloud burst, his mind-constructs screamed and broke, and even space began to warp.

He gathered his thoughts and exercised his authority for restoration, healing the damage he had done in an instant. Frustration should not cost him materials.

Even if it meant he had wasted decades, if not centuries.

All this time, he’d been searching for the flaw that caused his copy to fail. Did he raise its level of existence too fast? Did he feed it too much on the thoughts of others, causing their identities to diverge? Did he feed it too much dream aura too early, and it became self-aware before becoming subordinate to him?

In the end, he couldn’t deny the pattern he was seeing. The idea the Blood Icon resonated with, telling him that it contained truth.

He didn’t fail because he created an imperfect copy.

He failed because he created a perfect one.

The Sage of Red Faith had never subordinated himself to the will of others, which he had thought would create an iron will in his Blood Shadow. Instead, it created a Shadow unwilling to work with him.

Anything he wanted, he took, because he was working for a higher goal and could put it to better use. He had expected his Shadow to understand the nobility of that purpose, but instead he created a copy that took what it wanted without any consideration for his ambitions.

Point by point, the facts became clearer until they were inescapable.

The Sage of Red Faith had failed, not because of insufficient preparation or intellect, but because of who he was.

This was the knowledge he had sought for most of his career, and now he had it. With this, he could develop a training method that would result in the more reliable creation of humanoid Blood Shadows. He could very well have achieved a breakthrough the likes of which even Eithan—or rather, Ozmanthus—Arelius never dreamed. When he perfected this process, he would go down in the history of Cradle.

It felt empty.

He felt Yerin in combat somewhere nearby. She was approaching the limit of Redmoon’s patience, and Red Faith had agreed to support her plan primarily because of how much irritation it would cause his Blood Shadow.

Now, he didn’t care much. About any of it.

He strode out of his laboratory and wandered the halls of their cloud fortress, ignoring the greetings of those he passed. He shoved the doors open when he found Redmoon—the Herald wasn’t in his audience hall this time, but in the control room of the cloud fortress itself.

Redmoon had been speaking with the pilot and a pair of navigators, but he had also sensed Red Faith coming, and so was prepared for him. The Herald wrung pink hands in impatience and spoke as soon as the Sage came in.

“I take it you’ve made a breakthrough in your research.”

Without a word, the Sage of Red Faith tossed him a dream tablet containing his conclusion and the reasoning behind it. It was short.

Redmoon witnessed the thoughts in moments and scanned the rest of the memories rather than experiencing them completely.

“I see,” the Herald said. “So the flaw was in you all along, as I proposed from the beginning.”

“The flaw is in us both, but I believe it can be avoided in others. We will develop psychological and interpersonal training to be used as part of the humanoid Shadow cultivation method.”

Redmoon tilted his head. “The flaw was in me as well, inherited from you, but I have overcome it. You cannot do so because you fail to see yourself accurately. I can indeed subordinate myself in the spirit of cooperation. I intend to serve the Bleeding Phoenix now that its will has been woken from its long sleep.”

The other members of Redmoon Hall scurried away, as they always did before a conflict between the two leaders of their sect.

The Blood Sage examined the icy fury inside of him and found it quite reasonable. “Idiot. How could you come to that conclusion with the information I provided you? We should have cooperated because our goals were mutual.”

“What do you imagine the Bleeding Phoenix’s goals are?” the Herald countered. “They are the same as any other biological being: to survive, feed, and replicate itself. Now that it is conscious, it sees us as its children, and we can accomplish our goals with its backing.”

“We can accomplish any of our goals with its corpse,” the Blood Sage spat. “It is a bird, do you understand? It is a fat mutant swollen with power; it is no god, and we have no reason to dread it.”

His boiling frustration had bubbled up and finally burst, but he knew he had made a mistake when he saw the faint hint of a smile flicker across Redmoon’s mask of a face.

Flawed or not, the Sage of Red Faith was no idiot…though he felt like one at the moment.

He saw what Redmoon had done, how the Herald had taken a false position to maneuver the Sage into a corner, but it was too late. Red Faith had been too slow to realize, too caught up in his own failure.

He didn’t need to extend his spiritual perception to know that Redmoon had activated a script on the control panel behind him, broadcasting their conversation to the rest of Redmoon Hall.

Red Faith had been too used to the status quo. His Blood Shadow had never moved against him, all this time, because the Herald needed a Sage. Only the two of them together could resist the experts of the Monarch factions.

Now, the situation had changed, and Redmoon had been the first to recognize it. He wouldn’t need a Sage anymore if he had the Phoenix, fully empowered and self-aware.

In that first moment, the Sage of Red Faith tilted his head to his twin and long-time opponent. He conceded the match.

Redmoon the Herald gave a fractional nod in return. A gracious victor.

But not a merciful one.

A fake expression covered Redmoon’s face: crazed anger. He bit through the skin of his knuckle in feigned outrage. “Traitor! I knew your selfish pursuits would lead you to betray us one day. If you have any conscience left within you, surrender yourself to face the punishment of the Hall!”

They both knew that wasn’t going to happen.

Red Faith knew what his opposite would expect. The Sage had only one advantage over the Herald, and he would try to escape by traveling through the Way. However, if Redmoon were ready for that, he could disperse the Sage’s working.

In case he couldn’t, Redmoon had strategically placed Archlords nearby. One of them was still in the room, another in the hall outside, and two more on the deck above.

While none would be Red Faith’s opponent individually, he couldn’t overwhelm them either, and they had enough refined control over their willpower to interfere with his workings. But if he kept the fight to raw sacred arts, the Herald would always have an advantage.

His options were limited, but worst of all was doing nothing.

And he did have some preparations of his own.

From his soulspace, the Sage of Red Faith summoned a set of nine floating daggers. They appeared immediately and shot in nine different directions.

Redmoon knocked them from the air before they could kill his subordinates, but that was a moment of distraction. The Sage’s void space tore open, a ragged red hole in the world, and he pulled out a gatestone and crushed it to sapphire powder in an instant.

As the transportation began, the Herald’s will crashed down on him like a wave, anchoring him in place. Blue light shone, then faded.

The Sage allowed it; the gatestone was only a diversion. While Redmoon focused on that, Red Faith began a new transportation.

His authority was not well-suited to spatial travel, but centuries of practice had their benefits. He disappeared from the cloudship and appeared outside, on a grassy plain beneath the sun.

A hand grasped him by the back of the outer robe and hauled him back.

Red Faith knew what had happened without needing his senses to confirm. Redmoon had torn his portal back open and seized him, more quickly than the Sage had hoped.

Red Faith controlled flying daggers with his mind, driving eight of them at the Herald. One he caught with his own hand, whereupon he struck out with a Striker technique layered over an Enforcer technique.

Scarlet madra crashed into the Heralds fist and splashed around him like water crashing into a boulder.

The Blood Sage turned off his own sense of pain just in time.

Redmoon hurled him through the wall, and he crashed through room after room before slamming into the inside of the outer hull. This fortress had been constructed and scripted to endure the presence of a Dreadgod, and had recently withstood even a Monarch-level battle. The Sage of Red Faith was not capable of breaking it with his body alone.

Unfortunately, it was capable of breaking him.

His consciousness was only scattered for a moment before he initiated his own inner Enforcer technique, which knitted his bones and flesh back together.

Not in time. The Herald loomed over him, and his command of blood aura lifted Red Faith into the air.

Red Faith met the eyes of his copy and matched his will.

“Release,” the Blood Sage commanded.

For an instant, the Herald’s control of the blood aura broke, and Red Faith’s body was free again. In that fraction of a second, Red Faith dashed for the ceiling…and then he froze. The Herald had reestablished control.

The point of Red Faith’s dagger drove into the ceiling. While the outer hull was nearly impervious, the decks overhead were not. They were made of ordinary, if high-quality, wood, and that had been his chance to dig his way out.

He felt himself pulled down by blood aura, his limbs spread out as he drifted before his former Blood Shadow. Redmoon stroked his chin and examined Red Faith from every angle.

“Do you know what I will do to you?” the Herald asked curiously.

Of course he did. Exactly what the Sage himself would do were their positions reversed.

“Force me into a situation in which I have no choice but to bind myself in soul oaths, then use me as a tool to accomplish your ambitions.” It was the most practical solution.

Traditional wisdom said that soul oaths could not be coerced, but Red Faith had discovered exactly the boundary at which that restriction became vague. Compelled soul oaths were weaker, but they would be binding enough.

Redmoon nodded. “After all this time, we will be united in purpose.”

They would be.

Red Faith tried to set aside his anger, his hatred, and his bone-deep rejection of working for the purposes of another. Maybe this was the way forward. Maybe this was how he could overcome the flaw that had ruined his ascension to Monarch, so long ago.

He couldn’t do it.

He would rather toss his soul to the nameless creatures in the Void than be kept as a slave by this ghost of himself.

Any sentient individual had authority over their own body, and as a Sage tied to the Blood Icon, he had exceptional control over the flesh. The Sage of Red Faith focused his will on his own heart and began to squeeze.

As expected, Redmoon turned all his power and attention against him, but this was where he was outmatched. The Sage of Red Faith gave him a cold smile as both of them wrestled for control.

They were both absolutely focused…until they felt power gathering.

Somewhere outside the ship, perhaps a mile away, one of their number was gathering massive power into a technique. It must have been one of the Archlords, but the Blood Sage could spare no part of his brain for speculation, nor could either of them extend their perceptions for a better look.

Even noticing that power cost him ground, as the grip of the invisible fist around his own heart loosened, bringing him that much closer to failure.

Redmoon’s cheek, with its milk-white line traveling through it, twitched like the last nerve response of a corpse. Sweat ran into Red Faith’s eyes, and he couldn’t spare the attention to stop it.

Then the room was lit by a flash of white light.

Yerin appeared a step to the side, her sword drawn back for a thrust. Soulfire, madra, and aura twisted around the blade into a dense star of power. Her hair whipped in the wind it kicked up, and her expression was tight as a bowstring.

He had time only for that glimpse before she stabbed forward, and her Final Sword technique blasted the Herald away.

Light and energy filled the cloud fortress in a roaring river, and Redmoon was launched through the entire center of the ship. When the sword of light faded, Red Faith could see his smoking form through a tunnel of broken walls.

The Herald raised his chin, wiping blood from his lip, and looked at the Sage. While there was a hole in Redmoon’s robes, baring his chest, his body was unharmed.

White light winked out as Yerin took her Moonlight Bridge and fled.

A moment later, the Sage of Red Faith followed.

She had used her Divine Treasure to appear on the ground below, so it took him only an instant to follow.

“Bleed and bury me,” she said, when he arrived. “Not even a scratch.”

Red Faith examined her expression, attempting to read her mind. The Herald would be only moments behind them, but the current problem itched at him. There was only one conclusion he could come to.

“Well done. Without my expertise, research into your unique condition could not continue. One of us alive has no value, but the both of us together—”

“Top of that mountain, go,” she interrupted.

She disappeared again as Redmoon’s perception swept over them and an alarm sounded aboard Redmoon Hall’s cloud fortress.

The Sage kept his perception locked on her, and when he felt her arrive, it was easy to make his way to that location. Her Moonlight Bridge could be tracked in principle, but it was difficult to do so. He had helped design it that way.

They stood on a snow-capped peak a moment later. Icicles strong enough to shred an Iron’s skin blew sideways into the wind, smashing harmlessly on their skin.

Yerin glared at him with her arms crossed. “We had a good pace set, and you had to go on and flip the whole boat!”

“Your ‘boat’ was flipped upon me, but I will have my revenge. You and I will raise up our own followers, and we will annihilate his Redmoon Hall. Red Faith Research Society will be the scourge of the—”

Redmoon flew for them like a scarlet comet, and Red Faith Forged a flock of a thousand birds to strike at him.

Yerin disappeared again, and he followed her.

“Rather drink a tall glass of nails than join a sect like that,” Yerin picked up when he reappeared. They stood in some foothills now, amid a herd of bison-like creatures he thought might have been known as Thunderstep Grazers, but he didn’t have the time to examine the shape of their hooves to tell for sure.

Yerin snapped her fingers in front of his face. “That cow better be hiding the secrets of reaching Monarch.”

“I have invaluable research materials aboard the cloud fortress, not least of which are the dream tablets containing your recollections.”

“I’ll give you new ones!”

“That does not lessen the value of those that exist. Memory is mutable, and multiple dream tablets of the same memory tend to differ signific—”

She seized him by the front of his robes, and he allowed it because she didn’t seem to have any hostile intentions.

“Wake up! I don’t need a lesson, I need a Sage!”

Why did other people assume that theoretical understanding and practical application were mutually exclusive? Just because one understood the theory didn’t mean he was incapable of applying it in practice. He was about to say so when he realized that would prove her point.

He sat down on a sleeping Thunderhoof Grazer and chewed on the tip of his finger, letting the pain sharpen his attention.

Yerin released his robe, but she stared at him in disbelief. “You taking a break now? Your fire’s all burned out? Well, you get all curled-up and cozy, because I’m gone.”

“Redmoon won’t follow us,” he said absently. He continued chewing on his finger as she extended her perception to find he was right. “By the time he opened up a rift behind us or reached us with a technique, we would be gone. If he did catch us, he would outpace everyone else, so he would be fighting the two of us alone.”

Yerin brightened considerably. “That’s a gem and a half. What’ll it take for us to bury him and take over your Hall?”

The Blood Sage examined her and wondered if her sense of humor was as strange to everyone else as it was to him. “It is not as simple as the two of us defeating him in a duel. You are aware of this. A sect as old as Redmoon Hall has many resources at its disposal that cannot be easily equaled, including script formations and construct networks that allow lesser sacred artists—even Golds—to participate against us in some minimal capacity.

“But you are aware of this. Even if you were as simple as you seem, the cognition enhancement construct of the Eight-Man Empire would not allow you to leave so much of your mind unused. You have a goal of some kind.”

“If you’d placed that bet, you’d be getting paid right now.” She slammed Netherclaw into its sheath and leaned her shoulder against a Grazer’s shaggy hide. It paid her no attention. “Let’s lay out the map. There’s two halves of Redmoon Hall: one half wants the Phoenix as a mother hen, and the other half just wants to squeeze every drop out of it they can get.”

The Blood Sage waited for her to finish, but not patiently. The Grazer on which he was perched had begun stirring in its sleep.

“I’ve got a goal myself: gut the Phoenix and use its soul in a shiny new sword. Tell me if I’m wrong, but I’d say your half of Redmoon Hall would be the ones walking away rich if we could make that happen.”

That was her plan?

“We lack the time for me to list how many ways ‘slaying a Dreadgod’ is not a viable option. It is far beyond our current means. Do you even know—”

He stopped. He began chewing on his thumbnail.

“…you explored the labyrinth. You encountered Subject One. You must be aware of how the Dreadgods may be killed…and in such a scenario, the Monarchs could not necessarily monopolize the materials of the Phoenix. You could potentially take its core binding and leave the rest of its materials to us.”

Red Faith was relieved, and somewhat impressed. He had assumed she was talking about killing the Bleeding Phoenix without a plan to rely on, but he should have known that Eithan Arelius’ apprentices would have their own means. “How do you intend to remove the Monarchs from Cradle?”

Yerin’s red eyes were wide. She blinked twice, slowly.

“Few things just snapped into place for me,” she admitted.

Red Faith’s expectations crashed back down to earth.

“If you didn’t know, then you were speaking too boldly out of youthful ignorance.” He spat out a piece of thumbnail and continued chewing. “I suppose Lindon was the one to discover the truth, and one of the Monarchs made him swear secrecy.”

“Monarchs must have trusted you like a brother if they didn’t make you swear.”

“I was one of those who proved the entanglement of the Monarchs and hunger aura in the first place, though it was an established theory long before me. I swore my secrecy to Monarchs of the previous generation, and it was their oversight not to consider I might outlive them.”

“So…the Monarchs…”

“It’s their presence on Cradle that allows for the existence of the Dreadgods.”

Had Ozmanthus truly explained nothing to these adopted children?

Yerin spat on the grass. “Bleed and bury them, then. Wait, does that mean I can’t make it to Monarch?”

“Not if you wish to both stay here and remove the Dreadgods.”

“That’s the road we’re walking, then.”

The Blood Sage would say this for Yerin; she adjusted quickly. She took that news in stride and continued.

“All those sharp and shiny weapons you said Redmoon Hall has? I want ‘em. Let’s go get ‘em.”

“That’s not a plan.”

“Never said I had one. If you can’t come up with a plan to take over your own sect when you’ve got a Sage in your back pocket and an Overlady who could advance to Herald any second, then might be you’re not the biggest brain in Cradle like you think you are.”

Yerin patted the shoulder of the Grazer, but her red eyes were locked on his. He had been inside her head, felt her insecurities and her fears. How they drove her. She watched him now with the reckless bravado of the very, very young.

But she wasn’t wrong.

The Blood Sage reached once again into his void space. This time, he pulled out a syringe filled with a shining violet elixir. Yerin shied back from it, but it wasn’t for her. He had to be sharp for this.

He plunged the needle into his own arm.

11

After Mercy left, Lindon and Dross waited a few moments for her to grow distant. Cold wind blew beneath the dark skies of Moongrave. He watched glowing flower petals drift by on the wind and clutched Suriel’s marble tight.

Guide me, he whispered silently. He didn’t even know if Suriel could hear him.

Maybe Eithan could. That was both disturbing and somehow comforting.

When he sensed Mercy was far enough away, Lindon turned toward a seemingly empty corner of the roof. “Reveal,” he commanded.

And with the authority of the Void Icon, he stripped Charity’s illusion away.

The Sage of the Silver Heart stood calmly with her black-and-violet robes fluttering in the breeze. Her hair was tied back with a silver ribbon, her expression calm.

She raised one eyebrow. “Dross has grown. I thought he was damaged in the Titan’s attack on your valley.”

“Charity.” Lindon pressed his fists together and bowed. “I would be grateful if you would overlook this.”

“Inciting a member of our head family to steal one of our core secrets is a grave offense. Especially for a Sage. Power like yours carries heavy responsibility.”

“If it lightens my punishment, I knew you were there from the beginning. I was hoping to speak with you.”

Charity’s face was an icy mask. “What are you dragging Mercy into?”

“I want her to help us fight the Dreadgods.”

She gave a humorless laugh. “You take them too lightly.”

“If Yerin and I can fight them now, Mercy can catch up.” He leaned closer, projecting honesty. “She could be a real asset. With your father gone, you’re missing a pillar of the family. Humanity is weaker than it has been in…I don’t know how long. Don’t you need her at our level now rather than later? Why hold her back?”

He was telling the truth, if not the whole truth. He wanted Mercy stronger so that she could help him pressure the Monarchs into advancing. Even if she wouldn’t fight her mother, the other Monarchs wouldn’t fully trust Malice when her daughter was set against them.

But one step at a time.

“Rushed advancement almost always results in damage or instability,” Charity said. “Exceptions do not change the rules, and this situation is not necessarily the existential threat you imagine. We have endured other Dreadgod assaults, and we will endure this one.” She folded her hands in front of herself. “One might begin to suspect you had ulterior motives, Lindon. Even that you were working against us.”

Lindon tried not to sweat.

[She knows,] Dross whispered. [Use the traps.]

It was difficult to hide things from the senses of a Sage, but not impossible. Especially for another Sage.

Beneath Charity’s feet lay a host of concealed scripts and constructs, all placed by Lindon days ago. Just in case.

They were part of Lindon’s backup plan, but as that plan involved fighting Charity and escaping, he didn’t want to use it.

“I’ve kept my oath,” Lindon insisted. “I haven’t told Mercy anything. But I don’t see how keeping her at Overlord is an advantage. The Book has everything she needs, so she could advance as quickly as she could acclimate to the forces.”

“I know it’s possible, but it is not beneficial for her. She is in no danger from the Dreadgods. Frankly, it sounds to me like you are trying to manipulate her without her knowledge. Which I will not allow.”

The air around Charity darkened, and Lindon felt frustration burning in his chest. “Then you tell her!” He realized he’d shouted, and moderated his tone. “Apologies. But I don’t like keeping this secret. If she knew the situation, she could make her own decision.”

Charity revealed nothing of her thoughts. “If her mother thought Mercy needed to know, she would have told her. Or I would have.”

“Mercy would want Malice to ascend rather than endangering others.” When Charity didn’t react, he pushed harder. “Apologies, but you have to know it’s true. Mercy would never allow the Dreadgods to keep killing people when it’s possible to remove them.”

Charity’s eyes widened. Just slightly, but Dross made sure Lindon couldn’t miss it.

And Lindon interpreted the sudden shock and horror that cracked the mask.

Dross gasped in delight when he recognized what Charity’s expression meant, and pressure tightened around Lindon’s throat. Malice had made him swear not to reveal the truth “to the uninformed.”

The intention was more important than the phrasing, but Lindon had known what she meant. His own intent was clear.

He wouldn’t reveal the connection between the Monarchs and the Dreadgods to anyone he wasn’t certain already knew. And he had been certain that Charity did.

Malice had told him already that she told Sages and Heralds. How would she not have told her own granddaughter?

Dross calmed down from his uproarious laughter to speak, [Aaahhhh, but that’s not what she said! She tells Sages and Heralds that have a good chance of advancement, or that get close to the truth on their own. Charity has never tried to advance to Monarch. She’s never wanted to. And now…we get to see what’s on the other end of total spiritual collapse!]

The world was darkening around Lindon. His madra channels hurt worse than they ever had since he’d absorbed the Diamond Veins. His spirit was twisting itself in knots like a wet rag being wrung dry.

Since before he’d advanced to Copper, he had known that oaths had heavier weight the more powerful the souls involved. At the time, he’d never thought he’d grow this powerful.

Now he was paying the price for that power.

His senses were already hazy and dark, but he was pretty certain he was lying face-down on the roof. Would he die?

[Maybe not,] Dross said, and he was calmer now. [There’s no telling. We head forth into the unknown…together.]

Lindon had many regrets. He regretted that he was dragging Dross down with him for his own stupid mistake. He regretted that he hadn’t been able to keep the promises to the others. He wanted to see Yerin one last time.

And he wished Malice had warned him.

He should be at peace, but he was still bitter. He couldn’t help but think this had been a trap.

* * *

Mercy’s part of the plan went flawlessly.

She ended up in the library where the Books of Seven Pages were all kept. Akura Constance wasn’t even suspicious; she was honored that Mercy had come to visit at all. Constance was old enough to be Mercy’s mother—not as old as Mercy’s mother, of course, not by centuries—but she held Mercy in awe, and asked question after question about the Uncrowned King tournament.

As well as some nervous questions about the sky turning black, and the approaching Dreadgod, though she assured Mercy that she wasn’t pressing for any family secrets.

Mercy answered and reassured the woman as best she could, and by the time she got around to asking about opening the restricted records, Mercy didn’t even have to invoke her mother’s name. Constance just opened it up and let Mercy take whatever she wanted.

If Mercy had cleaned out the library of all the records and all the Books, she suspected Constance would have asked if she needed a bag to help carry it all.

Mercy only suspected something was wrong when she left the scripts around the library and couldn’t contact Dross.

She knew something was wrong when she flew back to the rooftop and found Lindon gone.

The next place she checked was Windfall, in case he had been forced to flee. It was abandoned, and the guards of the hangar hadn’t seen him all day. She checked her office. Then she put out word in the clan to look for him.

Everyone was preparing to face the Wandering Titan, so a missing Sage was high priority. Charity wasn’t in the city, but a few Archlords remained to join in the search. No one could find him.

Mercy even called her mother’s name, but the Monarch didn’t answer. That, in itself, wasn’t surprising. There was a Dreadgod on its way, after all.

But all throughout the night, Mercy never stopped searching.

* * *

Charity felt Malice all alone in a cloud fortress, like a miniature model of Moongrave floating on a dark purple cloud. It was one of the many fortresses made in that style Malice preferred, the aesthetic of foreboding purple-and-black that had become the banner of the Akura clan the world over.

“Grandmother!” the Sage shouted, and her voice shook the fortress.

Charity hadn’t been this furious in decades.

Malice was ignoring her, but she’d had enough of being ignored. She marched up to the doors and blew them off their hinges with aura. She shot up the stairs and found Malice exactly where she had expected.

Lounging in the highest tower, in a room with no windows. The Monarch didn’t need them. She was monitoring the Dreadgod and the surrounding tower with her spiritual sense.

Malice wore a black dress and had draped herself over a couch while constructs and scripts shone in the air over her. At a glance, Charity suspected she was in contact with other Monarchs all over the world, as well as coordinating the city defense and watching what appeared to be some kind of melodrama.

The Monarch looked up at her granddaughter through her own cloud of drifting black hair. “That was quite rude, Charity.”

There was another plush couch in the room, and Charity dumped her burden onto it. She had carried the dead weight all the way here, and it was about time she put it down.

Lindon fell onto the couch and convulsed. He weighed two and a half times what she did, but such weight was negligible to an Archlady’s body. Though his size had been an inconvenience.

“What is this?” Charity demanded.

She meant…everything. Obviously Lindon had violated his oath to Malice, which had involved not revealing the connection between the Monarchs and the Dreadgods.

But why had Malice set him up by not telling him there was a Sage who didn’t know? Why had she allowed it to be possible for him to violate the oath?

More importantly, why had she never told Charity?

“You could have left him there,” Malice said. She returned her gaze to the shining lights that hung over her. “I was always going to save him before he died. First, we let him soak long enough for the lesson to sink in.”

“What is the link between the Monarchs and the Dreadgods? And why didn’t you tell me?” A horrible thought had haunted Charity since the moment she’d found out. “Did my father know?”

Malice languidly waved a hand. “Of course he knew. He was a Monarch, remember, though he knew for centuries. He was one of the first I made swear to silence.”

“What did he know?”

“The Dreadgods are the price we pay to remain in Cradle.” Malice made a frustrated sound and swiped the scripts and constructs away. She turned, brushing her shadowy hair behind her as she faced Charity.

“I see you’re upset, but there’s nothing to be done about it. Advancement is the process of pushing against the natural order. Making it work for you. The existence of the Monarchs upsets a sort of balance, and the Dreadgods are the consequence of that.”

Charity’s jaw worked, but she could find no words terrible enough for the truth. Finally, she choked out, “So…all you have to do is leave?”

“You know what would happen if I advanced, Charity. The others wouldn’t, and then the family would be vulnerable. If we all did, the Dreadgods wouldn’t just vanish. They’d fade over the course of decades or centuries, during which time they’d wreak havoc. And then the very next Sage or Herald to advance would rule the entire world with an iron fist.”

Malice gave a motherly smile and held out her hands. She beckoned Charity to come to her.

The Sage of the Silver Heart remembered her dignity, her responsibility, and hesitated. But after a moment, like a little girl, Charity moved into her grandmother’s embrace.

“I’m sorry you found out this way,” Malice murmured. “I planned to tell you myself, with your father gone, but the world has required my attention. And of course I had no idea Lindon would risk his oath so quickly.”

For a moment longer, Charity sank into the feeling of being comforted by a stronger, wiser figure. Someone who would make everything all right again. Her grandmother.

Then she called herself back to action. She was over a hundred and fifty years old, and it was time that she acted like it.

Charity pulled back from Malice, composed herself, and nodded to Lindon. “Release him from the consequences of his oath.”

“Orders, Charity? I thought we were closer than that.”

“Two stars left in the clan,” Charity pointed out. “Are you ready to make it one?”

Malice smirked. “How could I risk losing you? Of course I will do as you ask, though I think he could use a few more minutes to stew. Lingering on the brink of spiritual collapse can make one very…malleable.”

“There’s a Dreadgod coming that outmatched you yourself only days ago. We cannot leave a Sage indisposed.”

The Monarch looked displeased at the reminder of her loss, but she didn’t deny it. “A weapon is only valuable when it doesn’t turn in your hand. But I suppose you’re right, as usual.”

She focused her will on Lindon’s shivering form, and it was as though the dark sky trembled. “Be whole.”

Reality twisted as the principles of restoration returned the world to order. Charity herself had little talent in that direction, but Malice had honed her craft over the long years. Lindon’s muscles relaxed and his spirit untangled itself from the messy knot the oath had left. Even the sweat on his brow vanished, and she felt Dross returning to the depths of his spirit as well.

“There,” Malice said. She threw herself back down on the couch. “The remaining trauma is mental, which is more your field than mine. His will might be compromised, and it may even affect his future advancement, which would just be…tragic. But he should be in fighting shape when the Titan arrives.”

Charity gave the Monarch a crisp bow. “Thank you, grandmother.”

Then she started to leave.

“Are you forgetting something, Charity?” Malice called.

Charity stopped and took a deep breath. Then she spoke. “I swear to Akura Malice that I will not reveal the connection between the Dreadgods and the Monarchs to any uninformed parties without explicit permission.”

“Accepted.” The oath settled on Charity, and only her ironclad control over her own thoughts prevented her from picturing Lindon’s agony from a moment before.

“Oh, and don’t let Mercy remove the restrictions on her Book. One step at a time is the way to walk her Path.”

“Yes, grandmother.”

The scripts and constructs lit up the air over Malice again, and Charity felt the Monarch’s attention shift away from her like a cloud moving from overhead.

This time, Charity levitated Lindon and carried him with dignity until they exited the castle, at which point she transported them both through shadow. Him, she deposited into a guest house, with orders for the staff to care for him. Then she returned to her own home.

Where, once the doors were shut and the seals were activated, she held her head in her hands and trembled.

Charity had trained hard as a child, reaching Archlord relatively young and Sage not long after. Her ambition had come from her belief. Charity believed in the philosophy of the Akura clan. The world was harsh, and they had to be harsher…but all to carry a greater burden, so that humanity could thrive beneath them. If the world was as the beasts wanted it, humans would be returned to isolated tribes, to live or die as fate took them.

She had been satisfied with her position. Others in the clan had advanced to Sage and ascended, their ambitions too grand for this world. Not her. She honed her skill and the powers she had, and never sought Monarch.

There would be a temporary advantage to advancing to Monarch, but then she would be forced to ascend. To keep the balance. A balance that she had always assumed was political in nature.

If one faction had two Monarchs, the others would unite against them, and they’d be two against six. It had always made sense.

All this time, the world she’d believed in had been a lie.

She wished she could talk to her father about it. He had fought with Malice on many occasions—usually verbally, but occasionally with techniques that shook the city. He only rarely told Charity what they were arguing about.

Now, she thought she understood. Leaving the Dreadgods alive when there was a method to defeat them wasn’t like Akura Fury at all. He would have preferred another Dread War.

But she couldn’t hear the explanation from him in person, and she hated that. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she considered ascending.

Her family was gone anyway.

She’d never started a family of her own; she was more concerned about her own sacred arts and the clan as a whole. She hadn’t wanted anything tying her down. Now, for the moment, it felt like there was nothing keeping her here.

The Way was there. An endless blue ribbon behind the darkness of her madra.

The world twisted as she focused and reached out. Space cracked, and she saw a blue light beyond. Her father was past that sapphire wall, as were many other members of her family. By now, there might be more Akura clan members in the heavens than here in Cradle, though of course no one could send word back to confirm that.

Maybe she should go. She would be leaving the city of Moongrave weaker, but so what? Malice and the other Monarchs were the ones who allowed the Dreadgods to exist at all.

Charity reached out…and closed the gap.

She dried tears that she had never felt fall, fixed her makeup, and made sure her hair and clothes were pristine. The Sage of the Silver Heart represented the clan, so she needed to radiate control.

Even now, Charity still believed in the purpose of the Akura clan. There were people here who needed her.

Starting with Mercy.

* * *

Mercy had been reduced to flying up to literally random buildings and asking if they’d seen Lindon.

It was a terribly inefficient way to search, but she’d mobilized everyone she could among the clan, so there should be thousands of people searching for him all over Moongrave. She would have turned the entire city upside-down if the Wandering Titan hadn’t been on its way. The city had been flipped already.

But she couldn’t just wait for their reports. They would reach her wherever she was, by courier or messenger construct, so she may as well keep searching.

She threw open the doors to a restaurant and shouted that she had a reward for anyone who had seen the Sage of Twin Stars that night. She projected an image of Lindon into the air.

People tended to remember the hulking young man with the white arm that disturbed their spiritual senses, but no one had seen him in the last night.

If that were all, each of her visits would take only thirty seconds. But there were drawbacks to being the Monarch’s daughter as well as benefits. Whenever she showed up at the door, every single person in the building stood up and saluted at the same time.

Usually, they also greeted her and summoned the highest-ranking person they knew. Mercy didn’t have time for that, and their manners tended to delay answers. It took time even to convince them that she meant it when she said they didn’t need to greet her politely at all.

But the same power that they respected was the one she was leaning on to find Lindon, so she couldn’t complain. She could only keep searching.

Which she did until Charity stepped out of the shadows beneath her.

* * *

Charity controlled her emotions as she watched Mercy pull Suu to a halt in midair, then swoop down to the streets. Most of the surrounding buildings were boarded and scripted up, but there were still plenty of people out, preparing to defend their homes.

Every one of them bowed at the waist and stayed there.

“Aunt Charity! Have you found him?”

Mercy had sent persistent messages to Charity—almost as many as she’d shouted to her mother. She hadn’t expected them to reach, but she’d had to try.

“I left him in the same guest home we assigned him before the Uncrowned King tournament,” Charity said calmly. “I can guide you if you don’t remember the way.”

“What happened? Is he okay?”

“He violated an oath to your mother and suffered the penalty for that. He was on the verge of death before she saved him. I’ll send one of my owls with you, so you can inform me when he wakes. I will need to work on his mind to prevent permanent trauma.”

Mercy gasped, and her eyes went wide, so Charity forestalled her before she assumed the worst.

“His life is no longer in danger. This threatens his future advancement, if anything, which in his case might be a good thing. Breaking a leg is a blessing if it stops him from sprinting toward a cliff.”

“He was trying to help me advance!”

“Yes, about that.” Charity held out a hand. “I’ll need the dream tablet you withdrew from the library.”

It wasn’t so long ago that Mercy was a little girl, and Charity expected her to act like a child caught breaking the rules. Instead, Mercy’s expression hardened. She reached into her void key and a String of Shadow grabbed a small stone, which snapped back into her palm.

But instead of holding it out to Charity, she kept it in her fist.

“What oath did he break?” Mercy asked coldly.

“I cannot tell you.”

“Did he betray the clan?”

“You might say that.” That was as specific as she could get without leaving any information that could point toward the truth; even revealing so much made invisible hands tighten around Charity’s throat.

“Was he trying to hurt me?”

Charity considered lying, but Mercy wouldn’t believe her anyway. Not only that, but Charity herself was…less than pleased with Malice at the moment. She was not inclined to go further to protect the Monarch’s secrets than necessary.

“The oath had nothing to do with you at all, and that’s the most I can say about the subject.”

Mercy watched her for a long moment, presumably trying to read something in Charity’s expression, but she finally tossed the dream tablet over. Charity caught it with aura rather than using her hand.

She Forged an owl, animating it with a will of its own, and sent it fluttering after Mercy. “The owl will lead you to Lindon. Send word to me when he wakes up, though I have left word that you not be allowed into his property.”

Mercy’s expression slid toward anger again, but Charity continued calmly. “It is for your own protection. He will be disoriented when he wakes, possibly even violent. With his powers, he could kill you before you had a chance to react.”

“Then how am I supposed to know when he wakes up?”

“Don’t be difficult. You have a perfectly good spiritual sense. Besides, if he reacts as I suspect, he might level the house.”

Concern wrinkled Mercy’s face, but she drew herself up and bowed. “Thank you, Aunt Charity. I’m glad he’s okay.”

Charity’s self-control trembled. She wanted nothing more than to tell Mercy the details. Or at least to warn her against her mother.

Instead, the Sage opened another gateway within the darkness. “I suggest you get an hour or two of sleep while you wait for Lindon. There’s a defense coordination meeting in four hours, and I expect the both of you there.”

Charity walked away and tried not to imagine the agony Lindon would be in when he woke. Even if the pain was gone, even with Dross there to support him, the memories wouldn’t go away. Many sacred artists with promising futures found their willpower compromised by such experiences.

And despite what she’d said to Mercy, Charity hoped Lindon wouldn’t be one of them.

* * *

Lindon woke and shivered.

[I’m both relieved and disappointed.] Dross drifted out, floating over Lindon’s face. [Unless we have died, and the afterlife is an exact replica of your guest house in Moongrave. Then I’m only disappointed.]

It felt like only a moment ago that Lindon’s body and spirit were wracked with pain, and he quickly twisted to check his condition. His body seemed unharmed, and his spirit was whole. Malice must have released him from the consequences.

He contemplated sending a message through Dross to tell Mercy about the Dreadgods, but his throat tightened. He sighed.

“That is disappointing.” He slid out of his bed and stretched. “I was hoping she’d let us out of the oath entirely.”

[We could break it again,] Dross suggested.

“I’d rather not. What time is it?”

Dross drifted to another floor and checked a clock. [About an hour until dawn. Four hours until that defense coordination meeting.]

“Good.” Lindon headed down the stairs for the entrance to the basement. “Time to train.”

12

Orthos threw himself out of the way as a black dragon erupted from the basement of Shatterspine Castle.

Light burned around the dragon in a haze of red and black. The Burning Cloak. Ziel caught the charging beast on his massive silver shield. He returned the blow with his hammer, slamming it down on the dragon’s skull.

The impact shook Orthos’ body and even rattled his consciousness. The castle trembled around them. Debris rained from the ceiling.

The dragon formed breath, but not in its jaws. Liquid madra of fire and destruction curled into balls all around its head, then blasted forward at Ziel.

The human weakened the Striker techniques with a spinning script of Forged green runes, then blocked them with his shield. Another script started to appear around the dragon’s neck, but he twisted his serpentine body and snapped the half-formed signs before Ziel could finish Forging them.

The battle between Archlords was nothing Orthos could take part in, but he could sense the dragon’s precise madra control and see the intelligence in its eyes. This was no mindless creature twisted by madra corrosion, but an angry dragon who had been trapped in time.

He sensed a human with familiar madra and continued his battle from centuries ago.

“Stop!” Orthos shouted, Enforcing his voice to be heard over the battle. “We are not your enemies!”

Black fire leaped up where Ziel had been standing. He jumped aside, none too nimbly, and was chased by Forged Blackflame claws.

A ring of script caught Ziel in midair and launched him like an arrow. This sudden change was too much for the dragon, who tried to back up, but Ziel caught him on the chin with a solid smack of his hammer.

The dragon’s body slammed into the far wall, and durable stone cracked.

A nearby pillar crumbled. The entire castle seemed to groan.

“Stop before we’re all buried!” Orthos yelled again.

The dragon righted himself, rage in his black-and-red eyes, and began forming breath between its jaws.

Orthos stood between the dragon and Ziel. “This is foolish! Your fight ended years ago!”

At first, Orthos thought the dragon would unleash his Striker technique anyway. But after a moment of consideration, he dispersed the madra and spoke to Orthos.

“Years? How many?”

Orthos turned back to Ziel for help.

The dragon snarled. “I was imprisoned in Year 780 of the Obsidian Calendar.”

“Yes,” Orthos rumbled. “Well. I have never heard of that calendar.”

“I think that should serve as an answer,” Ziel noted.

The dragon furiously circled the tiles, thinking. The room grew hotter and hotter as fire aura in the room grew excited. He stopped to speak again. “Who rules the Blackflame Empire?”

“Hmmm…technically, Naru Huan of the Path of Grasping Sky.”

“Sky? Is he a blue dragon? Or a sea dragon?”

Orthos wasn’t going to be the one to tell him that Naru Huan was a human. “This may be hard to accept, but this Blackflame Empire is not the one you left. It is another of the same name, re-formed after yours fell.”

The Archlord dragon was breathing heavily now, his every exhale carrying the heat of an open oven. He closed his eyes, and Orthos felt a pang of sympathy. He knew what it was like to wake from a trance and find that months had passed by, but years? Centuries?

He couldn’t imagine.

Finally, the Archlord mastered himself and opened his eyes, turning to Ziel. “Then are you a student of the Rune Queen’s, or her descendant?”

No matter how Ziel answered, Orthos got the impression that a fight was going to erupt again. Now that he thought of it, Ziel might be a descendant of the Monarch Emala. Before he could step in, Ziel spoke.

“Neither. I’ll show you. Her Path of the Last Oath is formed of several aspects in addition to force, most notably water.” He Forged a single green symbol over his palm. “See? Pure force. And the Rune Queen wouldn’t have horns like these.”

Ziel tapped his horns, then hesitated. “Unless she had a non-standard Goldsign with horns and she had it suppressed in the record I saw. In which case we’ll just fight, I guess.”

It was obvious the dragon wasn’t convinced; he looked like he wasn’t even listening to Ziel’s words, but was still deciding whether to launch another technique. But he stretched out his spiritual perception to scan the castle…or at least the portion of the castle still free from the seals of the Monarch of the Last Oath.

“We cannot come at the bidding of the Rune Queen,” Orthos said. “She’s dead.”

The dragon turned back to him. “I suppose I must believe you. I sense no other humans nearby. But that begs the question: what are the two of you doing here?”

Orthos knew he couldn’t say he was here to feed on black dragon Remnants, so he had come up with another excuse. “I have come to free my ancestors from their eternal torment. The human is an expert in the scripts of the Rune Queen, here to assist me.”

“Ancestors,” the dragon repeated. He slid around and examined Orthos from every angle, while Orthos tried not to show his anxiety. “…good,” the dragon said at last. “You’ve done us proud, turtle. When you advance, we will allow you to take on the form of a dragon.”

When Orthos advanced to Underlord, he had decided that his current form was the form of a dragon. But he kept that information to himself and dipped his chin to the Archlord.

Ziel hadn’t put away his hammer or shield, and while he still gave off a bored air, he was watching the dragon closely. The dragon, however, no longer seemed to mind. He drew himself up to his full length and looked down on the two of them.

“I am Helethshan, blood of the Midnight Fang, and I will accept you into my service. When we free the prince’s Remnant, you will be rewarded for your assistance.”

Orthos lowered himself to bow, but Ziel didn’t move an inch.

The dragon’s nose moved from one hallway to another. “This way. The Castle is my home, and though it is in ruins, I will guide us.”

Helethshan led the way, and Ziel looked a question at Orthos. Clearly, he was thinking about attacking the Archlord dragon from behind. Orthos frantically shook his head, though he was nervous even doing that.

What if the battle between Archlords leveled the castle? What if Helethshan’s knowledge was indispensable in finding or freeing the Herald Remnant?

More importantly, Orthos would not betray someone who hadn’t proved themselves to be an enemy. They had originally come here to take a Herald’s Remnant, yes. But they were really here for sufficient power on the Path of Black Flame to advance Orthos.

This was a highly advanced dragon on the same Path. He might be able to guide Orthos so that the Remnant wasn’t necessary.

They marched slowly, compared to what they were capable of, while keeping their perceptions extended and avoiding circles of silver script. After more than an hour, the dragon stopped at a grand door sealed within a script, similar to the one that had held all the human corpses.

“This one,” Helethshan said.

Ziel looked around. “This is the one with the Herald’s Remnant?”

“Open it, human, or I will assume you’re useless to me.”

Ziel didn’t react, but Orthos was sure he was about to attack. He slid in front of Ziel, blocking the view of Helethshan with his shell.

“We have to break it anyway,” Orthos said, as quietly as he was capable of. Not that it mattered how quietly he spoke; the Archlord could probably hear him from the other end of the castle, but this was more polite.

Ziel looked from Orthos to the dragon, then shrugged.

It took him longer to crack this script than the last one, although Orthos suspected he was taking his time to irritate Helethshan. Just before the dragon lost his patience, Ziel singled out one rune in the flow.

And, once again, he brought his hammer down precisely.

The script shattered, and Helethshan hardly waited. He flung the doors open with aura.

Within, Orthos didn’t see a single Remnant. He did see dozens of pairs of red circles, shining within the darkness.

Dragon eyes.

Black dragons flew out of the room, one after another, until there were about fifteen of them. Even together, the pressure of their spirits didn’t add up to one Helethshan, which was a relief. Though they were black dragons, even Orthos would be nervous if they found themselves at the mercy of ten Archlords.

Half of the group felt roughly as strong as Orthos himself, and the other half must have been Golds. Those looked smaller and younger than the others, and several of them shied away from the powerful human. The older ones glowered but said nothing, sensing Ziel’s spirit.

Helethshan skimmed the explanation by saying that Shatterspine Castle had been moved far away by the Rune Queen, but that she was now dead, and it was up to them to retrieve the prince’s Remnant. It would be their weapon to conquer this new world.

The dragons reacted differently—some cheered, while others appeared paralyzed by shock. Ziel had surrounded his limbs and weapons with emerald scripts, and his eyes were locked onto Helethshan.

“That wasn’t the right room,” Ziel said.

The Archlord dragon slid down through the air to face the human. “Did you intend to leave my family in torment?”

“I know an ambush when I see one,” Ziel said. He looked around the dragons that swirled around the ceiling. “Orthos, we’re leaving.”

Orthos’ head ached. How could he explain to Ziel that this wasn’t an ambush? If the situations were reversed, Orthos would have assumed he was under attack as well. But dragons didn’t use such underhanded tactics.

The point was even harder to make when one of the younger dragons breathed dark fire onto Ziel from behind.

Ziel effortlessly shattered the Striker technique with one hand, but Orthos didn’t like the atmosphere. Especially when Helethshan chuckled along.

Orthos glared at the young dragon. “Hatchling! Apologize!”

“For what?” Helethshan asked. “The human wasn’t harmed.”

“Manners must have changed over the centuries. Is that how noble black dragons treat their guests?”

It was an Archlord staring him down, but Orthos didn’t back up. He was right.

Red light rippled between Helethshan’s scales. “He’s not a guest. He’s a servant.”

“All the more, then. Do you prove your strength by tormenting servants?”

Another of the young dragons spewed breath at Ziel, who readied his shield and hammer. “If one more Gold attacks me,” the human said, “I’m going to hit back.”

Helethshan leaned closer to Orthos. “I find your attitude disrespectful, turtle.” Idly, the Archlord flicked his tail to strike Orthos in the shell.

Nothing had hit Orthos that hard since the Wandering Titan.

Orthos crashed into the wall, and the world spun around him.

* * *

Ziel had kept his spiritual perception extended since the moment they’d stepped into Shatterspine Castle. He was not only searching for hidden tricks and traps, but for script-circles left behind by the Monarch Emala.

When he did find those scripts, he scanned them thoroughly. Advanced scripting was less about remembering sequences and more about feeling patterns of energy to understand their interactions, and there were intricate twists and turns he couldn’t decipher in these runes. An invisible power.

Sage’s authority. Pieces of the Grand Oath Array. Ordinary scripts couldn’t manipulate time.

As he pieced more patterns together and sensed more scripts, he began to feel that invisible energy around him. Some of the more stable runes he stole, storing them in his void key. He was getting a sense for how the Array must have worked, but not the right sense.

It was as if he’d blinded himself and was trying to identify an object by touch alone. No matter how much he felt it, it would never quite be the same as seeing it.

When he faced down the crowd of black dragons, he certainly had his spiritual sense open. He felt the authority of the Rune Queen as a distant background, almost a humming noise, but it was nothing close enough to impact their battle.

When Orthos stood up for him, Ziel appreciated it, even if he didn’t think the gesture would do any good. The dragons were just being cruel for the sake of it, which had been Ziel’s experience with most dragons he’d met. They wouldn’t go too far, given that Ziel might be able to fight all of them at once.

But seeing Orthos defend him made him almost nostalgic. He remembered being that man, the one who stood in front of others. A guardian.

When he thought that, he almost thought the background noise grew louder. He strained his spiritual perception, trying to feel the subtle difference.

He didn’t feel it coming when Helethshan attacked Orthos.

There was no way he could have. The attack used virtually no madra, as the dragon hadn’t Enforced himself, and he had been right next to Orthos. When his tail flicked Orthos into the wall, Ziel heard an echoing crack of impact and then another crash as Orthos hit the wall.

The turtle wasn’t gravely injured, only dazed. Ziel knew that.

But for a moment, something in his spirit thrummed along with the distant tone. Like a string had been plucked in his soul.

Maybe he had felt something in himself that was approaching a Sage’s authority.

That deserves some more consideration, Ziel thought, as he pulled his hammer away from the wall.

The wall through which he’d just launched the dragon Archlord.

The sheer impact had blown back the other dragons, but Ziel didn’t even remember delivering the blow.

He didn’t regret it, though.

Ziel turned to Orthos, whose head was just peeking out of his shell. “How long will it take you to shrink?”

“Whuh?”

“Too long.”

Ziel grabbed Orthos by the edge of the shell and used his Stone Anchor Enforcer technique, binding his feet to the ground and increasing his weight. So he wouldn’t go flying when he tossed Orthos, as hard as he could, down the hall.

Black fire streaked down on him in a dark rain, and he caught most of it on his shield. Then he Forged scripts to launch him away.

Red-streaked black madra erupted out of the hole in the wall, and Ziel’s spirit screamed danger. He turned and blocked the attack with his shield, even activating the shield’s binding to project a huge wall of Forged madra in front of him.

The dragon’s breath had been refined in Archlord soulfire, and the technique melted his Forged wall like a bonfire melted ice, but even that was long enough.

The script around Ziel’s torso finished Forging, and he launched himself down the hall like a thrown spear.

If Orthos weren’t here, Ziel could fight. He and the dragon had been somewhat evenly matched before, and while the other Lord-level dragons could potentially tip the scales, Ziel still might be able to win.

With Orthos, he had too much of a vulnerability. He couldn’t be sure the dragons would threaten Orthos for an advantage against Ziel—though he’d bet his hammer they would—but even if they didn’t, the battle itself would put Orthos in danger.

So they had to run.

The problem was, the dragons knew this place better than they did.

Ziel caught up to Orthos in a moment, and he stopped his own momentum with a quick ring of script. He pointed into a hallway, to where he heard louder music in his soul. “That way!”

Orthos didn’t question him, for which he was grateful. The turtle ignited the Burning Cloak and ran.

Not fast enough, of course.

Even that brief stop was enough for Helethshan to catch up to them, and the hallway filled with roaring flames.

These had been conjured with aura. Real fire, augmented by destruction aura so it could threaten even Ziel. Fortunately, scripts were great at blocking the effects of aura.

A circle warding against fire specifically took Ziel a moment of concentration, but when he Forged it around him, it pushed the blaze away.

Sparks landed on his cloak and went out almost immediately. He wasn’t concerned about it. If his cloak could be damaged by that little, it wouldn’t have lasted all this time.

But the fire was just a distraction, and a moment later Helethshan arrived. He slashed down with his foreclaws, powered by the volatile movement of his own Burning Cloak.

The Stone Anchor held Ziel down, and he struck at the claws with his hammer.

Explosive force quenched the fire, but Helethshan kept Ziel on the defensive with a barrage of Striker techniques. He blocked some with his shield, some with his hammer, and slipped aside from others.

When the dragon Archlord hit him with his claws again, Ziel was prepared for it.

He angled his shield, catching the blow and releasing his Stone Anchor at the same time. The hit launched him through the hallway, where he supplemented the speed of his flight with scripts.

Orthos was waiting for him at the end of the hall. Next to a shining arc of silver runes that had emerged from the wall.

Ziel frantically gestured as he flew, but Orthos only figured out what he meant and ran to the side at the last second.

Frantically, Ziel’s eyes moved over the script as he landed and skidded to a halt. He had studied enough of these scripts now to understand their structure, even if he didn’t understand all the principles involved. He needed to find a particular sequence.

The Archlord followed, and as he was kindling another dragon’s breath, Ziel found the right two runes.

Ziel released the sigil he’d been forging. A new, complex symbol appeared in the Monarch’s ancient script, one green letter in a row of silver.

The entire script flickered green for a second as Ziel’s relatively weak madra clashed with the Rune Queen’s. Then his modification was accepted.

That he could change the script at all was only because of the similarity in their Paths, and that he was making only one small change. His rune slightly tweaked one aspect of the circle itself.

Its size.

The circle expanded in an instant, and it caught the flying Archlord as he released his breath. A bar of black-and-red madra stretched out for ten feet, heading for Ziel.

Now, frozen in mid-air.

But not forever.

Orthos huffed as he jogged up behind Ziel. “Can you do that for all of them?”

Shatterspine Castle screamed around them, and crashes came more and more frequently. Ziel winced. “I don’t think it matters anymore.”

“Oh no.”

“Yeah.”

The castle—or at least this section of it—was falling apart.

A crack opened up in the floor beneath them, and Ziel spotted safety. Beneath them, the pillars around a particular room were scripted with reinforcement runes. Even now, the runes glowed, rejecting the weight of the building above it.

“Down there!” Ziel shouted.

But because an Underlord was too much slower than an Archlord, Orthos still hadn’t processed the sight when Ziel grabbed him and shoved him inside.

Just before the ceiling collapsed, Ziel followed.

13

Yerin sat at the bottom of…she wasn’t sure what to call it. A well? Some kind of deep hole in the ground lined with stones.

At least it was dry.

The Sage of Red Faith had carved scripts in rings from the bottom to the top, muttering obsessively about how these would hide them. But as soon as he’d finished gouging runes into the stone, he’d vanished, so Yerin wasn’t sure how these scripts could do him any good at all.

She knew where he was, but the only thing she had to do was wait for him to come back.

So Yerin spent her time trying to comfort Little Blue.

The spirit trembled in her arms. She wanted to go back into the soulspace, for fear that Red Faith would come back, but she had emerged to comfort Yerin.

It wasn’t necessary, since Yerin wasn’t afraid, but Little Blue was so adorable it was hard to complain.

“You can stay out when he gets here,” Yerin assured her. “I’ll keep you locked-up safe, that’s a promise.”

Little Blue froze with her hand on Yerin’s collar and trembled. She had been just as afraid of Yerin’s Blood Shadow—which had hurt Ruby more than she wanted to admit—but Little Blue had stood up to it when necessary.

The Sage of Red Faith just terrified her.

Yerin supposed that was a sane reaction, but it wasn’t a helpful one. Little Blue was supposed to be getting stronger from this too.

Then again, Yerin wasn’t going to push her too hard.

“They don’t have a knife to your neck,” Yerin assured the spirit. “Strong enough yourself these days, true?”

Little Blue spread her hands out and gave an uncertain warbling whistle.

“Hey now, you can’t compare yourself to Lindon. That’s a tilted scale if there ever was one. You’ve got to keep your eyes on your own Path.”

Blue hung her head in shame and kicked at the ground. Which, from her perspective, was Yerin’s lap. Yerin felt a tingle in her leg as the pure madra passed through.

Yerin sensed someone coming—the scripts only blocked spiritual perception from one direction—and looked up. The Riverseed saw that and froze.

Sure enough, Red Faith was returning with an Archlady in tow. The woman’s spirit felt like blood and poison, and more than that, it felt familiar.

Quietly, Little Blue chimed her concern for Yerin.

“I’m packed so full of backup plans and hidden weapons that if I hop, fifteen swords will fall out,” Yerin assured her. “You can stop worrying about me.”

Little Blue clasped shivering hands together and looked up as though bracing herself to face the Sage, but she flinched back before he even appeared.

Yerin patted her back with two fingers. “Tuck yourself away and hide. You won’t hear a judgment from me.”

Blue hesitated another moment, but when the two members of Redmoon Hall got close enough for her own spiritual sense to pick them up, she melted back into Yerin’s soulspace.

Yerin’s smile finally popped back out from its hiding place. She hadn’t wanted Little Blue to think she was laughing at her, because she wasn’t. She was just glad the Riverseed finally trusted her.

It was about time, in her estimation. Yerin had known Blue just as long as Lindon, after all. Ought to be some trust by this point.

Yerin stood and loosened up her shoulders to await the arrival of the Sage and the Archlady. Technically, by allowing them to join her down here, she was cornering herself.

But she’d already tested it out, and her Moonlight Bridge still worked from inside these scripts. The Sage hadn’t snuck anything nasty in there to keep her trapped. Even if he had, she still had her gatestone and a few other surprises.

Plus Little Blue, if it came to that. The spirit couldn’t fight a Sage, but she shared a lot of the power from Lindon’s pure core. And Blue would fight, even against Red Faith, if she had to. She counted as a hidden card.

Just not one Yerin wanted to play.

The Sage of Red Faith and Kahn Mala—the Archlady with her Shadow in the shape of a cobra—fell to the floor of the shaft. Kahn Mala’s lips twisted in distaste when she saw the dirt floor, but she glanced at the Sage and didn’t say anything. Even the snake wrapped around her neck gave Red Faith a wary glance.

“Bright-and-warm welcome to my dirt circle,” Yerin said. “You can help yourself to some dirt.”

Kahn Mala dipped her head to Yerin, then a doorway-sized rift opened next to her. She manipulated force aura so a chair leaped out from her void key and into her hand. “Would you like a seat?”

Yerin plopped herself back down onto the dirt, leaning her back against the stone wall of the shaft.

“…of course,” the Archlady muttered. She sat on the chair.

The Sage was talking to himself as he ran fingers along the scripts he himself had carved. When he was finally satisfied, he activated them.

Some were passive defensive scripts that would only light up when somebody tried to push their way in, but the other rings all up and down the side of the shaft lit red. Yerin felt warm power against her back, power that sang to the blood aspects in her spirit, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, so she didn’t move.

“How many of our people remain loyal to the work?” Red Faith demanded, once the scripts were lit. “How many of them were weak enough to be swayed by shallow deceptions?”

Kahn Mala nodded seriously, as though he’d asked a wise question, and Yerin imagined the woman was used to humoring the Sage. “There is great distress in the Hall over your absence. Most know how much weaker we are without you, and they do not trust Redmoon to rule alone. However…enough were disturbed by your comments about the Phoenix. Those who are not believers are uncertain about your stance, so they are going along with the Herald for now.”

“So we do not have enough support to stage an uprising from within,” Red Faith said. His eyes narrowed. “As has always been our destiny, it must come down to a duel between myself and my Shadow. Are you capable of luring him outside? The circumstances of fighting aboard the Hall do not suit me.”

Which meant he knew he would get stabbed in the back by his own cult members. That was more self-awareness than Yerin had expected from him.

Yerin looked from one to another of them, wishing she had some food. She supposed she could open her own void key and grab some, but the mood didn’t seem right.

The Archlady visibly considered her words before speaking. “The most I can do is weaken the script to allow you inside the Hall’s defenses, but I am…concerned…that a battle between the two of you will result in the destruction of the sect.”

The Sage of Red Faith chewed on his thumb and stared into the distance, but Kahn Mala shifted uncomfortably. She started to speak several times, and eventually couldn’t hold back anymore.

“I’m sorry, Sage, but we don’t have much time. I’m afraid Redmoon has already been in contact with the Bleeding Phoenix.”

“He has,” Red Faith said absently. “The transport of the Hall will begin in less than a day, when Redmoon has gathered enough power to supplement the Dreadgod’s transportation. The Phoenix will summon you to its side, where you will be its drones. No better than those who bow before the Silent King.”

Something in the Archlady crumpled. She sank back into her chair. “Then we are doomed.”

“Your faith in me is shallow.” The Sage cast her a disapproving glance. “Spread the word among those loyal to my cause. Place your lives into my hands, and I will spend them well. We will put our spear through Redmoon’s heart, even if it is with our dying breath, and we will drag him down into defeat and the eternal suffering that he—”

Red Faith got so worked up that he choked on his own words, but Yerin was watching Kahn Mala. The Archlady looked like she wasn’t so ready to throw her life away, and Yerin expected her to bolt at any second.

Yerin had tried not to say anything during this meeting, because members of Redmoon Hall leaned toward not trusting her. Might have been because she’d made no secret about hating them.

But she’d seen enough of the two Redmoon Halls. The one made up of crazy Dreadgod-worshipers should burn to ashes as far as she was concerned, but the other Hall was willing to use pieces of the Phoenix for their own ends.

She could work with that second one.

Though not if the Sage of Red Faith drove them off by talking about spending their lives like coins.

Yerin leaned forward and grabbed Kahn Mala’s attention. Not the Sage’s; he was too busy clawing at the air as though he could see Redmoon’s face in the wind.

“I’m about to empty all my pockets here,” Yerin said. “No secret that I hate your sect, but I can’t have them work with the Phoenix. If you can keep the crowd off our backs, me and this cracked head over here can get rid of one Herald.”

The Archlady inspected her. “Are you willing to work under the Sage in the aftermath?”

“Rather kiss the edge of my own sword.”

Maybe that response had been too quick, Yerin reflected. Red Faith glared at her.

Kahn Mala leaned back in her chair. “Desperate times make desperate alliances, as they say. I don’t like working with someone so young who has such power, but I will stomach it for the sake of our survival. That said…” The snake around her neck rose and hissed. “…I would sell my soul to the Phoenix before I helped you overthrow Redmoon and then tear us apart.”

The Blood Sage’s skeletal face appeared next to hers, so close that his nose brushed her cheek. “What did you say?”

The Archlady didn’t shiver in disgust, which made Yerin respect her spine. “It…is a measure of my resolve, Sage, not an indication of my disloyalty. She could turn on us when Redmoon falls, or sell us out to the Akura Monarch.”

The Sage of Red Faith was still pushing his face into Kahn Mala’s, his eyes wide, like he was trying to shove his way into her thoughts and inspect her from the inside out.

Yerin gagged. “All right, take your tongue out of her eye and move back three steps. You’re going to make me ruin your shoes.”

Red Faith slowly slid back, but he never blinked. He looked more like a snake than the Blood Shadow around the Archlady’s neck. Which had wisely hidden itself from the Sage’s glare.

“She is correct, though,” the Sage whispered. “We do require assurances of your loyalty.”

Kahn Mala settled herself slowly, breath after breath, clearly trying not to show how Red Faith had rattled her. She held out a hand to Yerin, and when she spoke next, there was a subtle humming behind her voice.

“Swear not to abandon us. After the transition of leadership, don’t sell us out, and act as though we’re all members of your sect until we’re safe. In return, I promise the same loyalty and safe passage.”

She kept her hand out, and the incomplete promise vibrated between their spirits.

Yerin looked pointedly to the Sage.

“I have no intentions of betrayal,” Red Faith said coldly. “I am not like that rat, Redmoon. I strike only when it is in my own interests.”

Yerin wasn’t sure what her own face looked like, but the Archlady was trying very hard not to show her expression of disbelief to the Sage.

The Sage hissed like a cat. “We are wasting time. Fine. To ease your doubts, I swear along the same terms. As long as you are loyal to us, we will be loyal to you, until the end of this crisis and a day beyond.”

Both the members of Redmoon Hall looked expectantly to Yerin.

Part of her had hoped the Sage wouldn’t make the promise, and then she would be off the hook. She didn’t want to make any kind of soul oath with people this powerful, and least of all with Dreadgod cultists.

“This is the most I will compromise,” the Archlady said in a normal voice. “If you will not give me this assurance of good faith, then I will leave you.”

If she did that, there was every chance she’d be killed by the Sage, but Yerin still believed her. Kahn Mala was trapped between a sword and a spear, so she was trying to make the best decision she could.

Yerin just couldn’t help feeling like she was locking herself into something she was going to regret.

So was it this, tying herself to a bunch of madmen, or was she going to let a Herald hand himself and a bunch of his minions over to the Phoenix?

“Bleed me,” Yerin muttered. When she did, she realized that was an unlucky choice of words.

But she still took the Archlady’s hand.

* * *

Their attack on Redmoon Hall began that night.

All of them would have rather waited longer, but Red Faith was insistent that they were out of time. The exchange of power with the Phoenix had already begun, so before the sun was high the following morning, the cloud fortress would be gone.

As the Sage had put it: if they didn’t strike with the moon, they couldn’t strike at all.

Yerin and Red Faith sat veiled on a mountainside so far from the Hall that they could barely see it floating on its crimson cloud. If they got too much closer, the Herald might sense them, even through their veils.

With the security scripts in the cloud fortress active, no one could transport themselves inside. Of course, with his ritual to gather power for the Phoenix, Redmoon had the scripts running at full power. There would be no using the Moonlight Bridge to get inside until Kahn Mala dropped the circle.

Yerin checked a tiny clock the Archlady had given her. “We’re an inch from ready.”

“I sense nothing.”

“If you did, he’d feel us.”

“My connection to the Blood Icon is beyond what you can comprehend. My intuition is more reliable than that working of iron and copper.”

Yerin sent her spiritual sense inward to check on Little Blue, because if she didn’t concentrate on something, she was worried she’d roll her eyes so hard they’d pop.

Blue had no interest in emerging with the Sage around, so Yerin gave up immediately. She was just trying to distract herself.

Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her throat. With her Herald control over her body and spirit, she could slow her heartbeat as she wanted, but it kept speeding up on its own.

Yerin didn’t know why she was so afraid of sneaking into Redmoon Hall. She figured the Sage would keep his word, she was prepared for the mission, and Lindon’s worrying had left her with about fourteen backup plans.

Only now, sitting and waiting, did she feel the burden of what they were about to do. She still had her preparations, but what if they weren’t enough? What if this whole thing was a trap? Just because she couldn’t see a way around a soul oath didn’t mean a Sage couldn’t. Yes, she had several ways to escape and a few to call Lindon, but what if those didn’t work?

This was why Yerin hated sitting and waiting.

Red Faith saw her and must have noticed something, because he spoke to her. “Yerin. We have not gotten much chance to speak to one another.”

“You haven’t stopped your tongue moving in a week.”

“I mean a personal conversation, as master to disciple.”

Yerin choked. She couldn’t form the right words to respond to that.

“I have combed your experiences thoroughly,” the Sage went on. “I know you now, and I can offer you some insight into your journey.”

The words “please don’t” were on Yerin’s lips, but she cut them off. This was advice from a Sage, after all, and one that was older than steel. She couldn’t pass this up.

“You are too soft-hearted,” the Sage said.

Yerin thought she must have heard wrong.

“Your compassion holds you back!” Red Faith clawed at the sky. “It is a vulnerability, a weakness that will one day destroy you! Only in cold logic and reason can the future be found, and only thus can you unleash your full power!”

“How bad is breaking a soul oath?” Yerin asked.

“It can lead to a full spiritual collapse, which is even more debilitating for one such as yourself.”

“Might be I deserve it for thinking you’d give me good advice.” She looked up at the moon. “If I called Mercy’s mother and asked nice, you think she’d blow us both to pieces?”

Red Faith sneered. “Malice could not destroy me. She has tried, in ages past. I have skills and tenacity you could not imagine, in your—ah, the time has come.”

The Sage disappeared.

Yerin’s clock clicked.

“Would it count against my promise if I let him go alone?” Yerin asked no one in particular. She hadn’t specifically promised to go with him, and she thought she might be able to loosen her oath by focusing on that.

But that wouldn’t be worth it, and she gripped her sword. A cloud passed in front of the moon, leaving all in darkness. To the beat of her pounding heart, she tore off her veil and activated the Moonlight Bridge.

She appeared in the middle of a war on the deck of Redmoon Hall, a Netherworld of flashing blood madra. Shadows roared in the shape of monsters, slamming into one another as half-liquid nightmare creatures. Crimson aura blazed everywhere.

Above it all, the Herald and Sage clashed. As their techniques slammed into one another, the night sky lit scarlet.

An Emissary hurled a Forged red arrow at Yerin as she appeared, and she cut it out of the air without splitting him in half. She couldn’t tell friend from foe, after all, and she didn’t want to do Redmoon’s work for him.

Netherclaw shone red-white with the Flowing Sword Enforcer technique running through it, and Yerin bent her knees. With the full power of the Steelborn Iron body, she leaped.

The deck of the cloud fortress cracked with the force of her jump. She pushed the whole cloud base down five feet, and every Emissary on deck stumbled.

Yerin guided her flight with aura, flying toward the Herald.

He and the Sage moved faster than she could, and when he saw her coming, he waved a hand. A spear big as a lighthouse formed among the clouds, and it plunged toward her with blurring speed.

Yerin’s Bridge flashed again, and she slashed down on the Herald from behind.

He was faster than her…but not that fast.

She split him from shoulder to hip, and the wind from her strike cut a cloud in two and revealed the moon again.

In another flash of light, Yerin moved away.

She had enough experience of her own to know how fast Heralds could bring themselves back together, especially one with a blood Path. Sure enough, a spearhead passed where she’d been a moment before, and Redmoon looked more annoyed than hurt. Strands of red pulled both halves of his body back together.

But that wasn’t free.

Nine crimson daggers, guided by the Sage, collapsed on the Herald. Redmoon shot away, a blur even to Yerin’s senses, and the Sage’s voice echoed through the world.

“Be still!”

It wasn’t focused on Yerin, but even she shuddered for a second. The Blood Sage’s authority over the body was absolute.

Redmoon was a Herald whose willpower had been sharpened since before Yerin’s grandfather was born, so when he froze for long enough to allow three daggers to tear apart his rib cage, she was impressed with the Blood Sage.

For a second.

It was a fleeting thought.

She didn’t miss the same opening, though, striking out with the Endless Sword. Red Faith’s daggers echoed with both blood and sword aura, and Redmoon exploded.

Yerin whistled.

Sure, they’d ambushed the man and hit him two against one, but that still wasn’t the grand showdown she’d expected. They’d blasted him to a fine mist, with a few of his meatier bits falling to the ship below.

“Thought he was supposed to be tough,” Yerin called to Red Faith.

The Sage scowled as his nine daggers flew back to arrange themselves above and behind him. “He has crossed blows with Akura Fury and lived to tell of it. I distrust such ease. I suspect…” He gnawed on his knuckle and looked skyward.

But before he could say anything, Yerin heard a distant bird’s song.

Her head throbbed.

Time reversed, pulling the pieces of the Herald back together. That wasn’t his power, but real restoration. The authority of a Sage.

Or of a phoenix.

Yerin’s body seized up as the pain in her head returned. She lost her grip on aura and plummeted through the air, watching helplessly as the deck of Redmoon Hall approached.

It was hard to concentrate on anything at all through the pain in her head and the foreign command over the blood madra running through her body, but she prepared the Moonlight Bridge. As soon as she was released, she’d move as far away as she could. If the Bridge took three days to restore itself, so what? At least she wouldn’t be next to the Phoenix.

She hit the deck, which didn’t hurt her any more than it would hurt a rock. The wood cracked, but her Herald’s body didn’t. She could fall from the moon without a bruise.

But it wasn’t the fall she was concerned about.

All around her, the members of Redmoon Hall had collapsed just as she had. All of them; the Phoenix didn’t seem concerned about one side versus the other.

Yerin rolled her eyes up to the sky even as she searched with her spiritual sense…and she didn’t feel the Dreadgod.

Its power was all around her, but the sky hadn’t turned red, and she didn’t feel its presence. This energy was something it had loaned Redmoon, like a construct. Or maybe it was reaching out with a technique from across the ocean.

The Herald finished pulling himself together, and the white trails under his eyes stood out against his pink skin. He bowed into the distance, and Yerin was sure he was honoring the Phoenix…until he too collapsed to one knee.

This working of the Phoenix hadn’t spared anyone who used its power. Even the one who had called it in the first place.

That was her chance.

“Fighting…is…foolish,” Redmoon panted. “We can…get everything…working…together.”

The Herald struggled to his feet, looking triumphant, and Yerin desperately hammered on the Moonlight Bridge with her will.

But Redmoon hadn’t been talking to her.

“Down,” the Sage of Red Faith ordered.

The Herald’s face slammed into the deck.

Red Faith also staggered under the weight of the Bleeding Phoenix’s song, but he was in better shape than his twin. Heralds were supposed to be physically stronger than Sages, but you wouldn’t know it from looking at the two of them. Red Faith looked like he was carrying a pack too heavy for him, but Redmoon had been squashed by an invisible foot.

“I will surrender my authority to no one,” the Blood Sage said. “Not to you, and not to the Phoenix.” He drew himself up and pointed. “Die.”

This close, Yerin could sense what was happening in detail. The madra running through Redmoon’s body rebelled, attacking him from the inside. Even his own organs and the blood aura in the air tried to kill him.

But he resisted. His will wrestled with the command, pushing against the Sage. From the time when Red Faith had tried to stop his own heart, their positions were reversed.

Until another searing bird cry broke the night, and this time, even Red Faith collapsed. He screamed as he fell, blood running from his eyes.

The pressure on Redmoon let up, but it didn’t leave him in much better condition. The Emissaries let out a collective groan, and Yerin’s own head felt ready to split.

It was hard to think, but she’d come up with a good picture of what happened. Whatever the Phoenix had done to reach so far, it wasn’t precise. It could shut down everybody or nobody.

At least, among those who borrowed its power.

“Blue,” Yerin grunted. “Time to work.”

Inside her soulspace, Little Blue heard her words, or at least her intentions. The spirit curled up, even more terrified to come out now that a Dreadgod’s power hung in the air.

Yerin was finding it too hard to speak through the headache and the pressure on her lungs, so she sent her emotions to Little Blue as best she could. She wasn’t Lindon, with a bond to work with, but Blue should be able to understand the feelings she intended to send.

Yerin was scared. And she needed help.

Little Blue was the only one who could help her.

The truth was, there were things Yerin could do to escape. She could make it out of here in one piece. She even thought she could use the Moonlight Bridge, even if just the thought of it made her skull throb.

But she didn’t want to leave. Not before she won.

Blue heard those thoughts and shivered.

Inside the ocean of red, a sapphire light streamed from Yerin’s spirit. Little Blue stood at Yerin’s side, only a foot high, uncertainly shifting her weight from side to side.

Yerin jerked her chin toward Redmoon. “Get ‘im.”

Blue scurried over the deck…then dashed back.

Yerin groaned.

“Courage!” Yerin forced out. “Grit your teeth!”

Blue chattered like a branch of shaking bells. She wasn’t running away. She’d forgotten something.

With a tug that Yerin felt in her guts, Little Blue pulled the hunger spear out of Yerin’s soulspace. Then she hurried over to the Herald.

Yerin steadied her breathing and sharpened her eyes. She wanted Blue to learn to fight, but she wasn’t about to let the spirit face danger alone.

Redmoon saw the Riverseed running toward him dragging the comically oversized spear. He couldn’t gather much power either, but he focused on her. Weakened as he was, Yerin didn’t know if he could kill Blue with just his will.

But she wasn’t about to find out.

She shoved away his invisible intentions, grappling with him like they were wrestling over control of the same technique. His eyes narrowed, and the white lines beneath them shone. Suddenly she was a Copper struggling against a bear, and it was all she could do to avoid getting mauled.

A pale hand stretched out and made a claw.

“Release!” the Sage of Red Faith commanded. The effort exposed him to the full brunt of the Phoenix’s working, and he coughed up a mouthful of blood. That was enough. Yerin shoved the Herald’s influence back.

Little Blue gave one high note, like a bird’s single chirp. Then she shoved the white spear into the Herald’s side.

It didn’t break the skin.

A Herald was only invulnerable to forces without will behind them, not to attacks. In theory, Little Blue could stab him.

But his body was still as tough as an Archlord’s. This halfhearted assault was nothing to him.

He moved his hand to crush Blue, and Yerin focused desperately on the spearhead. Her willpower wouldn’t help much unless she was the one wielding the spear, but it would be better than nothing.

Little Blue shuddered, and then she shouted a single high whistle. Gripping the spear with both hands, she filled the spear with pure madra.

Lindon’s madra.

The spear shone blue-white, and for a moment, was as powerful as an attack from an Archlord. The pure madra pushed other powers back…and plunged into the Herald’s side.

That lasted for an instant. Until red light flowed through the hunger spear and hit Little Blue like a kick from a horse.

She shot backwards and tumbled across the deck, her whole body turning purple. Redmoon screamed as he convulsed, and though the spear fell away, the injury didn’t heal.

The pressure on the entire ship loosened a little. The Emissaries gave one gasp together.

“He’s using his body as a medium for the Phoenix to reach us,” Red Faith explained, but Yerin had already grasped that the Phoenix’s technique and Redmoon were connected somehow.

Didn’t need to be a Sage to figure that one out.

Yerin appeared over Redmoon in a flash of light and plunged her black sword down onto his chest.

He reached a hand up and grabbed it.

Pink eyes blazed. Even weakened as he was, even wounded, he was still a full Herald. An old one. “Phoenix!” Redmoon cried.

Yerin didn’t need Red Faith’s advice to know she shouldn’t let him do any more.

With her foot, she hooked the hunger spear and kicked it into him again.

This time, it pierced all the way into his chest. His madra flowed from his body and into her, slamming into Yerin as hard as it had hit Little Blue…but she didn’t back up. She stomped the butt of the spear, shoving it deeper. Yerin accepted his power, guiding the flood, letting it swell her core and her channels.

The Blood Sage pushed her away as his twin was starting to look like a thousand-year corpse. “Mine,” he said viciously. Then he grabbed the spear with both hands and pushed it even deeper inside.

Yerin wobbled across the deck. She didn’t mind; if she’d taken any more power from the Herald, she wouldn’t be able to balance it out with sword madra.

And she had someone else to worry about.

Little Blue was twisting in pain, but she gave off a much heavier power than ever before. She looked more solid, shone brighter, and even swelled larger at times. But she was still purple, the red light clashing with blue inside her.

Yerin fell to her knees and pushed out her will, helping to the blood madra inside the spirit.

“Hold it steady,” Yerin said softly. “I’ve got a grip on you.”

Little Blue cycled her madra with an inner focus that reminded Yerin of Lindon’s Heart of Twin Stars. Slowly, with Yerin’s help, the red inside Little Blue separated out. Yerin had to pull blood madra out and let it fizz to red essence that drifted upward.

That was the portion Little Blue couldn’t handle. Most of it, she digested. Her madra cleansed it, and Lindon’s technique made it a part of her.

Little Blue’s struggle grew easier with every second…as her power grew.

Redmoon had, essentially, been a spirit so advanced that he had grown his own human body. A portion of his power was the best Blue could hope for, and Yerin felt a depth to the Riverseed’s soul that she’d never felt before.

It was hard to rate that strength, exactly. Yerin had felt something similar when she was raising her Blood Shadow. Little Blue had become more real. Denser. More substantial.

Flashes of blue light sparked in the depths of her body, but they slowly came less often. Little Blue collapsed onto her back, and her chest rose and fell as she caught her breath.

“You stable, Blue?”

The Riverseed caught her breath a moment longer. Then she gave a vigorous chime and pushed both fists into the air.

Victory.

14

By the time the sky over Moongrave began to turn gold, the defenders were ready.

Lindon had been fascinated to see the script-circles worked into the foundation of the city, so that all the citizens could contribute to the defense. The combat-capable Golds gathered in buildings designed for the purpose, channeling their madra into great script networks that fueled weapons.

Ancient launcher constructs with the stability of stone rose all over the walls, and Lindon felt a measure of power and authority gathering in them that would rival a strike from Malice.

All the Golds in the city couldn’t fuel a single activation of one of those weapons, but they could help bolster the boundary field that lit the ground violet for miles. While that field was active, the structures in the city were stabilized and reinforced.

If not for that field, even a nearby clash between Heralds might destroy Moongrave.

Aura of all aspects was bent to the city’s defense, and Lindon had been delighted to see the boundary field tested. An Archlord had hurled fifty trees at the city walls at once, but all of them had been automatically intercepted by Ruler constructs and turned aside.

That script must have taken incredible knowledge and resources to build, not to mention the constructs involved, and Mercy had told him it wasn’t the only layer of defense.

There were massive scripts beneath the walls to defend against each of the Dreadgods specifically, but it was too expensive to keep them all powered at once. The Wandering Titan couldn’t attack their minds, for instance, so why power mental protections? It would only drain their defenses faster.

When Lindon had been on the tour of the tunnels running underneath the wall, where the great scripts were carved, he had been disappointed to learn he wouldn’t see the other Dreadgod scripts in action. The one was impressive enough, but this was a rare chance.

Now, he still enjoyed the sight from his vantage point over the city. As desperate as Moongrave was, their defenses were Lindon’s imagination come to life.

The sixteen huge launcher constructs around the city walls resembled vulture skulls the size of cloudships, each blazing with violet light. The defensive boundary field gave the light a purple haze, fighting the gold from the sky, and made the air buzz against his senses.

[Their dedication to the darker colors sings to the depths of my soul.]

“Are you finished?” Lindon asked.

Dross purred like a kitten. [I have simulated our death and destruction in every reasonable permutation. Not only did I find it thrilling, but I also have a functional idea of how to avoid any scenario in which the Titan can place us.]

Lindon sent his relief to Dross and looked over the other Archlords. He was supposed to cooperate with them in this defense, and he had tried to incorporate their abilities into Dross’ calculations, but they had been unwilling to hand over detailed knowledge of their capabilities to him.

For some reason.

Lindon stood on a dark Thousand-Mile Cloud high above the city. The twelve Archlords the Akura clan had mustered for the city’s defense were separated distantly, spread out along the wall facing the Titan’s approach.

There had been some debate about where to put Lindon. Sages and Heralds were traditionally allowed to move independently, and some were treated that way even here. The Winter Sage stood on the flat of a levitating sword not far away, her white hair blowing in the breeze. She kept shooting him glances that he interpreted as challenging, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps she didn’t believe he could carry his weight.

Charity had been the one to suggest that Lindon shouldn’t be placed with the other Sages. Because of his arm, he might make an undue target for the Titan, and thus he should stay behind the protective scripts. Also, Dross would be invaluable in analyzing their defense if he was given a proper vantage point.

Lindon didn’t mind the position, but he suspected the real reason he wasn’t being placed like the other Sages was because Malice didn’t trust him.

The other Archlords were all older than him, though they ranged from a sixty-year-old woman who looked thirty to a wrinkled man who looked like he would crumple at a soft breeze. That man’s spirit blazed with such power that Lindon walked carefully around him.

None of them seemed to know how to treat Lindon.

He was a Sage, so he outranked them, but his youth and his lack of connection to the clan disturbed them. To some of them, a Sage was a Sage, and they just treated him as they would anyone more advanced. Others were visibly uncomfortable with him, others avoided him, and still others clearly expected him to defer to them because of their age.

Lindon didn’t mind treating them all with respect. Manners were free.

Dross had come up with several methods of coordinating the Archlords depending on what approach the Titan took and how the situation changed, though it was hard to do any accurate calculation without seeing them in action.

What are our odds? Lindon asked Dross. Silently, so that no one else could overhear. The closest Archlords were the better part of a mile away, but Archlord hearing was nothing to underestimate.

[You ask so often,] Dross observed. [Do you fear to leave your life in the fickle hands of chance?]

Yes.

[We have little information on how intelligent these new Dreadgods are. Will the Titan approach us tactically? Will he be driven back when he determines that the target costs too much energy, as he would before? Or will he drive himself to exhaustion to annihilate us?]

Dross wiggled his tentacles in the air next to Lindon’s head. [On the answers to these questions will we live or die. But I believe Moongrave will survive to endure another sunrise.]

That relieved some of the tension in Lindon’s gut, but not all of it.

Mercy was, of course, in one of the better-protected positions. She wasn’t expected to fight, since—unlike the other Dreadgods—the Wandering Titan didn’t drag an army along with it. Even Abyssal Palace could only stay out of the Dreadgod’s way and pick through the wreckage afterwards.

Still, Lindon kept his spiritual perception on her. If the battle slid out of his control, he planned on grabbing Mercy and fleeing as far as he could. Pride could come too, if he was close enough, though the siblings had been separated in case one section of the wall was breached.

[Already planning to run,] Dross observed. [Perhaps this is why Malice doesn’t trust you.]

Lindon doubted that had anything to do with it at all.

He was reviewing every backup measure he had prepared when the golden sky lit up with shining veins like a sun was rising.

Then the Wandering Titan emerged from mist in the distance.

As Eithan had once put it, the Titan was known for its inevitability, not its speed. It didn’t race for its target. It wandered.

But not today.

The Dreadgod sprinted across the landscape, head down. Gold light shone through cracks in its black stone flesh, and its eyes blazed yellow. Its armored shell scraped the clouds, and its whip-like tail scraped the landscape behind it clean.

Its every step was an earthquake, and when it spotted Moongrave from dozens of miles away, it roared so that even the Golds could hear it.

Malice’s voice slipped into Lindon’s ears, and he could sense the wind aura vibrating all around the city, carrying her words to every defender.

“Here he comes,” she murmured, “but he is alone. We are together, and ours is a power he cannot hope to conquer. Behold, the Akura clan.”

In front of the city wall, purple light flashed in a column that stretched from land to sky. From that light, a crystal titan strode out to defend them from the one made of stone.

No matter how he felt about Malice, Lindon had to admit that he cheered to see her standing against the Dreadgod.

She held an arm out and the subtly curved shaft of a glacial bow appeared in her hand. Malice took an archer’s stance, pulling the string of her bow back. A dark blue arrow formed on the string, and Lindon focused his perception on it.

Not only was the arrow itself a mass of dense power carrying a devastating will, but Malice layered multiple techniques into it and onto it in a blink, so fast and smoothly that Lindon couldn’t even count them.

It looked like a shadow pouring onto the arrowhead, a darkness so deep that it warped the space around it, as well as a core of purple light shining through its center. But it felt like she’d woven sixteen intricate spiderwebs through one another in a split second.

Did you catch that? Lindon asked.

Dross’ astonishment was loud in Lindon’s thoughts. [Do you think too much of me, or do you mean to attack me with your unreasonable expectations?]

The arrow flashed out.

It tore the air. Far beneath the arrow, its passage ripped a trench into the ground. The wind kicked up into a hurricane, and the defensive scripts around Moongrave flared as they protected the defenders from the backwash of the Monarch’s attack.

Lindon focused, so he saw everything clearly. When Malice’s arrow came close to the Titan, the Dreadgod’s fist met it in midair. Gold, purple, and black madra swirled in an explosion that tore up the landscape.

The Titan’s fist was unscathed. It kept running…

…for one more step.

Then it skidded to a halt. Earth sprayed up in a wave as the Titan stopped, and the ground rumbled for miles around the protective field of Moongrave.

Malice’s fingers paused on the string of her bow. The Wandering Titan stood proudly, a warrior unafraid. Its serpentine tail slowed.

The Monarch drew back another arrow, and this time Lindon sensed panic in her power.

Malice’s cold command reached everyone. “All forces attack now!”

The launchers on the wall closest to the Titan drifted into place and unleashed lances of devastating purple force immediately. The other launchers drifted around the wall to the correct positions before they began gathering power.

Malice’s arrow staggered the Titan back a step, but only then did Lindon sense what she had. A chill tingled up and down his spine.

Space had begun to twist where the Titan was standing. He was calling something.

The Sages were the first to strike, behind the Monarch herself. Min Shuei, the Winter Sage, struck out with a Forged sword so large it could be wielded by the Titan itself. The air darkened and twisted around the Dreadgod’s skull as the Heart Sage attacked its mind.

Even Lindon unleashed a bar of black dragon’s breath the width of his two hands together, with the full force of his soulfire and his authority behind it.

Ignoring their attacks, the Titan pulled its fist back and slammed it into empty air.

Space cracked.

Moongrave’s battery of constructs launched attacks faster and faster, each Striker technique sending a purple spear into the Titan’s stone skin that made it stagger in place. Malice’s arrows were even heavier, but the Dreadgod weathered the barrage. Its tail was a blur, swatting a dozen techniques from the air every second, but enough landed that its rocky carapace started to break.

Though not fast enough. It landed another blow on the world, and the empty air was now a mass of dark cracks.

It drove the fingers of both hands deep into space and started to heave like it was pulling stuck doors apart.

Malice slammed her foot on the ground, and for the first time, Lindon saw the full power of a Monarch’s technique.

A specter rose into the air behind Malice, an echo of power like an Icon. This was a crowned woman whose regal authority he could sense, a ruler in elaborate clothes. She did not resemble Malice herself, but her expression was cold and full of disdain. An empress looking down on an enemy.

Her will suppressed the entire countryside. Everyone but Malice felt it, and even the Sages and Heralds staggered in place.

Since Moongrave was behind this towering royal spirit, the city was less affected, but Lindon was still sure some Golds would pass out.

This spirit’s image stepped into Malice, and Lindon realized it was an Enforcer technique. One beyond anything he’d ever seen.

Malice’s armor shone, and her bow snapped back into the form of a staff. The Titan’s tail froze, and it stopped its fist mid-punch to stare at the Monarch.

For a moment, the world was still.

Then Malice moved. Lindon didn’t catch the motion until she was suddenly in front of the Dreadgod, having crossed miles in an instant. Her staff struck the Dreadgod in the skull and the world felt it.

The sky emptied as the clouds blasted away, the earth was stripped of its features, and the scripts at the base of Moongrave’s walls shone to blinding intensity. Without them, Lindon was certain the city would have been devastated.

The Wandering Titan staggered back a step, then it roared. And their battle began in earnest.

Malice’s every motion trailed violet light as she attacked the Titan. Arrows blackened the sky and fell in sheets, each one piercing the Titan’s hide. Shadows curled up from the ground and wrapped it tightly, binding its body and spirit, singing to the Dreadgod’s soul in whispers Lindon could hear even from miles away. The strikes of her staff left corrosive spots on its skin where shadows ate into its flesh.

The Titan matched everything.

Hands of dark stone caught each blow of her staff as the Dreadgod danced with intricate footwork. Its tail blurred as it slapped barrages of arrows from the air. A half-dozen swirling spheres of golden chaos, churning masses of madra and aura and Forged earth, sprang into being over its head. The explosive techniques rushed at Malice and pushed her back, even forcing her to spin her staff and shatter them before they reached Moongrave. Each one detonated in a thunderous explosion that left Forged shrapnel and golden earth madra raining for miles.

Since Malice had engaged in close combat, only seconds had passed.

Lindon remembered his first glimpse of Malice’s fight with a Dreadgod, when he had almost passed out from trying to catch a glimpse of her exchanges with the Bleeding Phoenix. Now, he could watch.

But even as far as he’d come, this was an intensity he couldn’t match.

Lindon himself had fought the Titan and a Monarch. Both had been weakened, but he was proud enough for surviving those encounters.

That wasn’t good enough now. He needed the ability to fight them at their full power. The power he was seeing now.

Lindon had been placed in a defensive position over the city, so he wasn’t meant to participate in this fight. He had the perfect chance to watch, so watch he did. His eyes and spirit were wide open, and even Dross was silent as they witnessed the devastating display.

The Heralds and Sages were a moment behind the Monarch. After that first exchange, they unleashed their own might.

Icicles pelted the Dreadgod, each carrying authority of the Winter Icon. Frost grew over its hide, and its movements were slowed. Another giant white sword appeared over its head, plunging down, as the Sage unleashed a technique that resembled Yerin’s Final Sword.

An army of silver ghosts, animated by the will of the Heart Sage, rushed up and over the Dreadgod like a swarm of ants. A cloud of aura attacked the Dreadgod’s head, and even a bubble of darkness. The Titan shook off the domain, reducing it to mist, but another appeared immediately afterwards. A silver sickle flashed and released a very different technique: a colorless slash, a Striker technique of death and destruction, which flashed through the Titan’s entire body and caused the Dreadgod to stagger.

Chips of stone flew off the Titan like sprays of blood, and the Dreadgod was pushed further and further away from the spiderweb of cracks in the air.

“They can’t push it too far,” Lindon muttered. It seemed Malice might be able to deal the finishing blow to the Dreadgod, and if it felt itself under lethal threat, it would call its brothers.

[We would feel if the Titan was on the brink of death,] Dross said, drawing attention to Lindon’s hunger arm. The scripted cloth holding it back was hanging by a thread now, but Lindon was grateful for it. The Slumbering Wraith’s limb sensed the struggle of its brother, and the conflict stimulated its own appetite.

[This battle has not come close to its end,] Dross whispered.

It was like the Wandering Titan had heard Dross’ words.

Light flashed in its eyes, and it roared in Malice’s helmeted face. Destructive light streamed out of its mouth like gold dragon’s breath.

The Monarch caught the blast on her armored forearms, but that wasn’t the only technique the Dreadgod had used. Golden light flowed up around the Titan, armoring it in spectral light and filling it with an even greater sense of weight and inevitability.

At the same time, it slammed its foot down.

Walls of earth and golden light rose in a circle around it as the Dreadgod blasted out with a technique that was a combination of aura and madra. The Ruler and Striker technique shoved back everyone and everything except Malice, breaking techniques and forcing Heralds and Sages to run.

Lindon and Dross came to the same conclusion at the same time, and both acted.

“There!” Lindon commanded, his authority tearing space.

He stepped away from his position over Moongrave and through the world, emerging next to the cracks in the air. They stretched above and to either side of him, like breaks in an invisible wall that towered over him.

Moving like this tired him, but it was only within sight, and he had work to do. The Titan was about to push past Malice.

When it did, it was going to come here, and it was going to tear open space and bring something from the other side. Unless someone healed the cracks.

[There should be no other Dreadgods close enough to summon in this way,] Dross said. [Unless one of them has outwitted us with a nefarious scheme.]

What else could it be? Lindon asked, even as he focused on the cracks.

Dross relished the bad news. [The other possibilities are even worse. Maybe we’ll see our friend in the bone armor again.]

Panic supplemented Lindon’s will.

“Close!” he commanded.

As he’d seen in Ghostwater, the world fought against wounds like these, and the real world was far stronger than a Monarch’s pocket space. Otherwise, repairing such damage would be far beyond him, even if manipulating these empty spaces fell under his authority as the Void Sage.

But with the world itself on his side, the cracks began to close. Lindon’s focus trembled, and his eyes blurred. Even with assistance, this was an exhausting working beyond anything he’d ever done, except maybe claiming the labyrinth for the first time.

The smaller cracks disappeared and the larger ones thinned. Though Lindon’s vision darkened by the second, he was doing it.

[Lindon!] Dross shouted. A warning flared in his spirit, and Lindon tried to run in time.

A mighty force seized him and hurled him through the air.

He was back to Moongrave when his head cleared enough for him to control wind aura, righting his flight and hovering in midair.

The Wandering Titan’s fist had landed where he’d been floating.

Dross helped sort through his confusion, clearing up his memories in an instant. Charity had been the one to grab him and throw him back, helping him retreat before the Dreadgod’s attack could land.

[You gave me quite the fright. If Charity hadn’t intervened, I would have had to use…Plan Three.]

Lindon had a number of backups ready to save his life, even from the attack of a Dreadgod, but he was glad he hadn’t been forced to use one.

Though all of that was a distant concern. His eyes and perception were locked onto the spiritual cracks. The Titan’s one blow had undone all his work, and Malice was just now finding her feet. She thrust out a hand.

“Stop!” the Monarch commanded.

All around the city, everything froze, including the spreading cracks.

But not the Titan.

It shrugged off her authority and landed one last punch.

The horizon broke like a glass wall, and Lindon saw into an endless void. His Icon resonated with the power of nonexistence and annihilation he felt within, and distant balls of color swirled like pockets of life he couldn’t quite make out.

A force pulled at the Titan like a strong wind, hauling it closer to the void. It didn’t resist, letting itself be dragged away. As it was drawn backwards, the Dreadgod looked Malice in the face and its stone lips stretched into a smug smile.

Lindon felt like someone had torn out his guts.

[I can feel it,] Dross said. [He’s trading.]

Dreadgods had a limit on how far they could transport themselves. They were too conceptually heavy to move far…but now Lindon could see the workaround the newly intelligent Dreadgods had created.

They had figured out how to give themselves a counterweight. Something to trade with.

And there were only four beings on Cradle with the metaphysical mass to trade with a Dreadgod.

Dross rubbed his tendrils together in anticipation. [Which one is coming through?]

Lindon was certain he knew.

“Archlords, to me!” Lindon shouted. The construct network of Moongrave’s defenders picked up on his words, transmitting them to those under his command.

The Archlords likely didn’t understand what he meant, but they still reacted immediately to follow him as he flew downwards as fast as he could. Toward Mercy.

Dross switched to contact the defenders in charge of the great scripts. They were Archlords too, though not any of the ones on Lindon’s team. “Change scripts! Activate the dream boundary!”

A dream artist down by the scripts responded, sending Lindon a mental message. “Void Sage, please clarify.”

“The dream script!” Lindon shouted back. “Prepare for the Silent King!”

Only an instant later, something emerged from the tear in space. It was relatively tiny compared to the Titan, little more than the size of an elephant. From Lindon’s distant perspective, he saw a small white creature with black stripes and a shining circle over its head stride out of nowhere.

When it appeared, the sky flashed from gold to white.

Lindon unleashed the Hollow Domain.

His blue-white circle of pure madra spread hundreds of yards around him, powered by all the madra and soulfire he could unleash. He caught hundreds of people within it, maybe thousands.

Some of the Archlords dodged it, maybe thinking he was attacking them. Some people saw it and ran.

But Mercy, and everyone in the short tower where she was waiting, was swept up in his Domain. As were three of the other Archlords who didn’t resist or run.

Therefore, they were saved from the wave of domination that passed over the entire city.

Dream madra and aura swept out, assaulting millions of minds at once. The crews on the protective script had been too slow to swap, or the dream script took too long to activate. Either way, they hadn’t made it in time. And Lindon’s Hollow Domain couldn’t cover all of Moongrave.

All over the dark city, new spots of light appeared. Rings.

The white crowns of the Silent King.

His Hollow Domain weakened the madra enough to disrupt the technique, but trickling flows of dream aura still wove their way inside.

“Lindon,” the Silent King whispered into his mind, “I keep my promises.”

And that was when Lindon realized this attack wasn’t limited to Moongrave alone.

* * *

The Blood Sage slunk past Yerin and Little Blue. He was half-hunched, and his spirit was a raging mass of power, but he didn’t seem as delighted as she would have expected he would be after having triumphed over his rival.

He looked around to the Emissaries of Redmoon Hall, most of whom were still unconscious or groaning from the effects of the Phoenix.

“I am your leader now, and you will obey me as you should have from the beginning. Now, you see that there are none who can lead you into the future as I can, and that even the Dreadgod itself cannot stand up to the power of my creations.”

Redmoon was a dried-up husk that looked like a corpse after a hundred years at the bottom of a desert, but she felt madra still circling in his body.

Yerin nodded to him. “Why’d you leave him breathing?”

Red Faith twitched. “Must you interrupt my…” He stopped himself with a deep breath. “Distasteful as I may have found him, he is still a valuable resource and a worthy research subject. In addition, I did not wish to contend with his Remnant, as it is difficult to deal such spiritual damage to Heralds that they die without leaving a Remnant.”

Yerin shivered. She had thought of Redmoon’s Remnant, but she had thought the hunger spear would be enough to destroy his spirit before it could rise. She’d seen Lindon’s arm do as much. If they had faced Redmoon’s Remnant as well, she could have had a nasty surprise. Or Little Blue might have.

“Whew. That was a razor’s edge too close to the skin. Thanks.”

The Blood Sage jerked back. “Why is that enough to earn your gratitude? I have bestowed on you the power to rival Monarchs and change the way sacred arts are practiced, and for this you spit on me. Yet for one rational—"

He interrupted himself again, this time staring off into the distance.

Yerin felt something at the same time, like a cold wind passing through her spirit. A host of voices whispered in her mind, and she lashed out with dream aura to protect herself, but the voices barely quieted.

Until the construct in her soulspace sent out a wave of madra.

It washed through her, Enforcing her mind and spirit, and the voices cut off in an instant. Yerin found herself on her feet, cradling Little Blue in one hand and holding her drawn sword in the other.

“Silent King,” she said shortly.

The Blood Sage shuddered in place as though something were eating him from the inside out, and Yerin’s veins froze. She readied her Moonlight Bridge.

Then purple-white dream madra blasted out of him, and aura ran off him like water. “You seek to violate my mind, King of Dreams? Stick to softer prey.”

Yerin Enforced her weapon. “I’d contend he listened to you.”

White rings hovered over the members of Redmoon Hall. Not all of them, but all the ones who had been unconscious and roughly a third of those who had been awake.

And the largest, brightest ring shone over Redmoon’s head. His body floated into the air, and Yerin could feel a new, terrifying spirit reinforcing his own.

The Herald’s eyes snapped open.

* * *

Orthos dreamed of days long ago, when the Blackflame Empire had been ruled by the Blackflame family.

He had been an honored sacred beast, considered nobility. His family had spread throughout the Empire; there were only a few of them left, but they were respected.

Orthos looked out over red sand onto a city of dragon’s bones. Serpent’s Grave, the city he protected.

But it could be the city he owned.

That had never been a thought he’d entertained in his youth, but now it felt natural. He was an Underlord now. Recklessly pursuing advancement was Lindon’s way; the way of the young, and the way of humans.

He could settle down and rule. He could become a mighty dragon…and in the dream, he transformed into the body he had once assumed he would take. A long, serpentine body with wings and mighty jaws. A form that reminded him of the Archlord, Helethshan.

This can be yours, a voice whispered in his mind. I will give you the power to take it.

Then a wave of shimmering multi-colored energy flowed from the construct Lindon had given him and through his mind, and Orthos realized that voice hadn’t been his own.

His eyes snapped open, and Orthos saw the dark room of crumbled stone at the bottom of Shatterspine Castle. Where they had fallen.

Ziel sat up next to him, breath heaving and spirit in chaos.

“The Silent King,” Orthos rumbled. “How did he find us here?”

Ziel’s breath was rough. “The Silent King’s reach is long. I’ve read legends that suggested he could touch the minds of dreamers from anywhere on the planet, but he’s been sealed off by Emriss Silentborn for…ever.”

“And I thought Lindon was being paranoid.”

“I’m not sure he was paranoid enough.” Ziel looked up into the ceiling, and Orthos followed the human’s spiritual perception with his own.

Spots of dream madra were appearing all over the castle. Taking over the black dragons.

Including one powerful spirit, who broke free of the time-locked circle with the aid of the Dreadgod. Helethshan, the Archlord, was free. And under the control of the Silent King.

Orthos heaved himself to his feet. “I’ll be glad when the Dreadgods are dead.”

“I never blamed the Dreadgods for what they do. Might as well blame an earthquake or a storm.” Ziel stood and wrapped his cloak around himself. “Now, I’m starting to hate them.”

* * *

Wei Shi Kelsa pressed her palms into her eyes and tried to keep herself awake.

Several members of the Twin Star Sect who practiced light or dream Paths had asked for guidance on the Path of the White Fox. Some of them wanted to follow the whole Path, while others were looking for pointers on their own techniques.

But everybody wanted guidance from the Sage’s sister.

A handful of others from the Wei clan had reached Lowgold, most of them old enough to be Kelsa’s grandparents. They had far more experience than she did, but they didn’t have a famous little brother.

Her tail lashed behind her, which only increased her irritation. She forcibly stopped it. The white-and-purple flaming tail was not the Goldsign she’d wanted, and it seemed to have a mind of its own.

This time, it reminded her that she wasn’t being fair, even in her own thoughts. She was blaming Lindon for her own inconvenience when he wasn’t even the only reason they wanted pointers.

Not only was she the youngest Wei clan Lowgold, she was also the strongest. Lindon was the reason for that; the Remnant he’d strengthened for her gave her madra that was far denser and better balanced than the rest.

But power was no substitute for experience, and she’d never guided anyone through their Path before. The only student she’d ever trained, however briefly, was Lindon himself.

Now she had books and scrolls and tablets all over her table. Records of the Path of the White Fox and a few other related techniques. She had to have this lesson ready by the morning, and if it wasn’t for her own self-control, she would have put her brush down and gone to bed hours ago.

Although…

Maybe you should go to bed, a voice whispered to her. Why not? You can wake up early and finish then.

She shook her head. No, she couldn’t do that. Students from the sect were counting on her.

They’ll wait a day, the voice reasoned. Who else will care if you’re a few hours late?

Kelsa was considering that when a jolt of attention and concentration brought her fully awake. It was like a tiny lightning bolt had run into her brain, and she realized it was coming from the place on her wrist where she’d tied Lindon’s dream construct against her skin.

She looked at it, amazed. Did it have a function that improved her concentration? Lindon’s Soulsmithing really was amazing; her mother kept swinging between giddy at all the things he was teaching her and despairing as she wondered if she’d wasted her entire career.

Kelsa picked up her brush, reinvigorated, and dipped it back into ink.

Then she felt something bobbing toward her. A strange mix of powers, but one she was familiar with.

She opened her front door as Fingerling, Jai Chen’s bound spirit, floated up to it. The dragon keened and bobbed in agitation, clearly trying to alert her to something. It started jerking its head in one direction, and Kelsa got the hint to follow.

The night was dark, though there seemed to be more people awake than usual at this time. White lights shone through windows here and there, and that itself was a little strange. Rune-lights were usually many different colors, but these seemed identical.

Even the dream aura, which was thick in any city, felt…odd, tonight. But not in any way she could put her finger on.

Kelsa’s tail lashed faster, and this time she didn’t stop it.

Fingerling led her down to another part of the Twin Star Sect’s land. A section she was well familiar with.

When she heard Jai Chen’s raised voice, Kelsa broke into a run.

“…calm down!” Jai Chen was shouting. “I’m getting help. Can you hear me?”

Jai Chen’s hair was unbound and messy, and she wore a loose robe, like she’d been awakened suddenly. She held her hands out to her brother, urging him to stay put, but she didn’t seem willing to touch him.

Jai Long knelt in the street outside the home he shared with his sister. His body shook unsteadily, and if it weren’t for the spear he held in his right hand, Kelsa thought he might topple over. Blue light spilled from his newly healed jaw, and the scripted cloth was missing from around his forehead.

In its place, he had Forged a circle that hovered over his head, shedding bright white light on the whole scene.

Sickness rose in Kelsa’s throat and she came to a stop. Her own hands were unsteady, and her tail quivered.

“Jai Long…?”

Part of her wanted to run up, to ask him what was wrong. But she remembered the construct on her wrist, and she wondered if the technique it had just broken was the same one floating over Jai Long’s head.

Fingerling flew around Jai Chen, and both of them were in clear distress. Jai Chen looked to Kelsa with tears in her eyes. “He…he woke up screaming.”

Kelsa snapped herself out of it. This wasn’t time to wait around.

With one hand, she started untying the knot that held Lindon’s construct to her wrist. With the other, she guided aura of light and dreams.

Kelsa used the Fox Dream. The Ruler technique seized the dream aura around Jai Long and invaded him. It was designed to create distracting illusions, and she was skilled enough to guide those distractions in the directions she wished. Tonight, she didn’t care what she showed him. She just wanted to break the technique that was already on him.

Her technique settled around his head…and broke like rotten thread.

The halo around his head flared brighter. It didn’t seem fully Forged yet, fuzzing and crackling like an unfinished technique.

Kelsa ripped the construct off her wrist the rest of the way and marched up, shoving it against the back of Jai Long’s neck.

Pinkish-purple light flared, traveling through his entire spirit in a moment. His body convulsed, he made a sound of deep pain, and the halo blurred.

Her construct overloaded and crumbled.

Jai Long sagged to the ground, hand still on his spear. The halo seemed to flicker between existence and nonexistence.

His sister fell to her knees. “Jai Long?”

Shakily, he raised his head and looked between her and Kelsa. His teeth flared blue with his one spoken word.

“Run,” Jai Long said.

Jai Chen was paralyzed by confusion, but Kelsa wasn’t.

She seized the younger girl by the collar and hauled her away as the white halo finished Forging around Jai Long’s head.

He stood up, rising to his full height, and pulled his spear back into a ready position.

Then the Underlord attacked.

15

The dream technique from the Silent King washed over Moongrave in a wave before it let up. Lindon let his Hollow Domain drop to catch himself on his Thousand-Mile Cloud.

Three spiritual perceptions passed over the city at the same time, taking stock of their forces. One was Malice’s, passing over everyone like a shadow. The second was Charity’s. Then it was Lindon’s.

Only the three of them had shrugged the technique off so quickly.

Others had resisted it, but it had taken them all their focus. Still others were wrestling against the Dreadgod’s will even now.

Many had succumbed.

A silver-and-purple owl appeared at Lindon’s side and spoke in Charity’s voice. “No one was sleeping in Moongrave, but you and I are the only ones below Monarch who can resist mental techniques so effectively. We need to break—”

A wash of ice-cold light came from her side of the battlefield, and Lindon looked over to see the Winter Sage cloaked in a hailstorm of razor-sharp ice…and wearing a halo that matched her white hair.

The Archlords he’d defended had joined with one another to go engage the affected Lords and Ladies at their level. Lindon looked below, and he saw Mercy looking up to him in concern.

Lindon shouted loud enough to wake the dead. “Those with a white halo belong to the Silent King. Break the technique if you can, but if you can’t…defend yourselves.”

All over the city, chaos erupted as the subjects of the Silent King fought to defend their ruler. The most deafening explosion came from the battlefield, where Malice had launched a barrage of arrows at the Dreadgod.

A rain of tower-sized crystalline shafts impaled the ground for miles, but the Silent King strode arrogantly between them. When one struck the King, he fizzled to nothing and appeared somewhere else.

It must have been an illusion, but Lindon couldn’t see through it.

[That is a lie even I cannot unravel,] Dross said. [A mirage even I cannot break.]

Lindon’s fears were confirmed. That technique was like the Fox Mirror from the Path of the White Fox—a Forger technique that showed a convincing illusion. Only this one was advanced beyond imagination.

If Dross couldn’t pierce it, they were in great danger.

The void portal the Titan had created remained in place, and great multitudes poured out, all of them crowned in white. Sacred artists, sacred beasts, and Remnants streamed forth in an endless legion.

Some of them were quite advanced, but when Malice fired on them, by all rights they should have been annihilated.

The army unleashed a coordinated volley of defensive techniques like a shield of many colors, and their many wills unified. They joined together behind the will of a Dreadgod.

Malice’s arrow shattered several layers of their patchwork shield, but then it stopped and collapsed to the ground, harming no one.

[If the Silent King had been close enough to lend his will to his minions back in Dreadnought City, we would be dead already,] Dross added unhelpfully.

A veiled and invisible Overlady flew up behind Lindon, but he absently reached out with his right hand and Consumed her halo. The dream madra and fragments of will flowed through his arm and into Dross, who shuddered.

[The eyes of my soul are opening!]

Lindon ignored that and listened to every pounding beat of his heart. He didn’t want to leave Mercy’s group vulnerable, but the Dreadgod had said it was going to keep its promise. That meant his friends and family were in danger.

Or were they?

If the Dreadgod’s objective was to kill them, it shouldn’t have told Lindon anything. But that wasn’t the objective, was it? The creature wanted to sow doubt and discord, and to pressure Lindon and Dross to give themselves over willingly.

He desperately wanted to end the fight, to make the Silent King withdraw its techniques.

But that was exactly what it was looking for. It was trying to get Lindon to throw himself into the tiger’s jaws. Literally.

He had to be smarter than that.

Time slowed for Lindon as Dross enhanced his thoughts, and he ordered his priorities. He needed to close the rift into the Void and cut off the Silent King’s army. Physically, the King was the weakest of the four Dreadgods. It relied on its minions and its powerful techniques.

But those minions would defend the portal to the death, so Lindon needed to force them to split their focus. Which meant putting pressure on the King by getting Malice allies. He needed to help free the Sages.

Though that left Mercy and the others on their own.

Dross, Lindon thought, tell Mercy to hold on. And that I’m sorry.

[That’s my favorite message I’ve ever sent. Should I tell Charity you’re coming?]

Lindon’s right arm blazed with overwhelming, ravenous hunger. It writhed like a bag of snakes, as though every muscle in it had come to life separately.

And the scripted cloth Malice had used to seal the limb finally unraveled.

The desire to steal, to devour, to take everything hit Lindon in a wave. Above and behind him, reality twisted as an Icon tried to manifest, but he wrestled with that authority and kept it under control. As Eithan had done in his battle against Reigan Shen, Lindon stopped an Icon from manifesting.

But his control over the limb was weak at best. Lindon sensed the army of the Silent King, the people of Moongrave, the battling Sages and Heralds, Akura Malice, and even the Dreadgod itself…and he wanted to Consume them all.

The eternally hungry arm of the Slumbering Wraith smelled a feast.

* * *

Charity’s Judgment of the Phantom Queen was one of her most prized techniques, since she hadn’t merely inherited it from her Book of the Silver Heart.

The binding belonged to the Book, of course, as did the overly flamboyant name. But the will that brought the silver mist to life in the form of an army of warriors was hers. They were her ideal of the noble soldiers of humanity, fighting to push back the darkness of the wilderness.

Now, her soldiers of silver mist were tearing themselves apart in a field of razor snowflakes.

Min Shuei, the Winter Sage, sent another sharp edge of ice-cold sword madra at Charity, who struck the technique down with her silver sickle. Soulsever was not ideal for combat against one of the Sword Sages; it was meant for killing, not for disrupting techniques.

Charity staggered back from the impact. She missed her shield.

Her specialty was not in this sort of physical combat, but in battles mental and spiritual. Right now, no less than three of her non-physical attacks ate away at the Silent King’s control over the Sage of the Frozen Blade. Her Nightmare Grasp seized Min Shuei’s head in the grip of a shadowy hand; the soldiers formed from the Judgment of the Phantom Queen sliced at the halo and battered at the Sage’s icy techniques, and their entire battle took place inside Charity’s domain of shadows and nightmares: the Dream of Darkness.

In theory, this should have been plenty to shred any mental technique, even one cast by a Dreadgod. But the Silent King must be actively reinforcing his technique on the Winter Sage, and her own spiritual defense must be greater than Charity had ever known, because the woman waded through misty soldiers slashing at her soul and fixed Charity with a gaze of pure hatred.

Min Shuei always had a striking appearance, a youthful woman whose white hair and robes stood out against her tanned skin, but Charity usually found that the Sage’s volatile emotions made her seem childish.

Now, those emotions had been distilled into murderous rage and focused on Charity. Who no longer found that the Winter Sage looked childish at all.

One of Charity’s owls whispered in the woman’s ear. “Min Shuei, wake up! This is the Dreadgod!”

The owl exploded into silver-and-purple feathers, then the Sage of the Frozen Blade disappeared.

Charity ignited the technique on the first page of her Book: the Will-Heart Resonance.

The mental Enforcer technique harmonized with surrounding dream aura. It had several effects, but the pertinent one was that it made Charity hyper-sensitive to the intentions of others.

Charity bent backwards and sliced Soulsever upwards.

An instant later, Min Shuei appeared above her and stabbed out. Charity’s sickle struck her white-bladed sword and shoved it upward.

The Winter Sage came in with a palm blazing with icy madra, but Charity felt it coming and spun out of the way. More madra filled her body as she filled herself with her other Enforcer technique: the Whispershade Veins. Flecks of shadow flew off her like flames as she moved, but she drifted easily under the power of the full-body Enforcer technique.

With the two combined, she was a ghost.

The Winter Sage couldn’t touch her with palm or sword, with Striker or Forger or Ruler techniques. Even when Min Shuei lashed out at her surroundings by freezing them at once with a blizzard full of her authority, Charity spun out of range like a flower petal blown by the wind.

She Forged more owls, calling Min Shuei’s name.

“We should not fight each other,” her owls said on her behalf. “Fight the Dreadgod!”

The Winter Sage snarled and powered the binding in her sword. The world froze for a hundred paces in all directions, and snowflakes hung suspended in the air, each a small nexus of sword madra. The entire aura of the place locked Charity down.

She could move by force, but fighting against the authority of the Winter Sage would weaken her. While Min Shuei could chase down her prey with impunity.

Sure enough, she rushed forward in a blinding burst of speed, slashing at Charity’s neck.

The sword struck sparks as it skidded off amethyst armor.

Charity seized Min Shuei’s neck in one gauntlet.

She didn’t speak, but her owl spoke for her. “I’d rather not fight…but I am my father’s daughter.”

Book of the Silver Heart, Charity thought. Page seven.

A mass of silver power shot from her soulspace into Min Shuei. It was a Forger technique so dense and intricate, and requiring so many resources, that it was almost a Divine Treasure in its own right.

In her spare time, Charity harvested the minds and wills of Remnants, molding their essences together into a sort of construct. It had many uses, from bringing specially made vessels to life to attacking spirits from the inside.

The technique was called Sculpt the Soul, and the resulting product a Silver Heart.

Now her Silver Heart pulsed within Min Shuei, attacking the Dreadgod power binding her. Together, the wills of two Sages clashed against the technique of the Silent King.

The halo flickered. The Winter Sage’s eyes began to clear.

Someone came down on them from above.

On the back of a Thousand-Mile Cloud, Lindon swooped down like a diving hawk. He seized Min Shuei’s halo in his right hand before it could disappear and Consumed it.

The technique was devoured in seconds. He clenched his fist and revolved his Heart of Twin Stars, cycling the power.

Couldn’t he have done that sooner? Charity thought to herself.

The young man loomed over the two of them and bowed his head. “Apologies. I was late.”

Then he zipped off.

Min Shuei gasped and looked around as she realized the technique on her mind had faded. Her eyes landed on Charity’s face and widened in awe.

“That was…I mean, I sensed…”

Charity let her armor fade to essence. The situation was urgent, but she wanted to hear the Winter Sage acknowledge that she owed Charity a debt.

“…he saved me!” the Winter Sage cried. She waved after Lindon. “Thank you!” Then she turned back to Charity, looking pleased. “Maybe I was wrong about him.”

Charity stared at her.

* * *

Not every battle between Sages was fair.

The Remnant of the Sun Sage shone as it peeled away from his body. The Sage of Fallen Blades and the Sage of Steel Dust both wore white circles, and they were pushing back a Herald surrounded by Forged vines of life madra.

Lindon swept in, but Fallen Blades and Steel Dust moved in perfect harmony. A Forged black blade rose from beneath him as a silver cloud closed in from the sides.

Dross sped up his perception, and Lindon projected a dome of the Hollow Domain overhead while he reached out his hand beneath him.

“Break,” Lindon commanded. It was one of the easiest commands for the Void Icon, but the Forged blade of sword and shadow madra didn’t crumble entirely before it hit him.

He caught it with his white palm and began to Consume. That wasn’t difficult. His arm instinctively wanted to devour everything; using the Consume technique was more like relaxing his control.

But the Sage of Fallen Blades’ technique was dense. The rising blade pushed Lindon higher and higher before he finished absorbing its power.

Dross opened his void key to swallow the fragments of Fallen Blades madra as he vented and Forged them into a form he could keep, but that took only a fraction of Lindon’s attention. The life Herald was barely holding his own, so Lindon began a Void Dragon’s Dance at the same time as he lashed out with whips of dragon’s breath.

Fallen Blades defended himself while Steel Dust merged with his particles and blew away on the wind, re-forming next to Lindon.

The Sage swung a mace with force that rivaled a Herald, but that force met Wavedancer.

While it had no binding, Wavedancer was a masterpiece. A perfect conduit for madra and willpower, it let Lindon channel enough force to meet the Sage of Steel Dust’s attack and deflect it.

The flying sword was knocked aside as well, but Lindon landed an Empty Palm on the man’s midsection with his left hand while reaching up to the halo with his right.

Steel Dust drifted away again, but Lindon had grabbed a handful of the Silent King’s madra. He swallowed that piece, and the Dreadgod’s will surged into him. Between him, Dross, and Subject One’s arm, they crushed that remaining will and added the compatible power to Dross.

[This madra comes with more memories than I expected,] Dross observed. [Delicious, delicious memories.]

Lindon readied himself for Steel Dust to reappear, but the man tumbled onto the war-ravaged ground and struggled with himself. After a moment, he broke the technique himself and raised up onto his knees.

Dross made a disappointed ‘tch.’

A contingent of the Silent King’s subjects noticed and launched a barrage of techniques at Steel Dust, but the Sage Forged a rapidly vibrating cloud that shielded him. He nodded to Lindon and dissolved into dust himself, blowing off into the wind.

Lindon looked forward to the day he could transport himself so easily.

A scream alerted him to the fact that half of the life Herald had been burned away by the wild Remnant of the Sun Sage, who was struggling with its own halo of the Silent King.

Lindon swept through before the technique could settle, Consuming the flame and then turning on the Remnant.

The fire madra went into his Blackflame core, the amount he could purify went to replenish his pure core, and the rest of the powers separated neatly or were Forged and dropped into his void key.

[Now his loved ones will have nothing to bury.]

Lindon wondered if Dross was trying to improve his concentration or break it as he rushed to the Herald’s side.

Fortunately, the man had regenerated already and was fighting Fallen Blades to a standstill, allowing Lindon to make the difference. Moments later, he was flying away with another Silent King halo dissolving in his veins.

Dross giggled. [From their suffering, we grow strong.]

Each halo of the Silent King was scaled to the spirit of the one it affected, so Lindon was indeed benefiting from a feast of powerful energy. His spirit and his body were both growing at a terrifying rate; his muscles were suffused with life and blood essence, his cores were swollen with power, and soulfire burned in him like a silver sun.

Dross speculated on whether he was going to set a record for the youngest in history to advance to Monarch, but Lindon spared his worry for Dross himself.

These dream techniques were mostly going to Dross, and the mind-spirit was feeling…strong. If he had a real, physical body, it would be rippling with muscle.

Lindon felt a pang of regret as he realized that the old Dross would have immediately sent an image of the spirit flexing muscular tentacles.

Dross noticed the direction of his thoughts and mused aloud. [You’re still holding on to the old me.]

It’s not important.

It really wasn’t. Moongrave was on fire.

Lindon fueled his Thousand-Mile Cloud and zipped back to the city. The battle between Sages and Heralds had tilted, but the ordinary sacred artists were in chaos. The Silent King had obviously ordered the Golds to go wild in the city, because buildings were toppling and flower groves were burning.

Still, once the Sages and Heralds had enough freedom to join Malice’s fight, the battle would shift back in their direction.

Then the sky flashed again.

Another wave of dream aura and madra pulsed through the air, and Lindon realized with horror that the Silent King was using its technique to control the minds of the masses once again. It hadn’t been long. If it could use that ability so often, then it was only a matter of time before it owned everyone.

No.

Lindon tried to Consume the technique as it washed over him, but it was like trying to get a handful of wind. This time, though, he didn’t even hear whispers.

Dross materialized just to lick his lips curiously, like he was identifying a taste. [I’m getting used to the flavor.]

More Remnants gained halos, and so did more sacred artists. Including some of the ones he had just saved.

The life Herald was taken over now, and he saw the Winter Sage shuddering. Charity put a hand on her, and a silver flash from inside Min Shuei’s soul cleansed the technique.

Dark blades erupted from behind them while green vines struck at their lifelines.

Lindon couldn’t make it in time, and he wasn’t ready to transport himself. There was only one thing he could do fast enough to help.

Bars of Blackflame pierced through both techniques, buying the Sages enough time to start the battle on their terms.

The world slowed again as Lindon surveyed the battlefield. Malice clashed with the techniques of the Silent King and his horde, but she was being dragged all over the terrain for miles. She had torn holes in his army, but there were always more. Even when she almost struck the King himself, he would bend the technique aside.

He can keep taking over their minds, Lindon thought.

[It’s true.]

But he can’t take over ours.

[Together, our will is indomitable.]

The longer this lasted, the more would die. Had the Silent King really managed to attack his family? What about Yerin? Orthos?

We can’t keep freeing people. We have to help Malice.

Dross laughed maniacally.

[Into the shadows we go,] Dross whispered.

Lindon kindled the Burning Cloak and dashed off. Toward the Dreadgod.

16

On the deck of Redmoon Hall, under the light of the sinking moon, dozens of white crowns hovered over unconscious Emissaries.

And one half-dead Herald.

The pale Sage turned to Redmoon. “Kill him!” he shouted.

Which was too slow for Yerin, as she had already launched a Rippling Sword at his body. A pink hand split in half as it tried to stop her technique, but the Redmoon Herald’s flesh regenerated almost immediately.

Though the Blood Sage was only a moment behind.

Animated birds of blood madra screamed as they tore at Redmoon, and crimson aura pulled every ounce of blood in the Herald’s body toward the outside. He was trying to rip Redmoon to pieces.

The Herald resisted, but Yerin was already in the air, swinging Netherclaw down on his head.

Until a Blood Shadow flew at her from the side and she had to twist to block it on her sword.

This Shadow covered a weapon, a huge blocky hammer that reminded her of Ziel’s. It had only been thrown by an Overlord, but he had put his all into the attack, and there was a weight to it he wouldn’t have been able to create on his own.

The will of the Silent King, she was sure.

Yerin flew from the impact but spun to retaliate…until she saw Little Blue under assault from several crown-controlled cultists.

Yerin struck her blade with the Endless Sword technique.

Their weapons exploded with sword aura. Several Emissaries staggered away from Blue, bleeding. The spirit ran frantically, shaking in fear. She held up one hand as though to ward them off, and Yerin’s heart squeezed. She activated the Moonlight Bridge to appear over Little Blue.

As she did, Little Blue Forged a giant Empty Palm, bigger than the spirit’s entire body.

The technique slammed into the midsection of a charging Emissary. He fell to his knees, having lost control of his madra, and his Blood Shadow shivered like it was in the middle of a lightning strike. Even the Silent King’s crown over his head shook.

He was an Underlord.

“Eyes sharp, Blue!” Yerin shouted. “Keep your sword out!”

Little Blue cowered behind her ankle.

Another explosion of blood madra and overwhelming will signified a clash between the Blood Sage and Redmoon. Bodies were shoved away from them by sheer force, and the Sage’s white hair blew in one direction while the Herald loomed over him with pink hair fluttering in the breeze.

“I should never have allowed you to remain,” Red Faith shouted. “You are a cancer, and today I will cut you out.”

Redmoon spread his hands wide. “We always sought to borrow the power of the Dreadgods. He who borrows the most is the sup—”

Yerin appeared behind him and put a sword through his lung. She disappeared one more time and landed next to the Blood Sage.

“Not paying me half enough to listen to that again,” she muttered.

The Sage had already Forged his technique into a huge shape that eerily resembled the Phoenix. It wrapped Redmoon up in its wings, and she could feel the Herald’s struggle to escape.

Madra flared from inside the technique, and Yerin readied herself. Red Faith extended a hand. “Live!” he commanded.

But it was too late, and Yerin felt it when it happened.

The Herald Redmoon detonated himself.

Red Faith’s technique exploded, and he and Yerin had to defend the Redmoon Hall members from flying chunks of blood madra.

Only one figure remained in the sky, and it still wore a white crown. It looked like a man from the neck down, but its arms were outspread wings that seemed made of gel. Its head was a twisted, monstrous abomination that resembled a beaked wolf.

Of course, the whole thing was crimson. Yerin was getting sick of that color.

Redmoon’s Remnant opened its beak and let out a shriek, and a piercing pain shot through Yerin’s head and spirit.

“The Silent King can exert greater control over Remnants,” the Sage said. He had a purple rune-circle over his own forehead; no doubt a security measure like the one Lindon had made for her. “Guard your mind.”

Yerin gently kicked Little Blue up into her waiting hand. “Thanks. You’ll have to tell me how the fight wraps up.”

Then she transported herself away.

As soon as she landed on a cliff overlooking the cloud fortress, she felt the oath she’d taken tighten around her. Until the conflict resolved, she was supposed to act as though Redmoon Hall was her own sect. She wouldn’t leave her own sect in danger.

The oath gripped her spirit tight, but she argued with it.

If the Silent King was after anyone, it was her. The Dreadgod was the real threat here, and Redmoon was just the sword he wielded. By leaving, she was drawing attention away from the others.

Pressure loosened from around her spirit. A little.

She opened herself up to the surrounding aura, sensing the harmony of the world around her. If she could convince herself she was retreating to figure out her next advancement, maybe she could deceive the oath.

Immediately, the grip tightened around her madra channels again. She shouldn’t have thought of it as a deception.

And it wasn’t, she told herself. She would of course retreat from a fight if she thought she had a chance of advancing and returning to tip the scales.

The oath allowed that, but it felt reluctant.

Yerin grumbled at the thought of a soul oath making decisions and judging her. The oath was nothing more than a technique; the mind she wrestled with was her own. So she had to be honest.

As the battle raged in Redmoon Hall, she opened herself up to the aura and thought.

Archlord advancement was about deciding who she wanted to be, the Blood Sage had told her. Others said it was about discovering the goals for the future she already had.

So what did she want to do in the future? What did she want to do forever?

It was a little disturbing how easily the answer came to her: she wanted to fight.

But fight what? Fight who? Whoever she wanted didn’t seem like the right answer for an Archlord advancement.

She thought of the Herald, Redmoon. His Remnant, whose techniques even now lit the sky red. It reminded her of a memory from years ago, one that was fresh because she had recently pulled it up for the Blood Sage’s research.

When they crouched in a basement during a Dreadgod attack, Eithan had asked her if she wanted to be powerful enough to fight the Bleeding Phoenix. She had imagined herself matching people like Malice, fighting the monster that had haunted her entire life.

And a spark of joy had ignited deep inside her.

She felt that same joy now, buried under layers of fear. If not for the oath, if not for Little Blue’s safety, if not for the fact that part of her wanted Redmoon Hall to tear itself apart, if not for her desire to leave and go help her friends…

She would want to fight Redmoon’s Remnant.

It was a monster. Someone needed to fight that monster.

And she wanted to be the one to do it.

The aura around her quivered, and she pulled natural treasures from her void key. Before she left home, Yerin had started collecting natural treasures herself, gathering them from her master’s belongings and hunting them down on her own, only to have Lindon present her with a fully balanced set of treasures already sealed in a package.

She removed the scripted box from her void key and unlatched the lid, releasing twelve treasures that shone with great power. They twisted and empowered the surrounding aura with their very existence, kicking up a cyclone and filling it with a blizzard.

Yerin felt the thralls of the Silent King turn their attention to her. Little Blue cooed a question.

“Yeah,” Yerin responded, “we’ll have to cut this quick.”

* * *

The Sage of Red Faith hated Herald Remnants.

The difference between a Herald’s body and their spirit was minimal, so their Remnants were not only more physically robust, but they tended to retain a greater measure of their original will. Even so, it was almost unheard-of for a Remnant to be stronger than the sacred artist that left it behind, so this should have been a glorious moment for Red Faith.

Here he was, putting an end to his rival after so long. Proving himself correct.

But it wasn’t that simple.

Red Faith was hounded by lesser techniques from the members of Redmoon Hall weak enough to be taken over by the Silent King. They were a constant distraction, though the loyal members of the Hall engaged them in combat.

He released a thousand Striker techniques, animated birds filled with his will. At the same time as they flew for Redmoon’s monstrous beaked Remnant, Red Faith released his nine daggers and controlled them according to a pattern he’d worked out years ago.

A less-skilled sacred artist wouldn’t be able to control even one of Red Faith’s techniques, but he had a longer history than most Monarchs. His flock of Striker techniques was a coordinated symphony, his daggers were a precise military strike, and he still had enough concentration left to focus on the crimson power surrounding the spirit.

“Weaken,” the Sage commanded.

Commanding another’s body directly was his specialty, but when dealing with an opponent of this much power, it was easier to interfere with the aura and madra of techniques.

His attack was a perfectly coordinated combination that should have caused even a Monarch trouble.

As one, the dozens of controlled Redmoon Hall members turned to him and pushed against his command. His willpower should have shattered theirs, even combined, but the influence of the Silent King bolstered them.

His command broke. Even some of his birds in the air lost their animation, blasting off into the distance as raw packets of energy. His daggers dipped and lost force.

It was still a deadly barrage, but not enough. When the Herald released a sphere of madra, power drawn from both the Silent King and the Bleeding Phoenix, it was enough to tear the Sage’s attacks to pieces.

But Red Faith had cards left to play.

First, he summoned another dream construct from his void key. It detonated, sending waves of dream aura across the entire ship.

Several devices malfunctioned and some dream tablets might have been wiped, but most importantly the Ruler technique interfered with the Silent King’s control. The thralls had their concentration interrupted, and a few even shook off the crowns entirely.

Red Faith could continue to clash against Redmoon in their specialty, but no one was more aware of the strengths and weaknesses of blood madra than he was. Therefore, he had planned ahead.

A cauldron leaped out of his void key and hovered next to him. It was large enough that he could have curled up inside, and it was carved with disturbing images of spiders, centipedes, snakes, and other crawling creatures. It had been carved from ancient natural treasures soaked in the aura of death and venom.

And he had turned it into a launcher construct.

The cauldron tipped onto its side and opened its lid, releasing a blast of green-edged darkness that had gathered inside it for years.

There was a sound theoretical reason why most sacred artists used weapons instead of relying on constructs for everything: a construct’s output was largely static, while one could add their own power to the binding in a weapon. Such permanent sacred instruments were also better conductors for willpower, though most were ignorant of that principle.

The Blood Sage likewise understood that it was better to lean on one’s own power in battle…but this cauldron had its advantages. He had fed it power until it was a weapon beyond what even he could conjure himself.

The stream of green and black madra, the lethal aspects of venom and death braided together, struck like a Monarch.

It washed over Redmoon and blasted for miles in the distance. Forests died where the technique passed. The red light suffusing the air was briefly supplanted by an otherworldly green.

Yes, it was a strike worthy of him. And sufficient to defeat even his longtime rival, backed by the will of two Dreadgods.

But he’d paid a price for it.

Red Faith coughed up a mouthful of blood and looked down at the hole in his stomach.

Rather than preserve itself, Redmoon’s Remnant had launched a technique against him. His loyal Archlady, Kahn Mala, ran up and caught Red Faith as he staggered.

“No…matter,” he spluttered out. “Will…heal.”

He couldn’t regenerate immediately as a Herald might, but he still had unparalleled control over his own body. Without superior blood authority to his own, the enemy would have to annihilate him to destroy him.

Even the Silent King-possessed Emissaries hadn’t recovered yet. The Sage’s bloody lips quirked up in a smile. This was a victory long in the making.

Without the awakening of the Phoenix, Redmoon would never have grown bold enough to challenge him. Then Red Faith wouldn’t have been granted this opportunity, this satisfaction…

The satisfaction immediately faded as he realized what he was sensing.

He and the Archlady looked up at almost the same time as the Phoenix’s cry echoed out again, and the moon flickered red.

The Blood Shadows of the fallen Emissaries gathered together in a swirling tide. Even the pieces Redmoon had left behind and some of Red Faith’s own power were added to the mix.

Kahn Mala unleashed her full power on the mass immediately, as did several of the other artists aboard. Red Faith was dedicating most of his concentration and spirit to keep his guts from spilling onto the deck, but he still wrestled with the aura around it.

It was no use. This was the level of blood authority that he had feared.

A moment later, a tiny phoenix—barely the size of a man—rose from the mass of blood on the deck.

The Dreadgod’s miniature avatar looked at Red Faith, and its liquid beak stretched into a cruel smile. The creature he had studied, whose development he had encouraged, was now biting the hand that fed it.

It was going to undo his life’s work. Just like that.

He could feel Yerin close by, pushing for advancement, and he spared a moment of irritation for her. She should have fled to preserve his greatest success.

Now, the Phoenix would surely destroy everyone here.

With his final breath, he would fight it.

The Sage of Red Faith pushed out with blood aura, shoving away all the humans around him. Then he stopped preserving his own body and gathered his nine daggers into formation, focusing his will and pushing his spirit onto the avatar of the Phoenix.

“Die,” he spat.

Then he unleashed everything he had into the Bleeding Phoenix.

* * *

Yerin felt Redmoon die, and she sensed the Phoenix manifest a small portion of itself onto Redmoon Hall.

The aura from the natural treasures around her died, the winds falling. Now nothing concealed the bodies of the Silent King thralls who had tried to attack her while she advanced. They had posed a threat to her while she was in the middle of advancement.

But not when she had finished. Then, they faced her new purpose.

“To kill monsters.”

Yerin was certain the Blood Sage was mortally injured, but she felt him squeeze out the last of his spirit to face down a copied Phoenix. They clashed.

Fresh out of advancement, Yerin’s mind was clear. Perhaps clearer than it had ever been.

The newborn Herald appeared on the deck of Redmoon Hall.

The small copy of the Bleeding Phoenix had morphed into something that resembled a storm of claws and blades. It was shredding Red Faith even as he responded in kind. Each cut on both sides sent blood and sword aura spraying into the air.

She could feel the sword aura resonating with her sword, and now she could feel a hum in the blood aura as well.

Yerin’s whole body rung like a bell, and the crimson vital aura resonated.

The tiny phoenix exploded.

It started gathering itself together immediately, but Yerin Forged the Netherclaw technique. More than ever, the binding in the sword felt smooth and simple to use.

The claw swept the deck clean, and the influence of the Phoenix faded.

With the battle finished, Yerin looked to the Sage…or what was left of him.

He resembled a bloody pile on the deck, and though he was still twitching, Yerin was certain he wouldn’t be able to pull himself together. Kahn Mala desperately poured a shining green elixir over him, but Yerin could feel it was too late.

Her black-bladed sword moved in front of the Archlady.

“Take three steps back unless you want to kiss his Remnant,” Yerin said.

Kahn Mala looked up in shock and horror. She seemed reluctant to move. But when scarlet lines began drifting up from the Sage of Red Faith, she saw reason.

Yerin had always thought of the Blood Sage as a crimson skeleton, and that was almost exactly what his Remnant resembled. There was only one difference: the eyes.

Red Faith’s Remnant had no eyes in its face. Instead, eyes floated up all around him, separated but still part of the spirit. They looked in every direction, observing. Watching. Learning.

Yerin had been prepared to fight again, but she didn’t sense hostility from this Remnant. Only endless, hungry curiosity.

She opened her void key.

“Strike you a deal,” she said. “Squeeze in there, pack yourself up, and I’ll use you to finish off your research.”

The skeleton tilted its head. All the eyes swiveled for her.

“The Void Sage has a way to take me up so I’m stabbing Dreadgods. Could use your techniques. Stick with me, and you’ll start up a new generation of Monarchs.”

The Remnant considered her deal.

Then it slid into Yerin’s void key on its own.

* * *

When Jai Long swept out with his spear, his first strike should have destroyed Jai Chen, Kelsa, and most of the street.

Kelsa used her Foxfire to attack him, but attacking this Dreadgod’s halo—the Silent King, Lindon had called it—with dream techniques was like attacking a flood with a watering can.

Living snakes of madra flew at her, and she was sure the last thing she was going to see was a set of shining white fangs.

A locket hanging behind Kelsa’s badge cracked open.

Dross’ voice flashed through her head at the speed of thought.

[Is that hostile madra I sense? Then the time has come for…protection.] The spirit’s laugh was disturbing.

Destruction madra erupted from her locket like tendrils of black mist. They dissolved Jai Long’s techniques in an instant. All of them.

The white light hit the shadow of destruction and died.

“Dross?” Kelsa asked.

[If you find yourself stuck in a mire of confusion, know that this is only a recording. Remember that I am not truly here with you and despair.]

The controlled Jai Long tilted his head in confusion, then white lines crawled all over his skin. He crouched and braced himself to attack.

Jai Chen steadied her feet and stretched out both hands. “Fingerling!”

She and the dragon unleashed a basic Striker technique: a stream of madra that resembled Lindon’s dragon’s breath. Jai Long used his spear to hold off one technique and slipped around the other, but Jai Chen’s madra had strange properties. The pink energy crawled up his spear and followed him, seeking his spirit.

Until he blew it apart and rushed at Kelsa in a blur of speed.

Technique was only a match for raw power up to a point.

Kelsa used the Foxtail Enforcer technique, distorting the appearance of her body to throw off his aim as she ducked and threw a punch at his midsection. It wouldn’t work, but she had faith in the protection Lindon had left her. And she had to try something.

At her belt, another construct activated.

It was a burst of force and wind that pushed Jai Long back several paces, which also meant Kelsa’s punch didn’t connect. Dross’ voice filled her mind again.

[An Underlord, is it? I wonder which Underlord messed up so badly to have earned this punishment.]

Kelsa felt a pulse of madra running from her locket, activating a distant script.

She felt a sudden sense of foreboding.

[I bet it was Jai Long,] Dross whispered.

Another nest of snakes rushed at Jai Chen, but Kelsa threw herself in front. The cloud of destruction madra devoured these serpents as well, though her construct had become noticeably weaker. Without more madra to fuel it, it would have been devouring itself every time it activated.

Kelsa grabbed Jai Chen’s hand and pulled her away.

Jai Long could run them down in a moment, but he didn’t. Soon, she realized it was because he didn’t have to.

Sacred artists emerged from doors and windows, shining with white halos. They raised palms and pointed in her direction.

Kelsa moved in front of Jai Chen, standing over her, and Forged the Fox Mirror. It was her weakest technique, and she could only potentially throw off the aim of these enemies with a fake wall, but the wall itself would have no substance.

Her hands and spirit trembled. Deep down, she knew she was going to die. If Lindon was here, he could save her, but there was only so much he could do from far away.

[Brace for arrival of Underlord Countermeasure Number One,] Dross said. [I call her The Fleshripper.]

Techniques erupted all up and down the street. The limbs of destruction madra protected Kelsa, and some fell for her Fox Mirror.

Then something silver blazed from the sky and hit the ground like a meteorite.

Kelsa recognized it as a sword-construct, but she’d never seen one so elaborate. It looked like an entire Remnant, sleek and compact, the color of polished steel. Its right arm was a blade and its left a shield, and its face like the head of a hatchet. Overall, it resembled a hunched armored skeleton.

But she only caught a glance of it until it moved, and then it was a flashing chrome blur.

Every technique heading Kelsa’s way burst into essence, either destroyed by the construct’s blade or blocked by its shield. It released a Striker technique that split into twelve different projectiles, each targeting a new enemy.

The balls of force exploded when they struck, and several nearby buildings collapsed. Dreadgod-controlled sacred artists went spilling to the ground. Kelsa was honestly relieved when she felt them still alive; she had been afraid that the defenses Lindon left her would automatically kill anything that threatened her.

Dross’ voice slipped into Kelsa’s ear. [I can sense that you are not calling her The Fleshripper.]

Kelsa hadn’t seen the construct rip anyone’s flesh yet. It seemed to focus on disabling targets rather than killing them; when a Lowgold struggled out of the rubble of her house to target Kelsa with another technique, the Fleshripper clubbed her and knocked the woman back down instead of decapitating her.

Then Kelsa felt a warning in her spirit and rolled away. Fingerling made a high-pitched keening noise and Jai Chen screamed her brother’s name.

Kelsa knew she wasn’t fast enough. A shining spearhead was already at her throat the instant she jumped backwards. How could she possibly outpace an Underlord?

A silver blade sliced Jai Long’s spear in half.

As Kelsa landed, a shield of gray force madra intercepted the wildly flying head of the spear and knocked it to the ground. Lindon’s puppet-construct stood over her with both of its arms ready, its hatchet-shaped head tracking Jai Long. The Underlord didn’t hesitate when he lost his weapon. He whirled in place, slamming the butt of his spear into the silver construct.

The mind-controlled Jai Long clashed with The Fleshripper, and each of their blows sent metallic thunder echoing up and down the street. Their motions were a blur.

Kelsa crouched next to Jai Chen. “Can you hit the ring over his head?”

Jai Chen wiped tears from her eyes and nodded. Next to her, Fingerling nodded along.

“I need you to break it. If you don’t, there’s nothing I can do to him.”

Another crowned sacred artist unveiled themselves behind them, and Kelsa sent her Foxfire shooting down the street in the form of tiny purple-white fireballs. Jai Chen focused on her brother and began whispering to Fingerling as Kelsa faced her new opponent.

Then she felt more.

From around the city, she sensed strong spirits heading her way. The fight had already attracted attention, and most people she could see weren’t controlled by the Silent King. The buildings the Fleshripper had toppled housed other people, and most were confused if not outright distraught. Though they did avoid the Underlord-level battle in the middle of the street.

Truegolds were heading toward the fight, which was to be expected. The fight would have attracted attention, and Serpent’s Grave had many Highgolds and Truegolds defending it.

When the first Truegold appeared, an old man, Kelsa let out a breath of relief. No halo.

Then he was blasted from the sky.

Three, four, five more Truegolds appeared, and Kelsa’ knees trembled. All of them wore white halos.

She ran to seize Jai Chen and flee, but she stopped when she heard Dross’ voice again.

[If you still find yourself on the brink of death, surrounded by enemies, activate the script in your belt to your left. Second compartment.]

Kelsa ran her spiritual senses and her hand into her belt, chiding herself as she did for ever complaining about how many features Lindon had built into her accessories. When she felt the script Dross mentioned, she activated it.

Beneath her feet in the Twin Star Sect compound, she felt constructs activate.

[Ah, then you are desperate. Savor this feeling, for it is only in desperation that you know you are truly alive.]

Kelsa hoped this recording of Dross wasn’t wasting time.

Fireballs appeared in the air next to toxic green spears and swirling blades while a Ruler technique seized the ground beneath her feet. Kelsa ran, activating the Fox Mirror behind her to give her foes a distraction.

[Activating Underlord Countermeasures Numbers Two through Four.]

“How many are there?” Kelsa asked as Striker techniques devastated the illusory clone of herself she’d left behind.

Dross didn’t answer, but the Truegolds turned as they felt new spiritual presences behind them.

Jai Long staggered into view, bloody and ragged. He clutched a silver hatchet-shaped head in one hand.

Fingerling attacked his halo, and Jai Long swept out with a palm, but one eye was matted down with blood and his spirit felt strained. He was weak, and Fingerling avoided his strike.

The sight of him squeezed Kelsa’s heart tight. He had been beaten to this point, and it was all her fault. The Dreadgod was targeting her.

If not for Lindon, it would have taken her mind too.

Jai Long tossed The Fleshripper’s steel head aside and lunged for Kelsa. Then a giant stone hand seized his shoulder.

This new puppet-construct resembled gray stone, and it was lit from within by fiery orange lights. It towered over Jai Long and Kelsa by two feet, and it looked like it weighed more than most barns.

Even through the technique that had clouded Jai Long’s mind, he looked up at the construct with what Kelsa would call disbelief. Under different circumstances, she would have laughed at his stunned face.

The stone construct punched Jai Long through the nearest wall.

[There are twelve more Underlord Countermeasures,] Dross said, startling her. [You wondered, didn’t you? Sixteen in total. Meet Bludgeon, The Immolator, and Creeping Death. I named them.]

It was easy to tell which was which.

The stone construct, Bludgeon, stood like a brick wall in front of Jai Long, waiting for him to emerge from the wreckage. Down the street, The Immolator—an orange flame Remnant that also crackled with strange lightning—was juggling enough fireballs to light the sky like sunrise. Creeping Death must be the shadowy cloud that Kelsa could barely perceive except for its shining green eyes.

“I should have been a Soulsmith,” Kelsa muttered.

The battle raged for another moment…then, as though everyone with a white halo had come to the same decision at once, they all retreated.

“Follow him!” Jai Chen cried. She launched a net of pink madra from her hands, which grasped at Jai Long’s halo, but the Underlord ducked away. The constructs were meant to protect Kelsa, so they didn’t follow. They backed up and surrounded her in a ring.

Those thralls of the Silent King who couldn’t retreat were mostly abandoned. Some had lost the rings around their heads.

But others were regrouping on the edge of the street.

As one, they turned their eyes and spiritual perceptions to Jai Chen.

Kelsa ran to protect the younger girl, but Bludgeon stopped her. “Run!” she screamed, straining in vain against the stone hand holding her back.

Jai Chen ran, but dozens of techniques streaked for her. Kelsa’s stomach dropped.

Then Jai Chen stumbled and looked around. “Dross?” she asked.

Bludgeon Forged a wall of earth madra surrounding Jai Chen. The Immolator shot techniques out of the air, and Creeping Death reappeared next to the sacred artists. The shadow passed over them and they dropped down.

Kelsa hoped they were still alive. She didn’t see any Remnants, at least, except from the few that had been killed by the thralls of the Silent King.

Jai Long watched, and Kelsa felt as though she could sense the frustration of the Dreadgod even from so far away.

Jai Chen’s eyes were sparkling as she walked up to Kelsa. “That was amazing! Do you think it’ll give up?”

Kelsa gathered up the aura of dream and light around Jai Long’s head. “Let’s see if we can speed that up.”

With his one open eye, Jai Long looked from Kelsa to Jai Chen as though weighing his options. Kelsa’s Fox Dream technique started eating away at the halo even as Jai Chen’s pink dragon’s breath did the same.

Jai Long shuddered beneath the assault, but he gathered white madra between his palms. He Forged a huge serpent, and the constructs moved in front of Kelsa protectively.

All up and down the street, the conscious Dreadgod thralls used their techniques.

Jai Long threw the snake up in the air…and then it dove straight down.

He stopped cycling his madra and opened his spirit, and Kelsa knew what was about to happen.

She abandoned her Fox Dream to hurl Foxfire at the snake. Fingerling joined her a second before Jai Chen did, chipping away at the Underlord’s technique.

Even when the technique was about to hit him, Jai Long’s eyes didn’t clear.

Kelsa poured everything she had into her Striker technique, and madra chipped away from the snake. Its outline blurred, and it grew weaker. But two Lowgolds giving it their all were not enough to break one technique from an Underlord.

The snake crashed down over Jai Long like a living lightning bolt.

Jai Chen screamed, but Kelsa had her perception locked onto him. They had weakened the technique, and a body forged in soulfire was tough. Jai Long dropped to his knees, and his skin was sliced all over…but he was alive.

Covered in blood and on the verge of losing consciousness, with severe spiritual damage, but alive. Even the Silent King’s halo was fuzzing to essence.

She let out a breath of relief, and at her side, so did Jai Chen.

Then every other controlled sacred artist on the street raised a hand and unleashed techniques.

All targeting Jai Long.

He looked up to see them coming, but he didn’t defend himself.

Earth erupted where he knelt at the same time as madra of every aspect crashed on his location. The constructs didn’t defend him; Lindon hadn’t left Jai Long any protection.

Jai Chen and Kelsa watched in numb horror as he died.

The scene was surreal. Kelsa wondered if she herself had been caught in an enemy’s illusion. Jai Long couldn’t die so easily. He had never told her the last of his secrets, the ones that weighed so heavily on his conscience.

Kelsa had told him he didn’t have to, but she’d been sure he was going to come around. After all, they had plenty of time.

Or so she had thought.

Now, before she’d realized it, their time had run out.

The constructs didn’t move until the Remnant, blue-white and serpentine, rose from the cloud of dust. Then, because it threatened the safety of their charges, they tore Jai Long’s Remnant into pieces and tossed the essence into the night sky.

* * *

Wei Shi Jaran held a spear pointed at the front door of his house in Serpent’s Grave. He could barely see his wife behind the shell of launcher constructs that floated all around her.

Both had been prepared to die in honorable combat since they were young. This…didn’t feel like honorable combat.

Jaran was certain that, if the protective scripts failed and the enemies came through the door, that he and Seisha would be wiped from existence in a second. It would take the direct intervention of the heavens for him to draw a single drop of blood with this spear.

Even so, he firmed his grip.

Light through the windows flashed as there came another assault on the dragon-bone building. Sacred artists surrounded them, all wearing crowns of white light, all focused on blasting a hole in the walls. And on reaching the two of them specifically, according to Lindon’s warning.

He had given them instructions, too. Sleep inside the scripted walls, and if they were besieged by enemies, activate a particular device.

They had followed what Lindon told them to do, mostly at Seisha’s insistence. Jaran still suspected Lindon had caused this situation somehow, but he was wise enough to keep his mouth shut about it.

The device—a tiny scripted key hanging from a string—had created a circular doorway in midair. At first, that had startled them both. There were too many strange things in there, including something that looked like a golden Remnant, though they hadn’t gotten a good look at it.

Lindon had been clear: do not go inside. So they stayed out.

But they weren’t sure what was supposed to happen. Lindon had only told them what to do and made it clear that this was a last resort.

Another barrage of Striker techniques lit up the sky and shook the ground, and Jaran steeled his spirit. Lindon’s defenses around the house couldn’t last much longer. They were trapped in a cage, and now they were going to die.

The launchers around Seisha drifted apart, revealing her grim face. “We can’t reach them out there. We’ll have to open the—”

She cut off as a Remnant shot out of the open gateway.

It was a long serpent wearing gold armor…and only after a quick examination did Jaran realize it was both armored in gold and covered in gold scales beneath. Though it was still a Remnant, so its every detail looked as though it had been painted onto the world in luminous colors.

The serpent turned to regard them, and while its eyes were only dots of light, Jaran thought it was looking down on them.

It spoke in a woman’s voice. “Are you Lindon’s parents?”

“Yes!” Seisha said immediately. “Please save us! Pardon, but we don’t have much time!” She was only glancing at the dragon spirit, most of her attention focused on the windows outside.

The ground shook again, but the dragon looked to the door. “Let me out. I’ll take care of this.”

Jaran delicately sensed the spirit’s power, and he had no word for it other than “strong.”

“Gratitude,” he said humbly. “May we know your name, honored expert?”

“Lindon says my name was Ekeri.” The dragon Ekeri flicked her tail. “Now, open the door so I can finish doing him a favor. He will owe me.”

Jaran hurried to open the door, hoping that Lindon knew what he was doing and had bound this spirit to help them. Remnants were notoriously unreliable.

Ekeri was outside in a golden flash, and then her armor opened up. Each plate seemed to melt, until she had more launcher constructs strapped to her body than even Seisha did.

“This is my territory now,” Ekeri announced, in a haughty voice that Jaran imagined must come from royalty. “Get off my land.”

Lights of every color streaked away from her, and she herself breathed liquid gold.

Jaran slowly shut the door.

Seisha slid a hand around his waist. “You’ll have to get used to these things sooner or later.”

“No,” Jaran grumbled.

Then he tossed his useless spear into the corner.

17

Malice filled the air with razor-sharp fragments of shadow that would slice the soul. She multiplied one arrow into a thousand, activated Striker constructs that landed in a bare fragment of a second, and struck where her target was destined to move.

Every time, the Silent King slipped aside.

He was an infuriating opponent. With every movement, she felt like he was laughing at her. This Dreadgod had always reminded her of Reigan Shen for more reasons than just the obvious; maybe white cats were all this arrogant. She should outlaw white cats in her territory.

But her boiling frustration was only occupying a remote layer of her attention. Her focus was on the battle, and with every passing second, it required more and more of her mind.

She was losing.

Fighting the King before had been like trying to catch a ghost, but fighting him now was like facing four Monarchs at once. There was too much to keep up with.

The King’s army launched a steady barrage of techniques, each empowered with enough will that they might potentially scratch her. Collectively, they were like a Herald, in that they could technically harm her but were still far beneath her level.

But no Herald followed a thousand different Paths, and no Herald could so easily shove aside her techniques. No Herald could fight her and threaten her children at the same time. And no Herald grew stronger with every passing moment as more pieces of itself showed up on the battlefield.

Meanwhile, the Silent King could crush every one of her workings and match her own techniques with its own. When she rained blades of shadow, the Dreadgod unraveled them to essence. When she pierced his illusions with an arrow, he warped space to move them aside or dissolved and re-formed his own physical body.

Through it all, a constant pressure sat on her mind. Her will was perfect and inviolable, but as she poured herself into the battle, the Silent King’s mental grip around her never loosened.

Eventually, that pressure would find a breaking point. Even diamonds broke.

She was relieved when she felt the dream script activate around Moongrave behind her, so she could divert some of her attention away from defending the city.

There was only one path to victory for her here. She had to hold on until other Monarch forces arrived.

But that was a challenging task for her even with Herald and Sage support. Without such support, and with the rift into the void pouring out reinforcements for the Silent King, she was dancing a razor’s edge between life and death.

When she felt a new presence flying toward her, she scanned it in a split-second to be sure it wasn’t one of the King’s servants.

When she realized who it was, she was irritated anew.

Dark clouds of fire and destruction gathered over the Silent King’s army. The legion devoted some of its unified collective will to breaking the Ruler technique, but that meant it had less to stop the newcomer from physically flying in on his Thousand-Mile Cloud.

A few hundred techniques still streaked by him, but he knelt on the cloud, face locked in concentration, one hand gripping a mass of cloud while the other flexed and rolled with a Dreadgod’s hunger.

Lindon was coming to fight beside Malice because he had both the reckless confidence of youth and the power of a Sage. It was a suicidal combination, but she couldn’t protect him. Or slap him down for his insolence.

She almost slipped him a mental message and commanded him to go back…but a distant shadow of Fate flickered through her mind and stopped her.

Malice hadn’t been able to monitor the rest of the battle as closely as she liked, but only three had effortlessly resisted the Dreadgod’s mind-control technique. She had the willpower and spiritual resistance of a Monarch, Charity specialized in mental Enforcer techniques…and then there was Lindon.

His mind-spirit hadn’t been overwhelmed by the Silent King. Come to think of it, such a spirit designed by Northstrider combined with a Sage’s will made him well-suited for this battlefield.

He could be an asset. If he didn’t get vaporized in the first second.

Lindon erupted in a globe of pure madra, wiping out some techniques and weakening others. His cloud dispersed, but he stayed floating on aura in midair.

The King locked eyes on him, and she felt a flare of hunger and dreams as the Dreadgod tried to devour his mind.

But that was one working not focused on her.

Malice swung her bow like a staff, and the army blocked with a shimmering shield. At the same time, she focused on the portal.

“Close,” Malice commanded.

The portal shuddered as the remaining will of the Dreadgod resisted hers.

Malice pushed against him, clawing for any advantage. She didn’t have much time. If Lindon held him for a whole second, that would be impressive enough.

* * *

Lindon’s senses were drawn into an imaginary space, and he fought to escape. His body could be torn apart on the outside, and he would feel nothing.

But Dross’ dark-purple shape drifted by him and stopped him with a tendril on his shoulder. [This is a world without time.]

Lindon stopped wrestling to escape. If he understood Dross correctly, that meant that this place only existed in his imagination. Time on the outside would crawl as his mind was accelerated.

It certainly looked like a world without time: an endless white void. Just him and Dross.

Then, suddenly, a giant tiger.

As Lindon had seen before, the Silent King was recognizably a white tiger, but just as recognizably not a natural one. It had no fur, only smooth pale skin with black stripes like slices into a moonless night. Its face resembled a detailed Remnant’s rather than a sacred beast’s, and its crown shone bright as the sun.

“You chose to disobey me,” the King purred. “I told you what the consequences would be.”

Scenes appeared, replacing the featureless background. Lindon saw through the perspective of half a dozen different people.

Ziel and Orthos fled down a dark hallway, the Archlord desperately covering for the turtle.

Yerin fought side-by-side with the Blood Sage, both wounded and rapidly healing against a barrage of blood techniques that turned the night crimson.

Mercy surrounded herself with black webs and covered her body with amethyst armor, loosing arrow after arrow in defense of a crowd she couldn’t abandon.

Kelsa and Jai Chen huddled in fear on dirt as indistinct shapes flashed around them.

His parents, seen through a window, huddled and waited for the boundary field around them to fail.

Each scene wrapped icy fingers around Lindon’s heart, but he focused on the limited perspective of his family. The Silent King wasn’t showing him their surroundings.

“Pardon,” Lindon said, “but could you show me a different view of Kelsa?”

The tiger tilted its head.

[Oh yes,] Dross said eagerly. [I want to see The Fleshripper in action.]

“A different view. Very well.”

Kelsa and Jai Chen had been fighting in the Twin Star Sect territory in Serpent’s Grave. Now he saw the city from far away.

Smoke rose from it. It reminded him forcibly of the night the Jai clan had attacked the Arelius family.

The view of his parents had changed too; now, instead of a close-up on their house in Serpent’s Grave, he saw more people scurrying around the wreckage of surrounding buildings. Running. In chaos.

Under attack from another Dreadgod.

The view of Yerin now showed him the Redmoon Hall cloudship swaying drunkenly, its cloud base broken. The view of Orthos showed him an ancient castle crumbling.

“Are you proud of your plans now?” the Dreadgod asked.

Those icy fingers gripped Lindon’s heart…and his own fingers of white hunger madra squeezed into a fist.

His body wasn’t really present in this mental space, but he felt no difference. The hunger of the Slumbering Wraith was still there.

“Why me?” Lindon asked.

“You have trespassed on our domain,” the Silent King said. The giant tiger prowled around Lindon and Dross. “You’ve stolen a piece of us. You belong to us.”

Lindon held his arm up and forced his fist to un-clench. “Then why don’t you tear this from me?”

The white space over the tiger blackened, becoming an endless abyss. The Void Icon.

The Dreadgod looked up into its depths. “You have made our hunger part of your soul. The authority suits you. You belong with us.” The views of Lindon’s friends changed to people living ordinary lives, working in harmony. With white rings over their heads.

“Joining me is not the slavery you imagine,” the Silent King continued. “It is unity. You retain your will; indeed, you are useless to me without it. I merely coordinate you to exert more power than you could separately.”

Lindon began to speak, but the Dreadgod anticipated him.

“My hunger? I feed on excess dream aura, just as Dross does. Small enough that no one misses it. This is a symbiotic arrangement. With a word from you, your loved ones can be safe. I can ensure that they are never endangered again.”

Lindon did feel the pressure of his loved ones in danger, as he felt the weight of the Dreadgod’s will urging him to agree.

But most of all, he was confused.

“You had to know I wouldn’t agree to this.”

The tiger crouched down and laid its head on its paws. “I would be disappointed if you had, the first time.”

The chill around Lindon’s heart expanded.

“My mind can endure in this state for subjective years,” the Silent King said. “Dross is bleeding madra to bear the burden instead of you, but his power is finite. When he runs out, you will last until your will erodes, followed by your brain.”

Fury burned a hole in Lindon’s heart.

What was left was a cold, dark hole.

A void.

The Dreadgod continued to speak casually. “That will take only seconds in reality, but to us it will feel like a year. Or perhaps a decade, depending on how long you hold out. So, Lindon, you have rejected my first offer, and my second. What about my thousandth? My ten thousandth? How many times can you succeed before you fail?”

Lindon turned his mind and spiritual perception to Dross. Sure enough, he was leaking power.

Dross gave the Dreadgod a crazed smile. [As I approach the embrace of darkness, I grow only stronger!]

Lindon turned back to the Silent King. “Apologies, I will have to decline. But I do agree with you in one respect.” Even though it was a mental space, Lindon took a moment to straighten himself. He rearranged the badge on his chest, smoothed his hair, and took direct control of his shaking arm. He faced the giant tiger directly.

“We do belong together.” The Void Icon bled into his voice. “When I Consume your spirit and tear out your heart, you will be with me forever.”

The Dreadgod had some no-doubt clever response, but Lindon reached out for the space around him.

This wasn’t a manipulation of space. It was a technique. The Dreadgod had him in an illusion, meaning he was trapped inside the Silent King’s power.

Lindon unleashed the arm of Subject One. He stopped holding its power back, and felt it resonate with the endless, insatiable hunger of the Void Icon.

“Consume,” the Void Sage said.

The images on the white background flickered like reflections on a pond as thoughts and madra slammed into Lindon. Ancient will kicked him like a horse, but he powered through the Dreadgod’s resistance.

As the Silent King responded, its voice warbled. The connection between them was growing thin. “Ambitious. Let’s see if your protector can hold up.”

The Dreadgod raised a claw and flicked it at Dross, who shone with purple madra as he braced himself.

Lindon reached out with his left hand and caught the claw.

“Wrong again,” Lindon said. “He’s not my protector. I’m his.”

Dross had overburdened to protect him from the strain of a Dreadgod’s mind once.

That was one time too many.

[Lindon,] Dross muttered, [You are steadfast and reassuring, but I am approaching my limit.]

Indeed, the memories from the Silent King were flowing through Dross and into Lindon. As Lindon had experienced before, another’s identity was drowning his. He remembered ruling a jungle, remembered controlling thousands of minds. Battling ancient Monarchs. Remembered the thirst for new memories, new experiences.

[Lindon?]

“Consume.”

Lindon couldn’t think about anything else. He had one singular focus, and he didn’t need to survive to achieve his goal.

As long as he didn’t bend.

“Idiocy,” the Silent King said, though his voice was faint. “This is a fragment of me. You can’t…reach…”

Lindon moved a step forward, even as the space flickered. Even when he forgot what he was doing.

He kept Consuming, and he walked forward.

[Lindon!]

The power rushed through him and eroded his thoughts, but he kept pushing.

He would push until he broke.

* * *

At first, Dross enjoyed the thrill of approaching doom. The risk made him feel alive.

Then Lindon had started to fight against the Silent King, and Dross felt much as he had when the sky blackened: that at least they would die together, as one.

Then Lindon took the blow meant for him.

Dross could see every one of Lindon’s thoughts. He had to push to access memories, but surface thoughts were harder to ignore than to witness. So he heard it, clear as a song, when Lindon resolved to die before Dross.

And Dross heard what Lindon meant by “Dross.”

In the weeks since Dross had come back to awareness, he had tried several new personalities. Lindon had looked at the problem like a Soulsmith, trying to find a solution. To fix him.

The reality was, Dross knew how to return to his old self. He had known…perhaps not the entire time. There was a while after waking when he had been very confused.

He knew, though. He knew how to return.

But the old personality had failed. He had failed Lindon by breaking.

Dross was looking for a new Dross, a better Dross. One that wouldn’t flinch in the face of death and could endure the threats they faced. He liked his current personality, which helped him to enjoy those moments of danger.

Even though, every time Lindon said Dross’ name, he was asking for the old Dross. The original. The one he’d been before.

Which made Dross wonder: if my personality changes, will he throw me away?

That was an unworthy thought, and one he was embarrassed to have. Lindon had proven himself many times, and Dross could search through the man’s memories at leisure. But now, he admitted to himself that the main reason he had stayed in his current configuration was to see what Lindon would do.

Would Lindon try to forcibly recreate the old Dross? Would he get used to the new one? If Dross’ personality changed, would Lindon grow to hate him?

Now, he heard what Lindon meant when he challenged the Silent King. He knew who Lindon swore to protect with his life.

This time, when Lindon said Dross, he meant Dross. In all his mutations and transformations. Dross, his companion. His mind-spirit.

His friend.

And Dross found that he didn’t need his new personality anymore.

He shook the darkness off his form, and the skin of his projected form became brighter to match his old outlook. He searched his memories, shifted his perspective…

His shame doubled.

Some of the things he’d said were so embarrassing. And had he really held a new form just to test Lindon? He had issues.

All that realization occurred almost instantly, and Lindon was still in trouble. Dross had to do something.

Fortunately, Dross was positively bursting with stolen power. Not enough to hold back a Dreadgod forever.

But enough to make a change.

* * *

Lindon was drowning in alien thoughts, clinging to his determination like a rock in the middle of raging rapids.

Then he heard an old, familiar voice.

[Lindon! Wow, you really are hanging in there, huh? Blink twice if you’re still sane!]

Lindon’s resolve shook.

[Sorry! Sorry. Don’t let me distract you with my self-revelation. But since you’re blocking the Silent King’s will, I’m going to slow this space. It’s too fast, and that’s going to boil your brain. I mean, uh…yeah, “boil your brain” is accurate.]

Lindon couldn’t spare much concentration; even listening to Dross was loosening his grip and weakening his focus.

But he was sure that sounded like a bad idea. Slowing down the dream meant his body would be vulnerable.

[That is what I mean, yes,] Dross conceded. [But it also means we can get help. And I’m pretty sure help is on the way.]

“No help can come for you,” the Silent King said casually. “You’ve done well to hold on so far. Give it another year or two and we’ll really see what you’re made of.”

The Dreadgod’s voice was strong again, and Lindon didn’t have the awareness to wonder whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

But he felt the white space shake when Dross struck. It was like a purple earthquake.

The Dreadgod’s voice shivered with it, and came back mid-sentence. “…worthwhile. Who can help you here?”

Dross struck again, and it was like Lindon was trapped inside a drum.

The Dreadgod’s pressure let up, and Lindon had enough time to realize how much stolen power was running through his spirit. If he didn’t vent some of it, his Paths were going to get corrupted.

So Lindon struck out with dream madra, Dross shaped it, and Lindon added to it the weight of his authority.

“Even if you escape, what will it—”

“Begone,” Lindon commanded.

The Void Icon wiped out the dream, and Lindon came to realize he was on the ground with his right arm stretched out toward the Dreadgod in the distance.

His channels were still bursting with dream madra, and he quickly Forged it.

A purple-white ring spun into existence all around him, semi-solid and overflowing with power that radiated brightly in his spiritual sense. If he didn’t know better, he would say it felt like it was made of Monarch scales.

[Void key!] Dross insisted. [Void key, quick! Before somebody takes it!]

Dross opened Lindon’s void key himself, without waiting for a response, and Lindon tossed the ring in. It tried to sink through the floor, but a void space was limited. It wouldn’t get far.

Dross materialized, and he shone violet, sending up sparks from his eye and his teeth. [Wow, and I thought I was strong before! When I finish digesting this, I’ll be…meaty.] He flexed one tentacle, which suddenly bulged with muscle. [See? See, Lindon? This is what you said I’d—]

Lindon stood and threw his arms around Dross.

“Welcome back,” Lindon whispered. His eyes burned with tears.

Dross returned the embrace and sighed. [Sorry. I made you suffer longer than I meant to.]

Lindon stepped back, though it turned into a stagger. His thoughts were difficult to arrange, and he felt like his nose should be bleeding. But his spirit blazed with power.

[Yeah, you’re in very strange shape.] Dross looked him up and down. [Your thoughts are going to need some genius mind-spirit to stitch them back together, but you stole enough energy from the Dreadgod that your spirit is better than ever. Once I finish sorting all this dream-aura, your mind and I will both be…well, if minds could advance, we’d be doing that.]

Lindon moved dizzily, but he could feel a battle shaking the ground. He tested his arm and found it unharmed.

And still hungry. Always hungry.

The Silent King’s army still fought in the distance, but the Void was steadily closing. Malice stood in front of that while another familiar presence fell down from the sky. Trailing a red dragon of blood and hunger madra.

Northstrider.

“Is that the help we were waiting for?” Lindon asked.

[I thought him distracting the Dreadgod was our only chance, but you outperformed my expectations. I thought the Silent King would…hm. Is there a more flattering term than ‘eat you like a mouse?’]

Lindon let the sound of Dross’ familiar chatter wash over his chaotic jumble of thoughts like a soothing rain. As he did, he watched the battle.

Northstrider’s attack landed on the King and blasted away a significant chunk of the army below, but he had only destroyed an illusion.

Lindon pointed to a gray, washed-out shape sneaking away from the fight. It was hard to concentrate fully, but it looked almost like the silhouette of a giant tiger.

“And what’s that?” Lindon asked.

Dross peered into the distance. His eye widened.

[If I had to guess—and I do, since elaborate guessing is my job—I would say that we’ve eaten enough of the Silent King’s madra that we can identify it in person.]

“I see,” Lindon said.

His anger that resonated with the Void Icon had not gone away. If anything, it burned deeper and colder than before.

“You saw all of its memories that I did?”

[In a few seconds, I think my model will be very accurate. The Silent King’s mental assault is its deadliest power. Physically, it’s…well, it’s still a Dreadgod, but a small one.]

“Dross,” Lindon said, “show me.”

Information requested: how to rid the world of the Silent King.

Beginning report…

Whoa, I can see so much more now! It’s like the future was covered in smoke, but it’s gone now. Was it me that changed, or the world? What a great view to appreciate at another time, when your brain isn’t simmering.

For now, let’s take a look at the patterns of this army.

Lindon’s view moves overhead, to see the legions of white-haloed thralls. Now that he sees the rivers of Remnants, sacred beasts, and people, it’s clear that they’re moving in patterns. It reminds him of a whirlpool.

At the center of that pool is an image of the Silent King. It looks like it’s being protected by the hive, and even the Monarchs are focusing their attacks on it.

But in this new view, that image is faint and hollow. There’s another tiger slinking off to the side, barely protected, but with no attention focused on it. This one is hidden by a gray shadow.

He’ll see us coming, no doubt about that. But he doesn’t know we can see him, and that’s how we get him.

Lindon watches himself loop around the outside of the army, facing the center. A contingent of enthralled sacred artists focuses techniques on him, but he fights as though he’s trying to get to the middle.

While, seemingly naturally, the flow of the battle pushes him closer and closer to the shrouded Dreadgod.

We’re only going to get one shot…

When Lindon gets close enough, he focuses his energy on his left hand. A claw of Forged Blackflame overlays his own, resonating with the Void Icon.

He rushes at the Silent King and slams the technique home, swallowing the Dreadgod in a black explosion.

All over the battlefield, the halos flicker. But they don’t break.

And when a bloodless but wounded tiger’s face emerges from the cloud of destruction aura, its one remaining eye blazes with rage.

…but they’ll take it from there.

An ice-cold arrowhead the size of a ship slams into the Silent King. It pins him to the ground for an instant before he breaks it into pieces and re-forms his body, roaring until a Forged blood dragon hits him from the side.

All we do is keep a tag on him, and let the Monarchs handle the rest.

In the vision, Lindon launches dragon’s breath every time the Silent King tries to sneak away, and Northstrider and Malice lead the battle. The frustrated Dreadgod tries to flee, but he’s cornered by land-ravaging techniques that send dust clouds billowing into the sky.

One problem, and it’s not terrible, nothing worth mentioning, but he is going to try and bring the others in.

One reason why the Monarchs didn’t kill the Dreadgods every time. Push one too far, and it called for its brothers.

The King roars, and all hunger madra in the world trembles with its cry. Lindon’s arm rings like a bell, and even he feels an overpowering urge to go to the tiger’s side.

We’ll have to do something about that. If only you had some kind of genius mind-spirit to h—

Dross’ voice cuts off and the image of the roaring Dreadgod freezes.

It melts and re-forms, and now Lindon feels himself pinned to the ground by a massive claw. The Silent King looms over him, looking down unharmed, as Malice’s armor bleeds away to essence behind him.

You can’t run from me here, little spirit, the Dreadgod says. I will tell you how this proceeds.

Time rolls backwards.

Once again, Lindon is trying to get close to the Silent King while pretending he’s fallen for the illusion. He combines his powers into one technique, and The Dragon Descends forms on his hand. He slams it into the tiger in a mighty explosion.

The Dreadgod dissolves into light. It was an illusion all along.

A claw strikes Lindon from behind, and he feels the pain even in the vision as his body carves a trench into the earth.

He looks up into the pale white sky…which peels away like a coat of paint and reveals a floating island. The island is dominated by a tall white tree. One crowned in a circle of light.

Lindon recognizes it even before he sees the sacred artists pouring down from it. This is the headquarters of the Silent Servants, the cult of the tiger Dreadgod.

Northstrider crashes from high above, borne down by their collective will. Malice is pelted by a barrage from the reinforced army and pushed back.

The Dreadgod focuses its will on the city of Moongrave. In a flash of purple light, its circle of defensive scripts is overwhelmed and falls.

The people of the city are his.

Northstrider dies.

Malice flees.

Lindon sees the near future. His perspective drifts rapidly into the sky, where he sees the continent of Ashwind spreading out before him, from the Trackless Sea in the far north to the jungles of the south. The land is covered by points of white light. Millions upon millions of halos. Each a spirit proclaiming allegiance to the Silent King.

Lindon feels one halo settle onto his own soul, and in the vision, the technique brings peace unending.

If you see a pair of Monarchs containing me, then you cannot see Fate. I am not what I was. I am unlimited.

Dross clears his throat, and the sound cuts through the vision.

The dream of the Silent King’s victory pauses.

Well, see, if we’re being technical, I did say there were reinforcements on the way. I didn’t say there were only two.

The top-down view of the Ashwind continent covered in white light is still frozen…except for shining green leaves, which drift across the vision as though blown on the wind. The leaves are the only things moving in this still world, and each has a strange shape at its center.

A shape that eerily resembles an open eye.

Another voice joins Dross and the Silent King. A woman’s voice, gentle but mocking.

Here kitty kitty kitty, Emriss Silentborn says.

Even trapped as a passenger in a vision, Lindon can feel the Silent King’s horror.

No…

Why don’t we all take this outside? Dross suggests. Not to complain, but it’s usually just me in here. And Lindon.

Report complete.

Back in reality, Lindon looked up at the sky, where he saw only blank white.

A voice drifted on the wind, a soft command from the Monarch of Everwood. “Show yourselves.”

Green light peeled away an invisible cloak, revealing the island of the Silent Servants and its tall white tree floating in the air overhead. Just as the Silent King had shown Lindon in the vision, the Dreadgod cult was indeed here. They had waited in hiding to provide backup at the critical moment.

Now, however, they had been forcefully exposed.

Clearly, something was wrong.

When Lindon had seen the white tree of the Silent Servants before, its branches were bare. This time, it sprouted that looked as though they had been painted on the world in green light. Like the leaves of a Remnant.

White bark shattered and the tree crumbled, its falling pieces destroying the buildings at its base. Something was emerging from within: a new tree taking its place. A giant ancestral tree with bright purple bark and vivid emerald leaves.

Emriss Silentborn.

Lindon didn’t know what had happened to the cultists, but he didn’t much care. His thoughts were still painful, and he had little room left to allow his mind to wander.

[Sorry I didn’t tell you Emriss was on her way. But it’s a nice surprise, right?]

“Where is the Dreadgod?” Lindon asked.

Dross drew his attention to a corner of the battlefield where a gust of wind blew flurries of Emriss’ leaves. Beyond them, Lindon saw a faintly veiled giant tiger.

So did Northstrider and Malice. Thanks to Emriss Silentborn’s guidance, they knew exactly where to aim.

They lit up that entire region of the countryside so that even the army’s coordinated techniques, with their focused will, crumbled like eggshells before a war hammer. The explosion annihilated half the army and most of the horizon, sending sand and grit whipping into Lindon’s face.

He pushed them away with aura and sent a cold thought to Dross.

Those people could have been freed.

[Yeeeaaaahhh…] Dross said uncertainly. [But I don’t see any way to beat the Dreadgod if we let him take hostages.]

Neither did Lindon, which frustrated him.

The Dreadgod was weakened. Lindon could feel its spirit, and it was on the verge of death. If the Monarchs pressed it further, it would call the other Dreadgods.

So they wouldn’t. They’d hold back.

Dross, we can’t leave it like this.

[We can,] Dross said. [But there is one possibility. A thin one. Tiny, spider-leg thin. And we’ll need help.]

Lindon heard the plan.

Then he drew Blackflame into his channels.

Do it, Lindon commanded.

* * *

Emriss Silentborn watched the entire battlefield at once, including multiple possible futures. She wasn’t caught off-guard when Dross popped into existence before her.

But she was a little surprised.

The spirit bowed awkwardly to her trunk, though he didn’t even have a waist. [Honored Monarch, Queen of the…trees…I come with a request. Gratitude. I should have said “Gratitude” in there somewhere. Maybe “apologies” too.]

“Your respect is appreciated, but unnecessary.” Emriss was wrestling with the will of the Silent King, which had always been a difficult endeavor. Now, even with the support of the two human Monarchs, she was having trouble keeping him at bay.

She didn’t have the time or attention for formalities.

“Make your request, Dross.”

[Oh, great! I’m attached to a human whose mind’s a little…shredded, right now. He’s missing some pieces. But if I can hold him together a little longer, he can hit the Dreadgod where it hurts.]

Emriss picked up on Dross’ deeper thoughts, which gave her an even bigger surprise.

“He’s trying to kill the Dreadgod!”

If Dross had sweat glands, he would be soaking wet. [Not if you don’t want us to! I mean no, not necessarily. Punching it hard, sure—]

“The Void Sage has my blessing.”

Emriss remembered everything perfectly except events from before the death of her original form. Those were inherited, left behind as a contingency measure, and as a result they were a jumbled patchwork.

But she had never forgotten her purpose.

To spread knowledge was to spread life and light. She had always intended to connect the world, to share the secrets of the sacred arts widely. It would have led to a new age of advancement, where techniques were no longer prized secrets and resources were distributed where they could do the most good.

When she’d presented it to the last generation of Monarchs, they had seen immediately that such knowledge spreading would lead to their secrets losing power. Not least among those was the secret of hunger aura.

It wouldn’t take long for the public to learn that the existence of the Monarchs sustained the Dreadgods. To Emriss, this hadn’t been an issue. The more people who knew, the more minds could work on solving the problem for good. It could be a new era for Cradle.

The Monarchs had killed her.

Since then, she had worked in subtler ways, but she always kept her many eyes open for opportunities.

Opportunities like this one.

“We will have one chance,” said the Monarch to the mind-spirit. “Make it count.”

* * *

The Silent King was considered the weakest of the Dreadgods, but this did not disturb him. If anything, that reputation only reflected the nearsighted perspective of mortals.

It wasn’t destructive might that indicated power, but the ability to influence the future. In that case, the Silent King was on a level of his own.

He had been the one to figure out how to swap places with the Titan, and the Titan was finally intelligent enough to follow such cooperation. This way, the Silent King had the greatest chances at the prizes he really wanted.

Moongrave, so full of power and potential. New minds to feed upon.

Lindon, the young Void Sage, and his potent mind-spirit with a connection to the Way. And a limb of potent hunger madra that the Silent King couldn’t find without devouring one of its siblings.

Such fat prey with such little experience was nothing but a meal for a Dreadgod. But the Silent King had goals beyond these.

Moongrave was the heart of the Ashwind continent, and driving Malice from this place would weaken her greatly. Once the Silent King expanded through this continent, he could mount a campaign against Emriss and reduce her to splinters.

Even when the tree showed herself here, that was not unexpected. He had seen this possibility in Fate. She would be watching the future as well and acting accordingly. That was what made her a worthy opponent.

The Silent King was forced to abandon several of his lower-priority objectives, but even as the Monarchs harassed him and pushed him back and relished their victory, he knew he was not cornered.

He had more plans than these.

Then something shifted in Fate, and he saw it as clearly as a symbol projected across the sky. His own severed head.

The Dreadgod growled, low in its throat. It had been killed before, and this was an indignity it would not suffer again. When it turned this time, it stopped holding back.

Malice’s arrows hammered into the ground around him, driving holes deep into the earth, but none touched the Dreadgod. It pushed them aside, meeting power for power.

Illusions were not the only weapon of the Silent King.

Northstrider pulled constructs from a void space and unleashed a deadly volley of toxic, corrosive madra. At the same time, the Monarch’s own Striker techniques detonated around the Silent King like bloody fireworks.

The Silent King not only burst those techniques, but fought on more layers than a human could comprehend. It manipulated the remaining legions to pepper Moongrave and sabotage the city’s defenses from the inside.

It spun copies of itself from dreams, one for each Sage and Herald on the battlefield. They could tell these were only illusions, but an illusion of the Dreadgod was more substantial than these mortals could handle.

The King watched the future, directed armies, countered two Monarchs, and coordinated its thralls on other continents. Even so, it kept up its steady assault on a dozen minds.

Its mind and spirit were endless, so it noticed immediately when Lindon tried to sneak up on it.

Cloaked in a veil and the concealment of the Void Icon, the immature Sage was dashing toward the Dreadgod under propulsion of a pure madra Enforcer technique. Dross even hid his thoughts, but they both made so many mistakes that the Silent King couldn’t count them all.

The Dreadgod pushed them back with only a fraction of his attention…but they were defended by floating leaves.

Before his eyes, a glorious new future opened up.

Emriss had distracted herself for this human. Left herself vulnerable. The King saw himself clawing the tree to pieces, as he had always dreamed.

She’d left a critical flaw in her defenses, and the Dreadgod pounced on it.

Three copies of himself appeared before her trunk, supported by a healthy fraction of his will. She reached out to space, but the Silent King was there to close any door she opened. She peeked into the future, but his will blinded her eyes.

Northstrider and Malice were making ground against the Silent King’s legions now that they didn’t have the majority of his support, the Monarchs’ attacks getting closer and closer to his true position. The army was losing people, but he didn’t care about them. He didn’t even care about his own life so much.

Unlike Emriss, a Dreadgod was truly immortal.

The Silent King saw another possibility unfold at the last second, and this one was truly irritating. Lindon, who should have given up, dragged a trail of black fire as he ran up to the Dreadgod.

The Silent King spared him a bare fraction of attention but redoubled the pressure on Emriss. His copies were tearing layers of bark from her, and no one else could get close to their battle. Lindon’s mind was weak and would take only minimal effort to break completely.

With one corner of his mind, the Dreadgod shoved Dross aside and assaulted Lindon. He gave up on keeping the Void Sage as a prize; holding back might cost him the chance to kill Emriss, which he couldn’t allow.

He tore Lindon’s mind to shreds.

Only to realize, at the last moment, that he was tearing only leaves.

Emriss had left a shield inside Lindon, buried so deep that even the Dreadgod hadn’t sensed it. The Silent King felt a moment of confusion. She’d protected him instead of herself. Why…

Condensed destructive energy slammed into his body. A Forged claw of Blackflame madra combined with an Enforcer technique and a huge comet’s tail of fire and destruction madra. Memories he’d stolen from Lindon gave him the technique’s name: The Dragon Descends.

It certainly resembled a black, serpentine dragon diving into the ground. In the moments before it detonated into a dark star.

Even immortal and perfect as the Dreadgod was, that hurt.

The ground for miles had already been ravaged and torn, but now the land was blighted even further. Black fire annihilated the hill the Silent King had been standing on and blasted down to burn a crater in solid stone. A chunk of the Dreadgod’s side was seared away, and even its left eye was singed.

But its fury blazed hotter than any flame.

The Silent King reached deep into its spirit and roared, resonating with its hunger. Whether it died or not, its brothers would devour every living soul on this continent. A ripple shot out from the Dreadgod, seeking sympathetic resonance with hunger madra.

The Silent King called for more Dreadgods.

It ran into the first one an inch from his throat. And there the call stopped.

White fingers sank into the skin of the tiger’s neck and began to Consume. For the first time in centuries, fear shivered through the Silent King.

He had known the arm of the Slumbering Wraith could threaten its existence. That was one of the reasons why he had tried to recruit Lindon.

But it could eat a call for help? Had Subject One always had that ability?

How had he not seen that in the future? These possibilities must have been hidden, cut from the list of possible outcomes.

Cut. Snipped away.

Almost…pruned.

See you next time, Emriss Silentborn whispered into the Dreadgod’s mind.

But the Silent King hadn’t given up yet. He snarled and swept his paw at the tiny human that dared to seize him by the throat.

An oversized, blue-white palm strike of pure madra landed on his huge chest. Lindon’s Empty Palm.

Unpowered by madra, the Silent King’s paw hit Lindon’s side with the force of a housecat. The King looked into the empty eyes of the Void Sage and thought that having some more physical power might not be so bad.

Next time, when it returned for revenge.

18

Lindon Consumed the Silent King. He stole his own memories back. He stole the dream essence that had been missing from his mind.

Then he kept stealing.

His arm was hungry, it was burning with greed, and it didn’t crack under the weight of the Silent King’s power. In fact, it had room to spare.

Lindon would have buckled under the Dreadgod’s will, but he had help. Emriss Silentborn took on the lion’s share of the burden, and Dross kept him from collapsing. Not to mention the other Monarchs, who had been wrestling against workings of the Silent King until moments ago.

Dross interrupted Lindon’s thoughts. [Tiger’s share. Reigan Shen is a lion, but this is a tiger. She’s taking on the tiger’s share of the burden, if you want to be technical. Which I do.]

Lindon’s spirit was at its limit swallowing so much of the King’s power, and there were still oceans to go. The dream aspects and the memories were sucked up by Dross, and Lindon could feel him evolving by the second.

Centuries of life strengthened the Dreadgod, and Lindon wanted them all. There was never enough.

Only now was the Silent King technically on the verge of death.

I’ll keep them off you, Emriss Silentborn whispered. But only for a moment, or they’ll fight us both.

Northstrider and Malice both focused on Lindon.

“Stop,” they commanded.

“No,” Emriss countered.

The weight of her age held off their authority long enough as the oldest Monarch protected Lindon.

“He will not finish the Dreadgod,” Emriss told them. “He knows better. Let him weaken it while it cannot call for help.”

Finish the Dreadgod, she said privately to Lindon.

[I like her,] Dross said. [Lots of eyes.]

Lindon had to wrestle his arm to get it to release the neck of the Dreadgod, then he leaped into the air.

When he was over the Dreadgod, he gathered all his remaining power into dragon’s breath. Soulfire, madra, and authority coalesced as one.

A bar of Blackflame pierced the center of the Silent King’s halo, drilling straight through its skull.

Lindon landed behind it before the wills of two Monarchs seized him. Their fury threatened to crush him, but he was swollen to bursting with power from the Dreadgod. He pushed back.

Their anger was unbreakable.

Northstrider drifted down to Lindon’s right, and his black-scaled hands shone with blood and hunger. “We will burn you for this.”

To Lindon’s left, Malice joined him, and her wrath was cold as night. “Traitor.”

Even Emriss took human form, that of a dark-haired woman carrying a staff. He was sure her anger and sorrow were feigned, but they felt real. “What have you done?”

Lindon remained steady even as they threatened to tear him apart.

“You allowed this,” Lindon said quietly.

Malice sneered at him. “Do you know how much stronger the other three will become now that another has fallen? You cannot fathom—”

“Four,” Lindon corrected. He raised his right hand in a fist. “The other four.”

Power exploded from the Silent King’s corpse. Hunger aura. It flashed to every corner of the world, empowering the other Dreadgods.

All four of them.

Searing heat passed through Lindon’s body as his madra channels burned into his flesh, transforming into part of his body. His cores condensed like a spirit, becoming more real. His eyes blazed and froze, like he was channeling Blackflame and pure madra at the same time.

Hunger madra devoured his right arm. From the elbow up to his shoulder, white flesh ate its way up second by second.

If not for his firm will, it wouldn’t have stopped at the shoulder.

Malice and Northstrider commanded him down with their authority, but his power warped the very space around them. His capacity was growing as his body and spirit were reforged in the power of the Dreadgod.

Finally, Northstrider tired of the indirect battle. He sped for Lindon, his fist trailing blood aura. He slammed a punch into Lindon, his attack layered with the same Enforcer technique he would use against a Dreadgod.

Lindon met it with an Empty Palm.

Blue light flashed against red, and Lindon was shoved back. The violent power of the Silent King was settling into him now, his transformation—or his advancement, whichever it was—calming down.

But Lindon was not the same as he had been only moments before.

Dross appeared by his side, and the spirit wore a purple-white halo. [Oooh, this looked like fun! Uh, don’t take this too hard, all right?]

Illusory copies of Lindon appeared all over as Dross used the Silent King’s illusion technique. All of Lindon’s copies tore holes in space.

The Monarchs could shut them all down, but not instantly. And only one of them was real.

Before they found him, Lindon was already gone.

* * *

Northstrider crushed another copy of Lindon and watched it bleed away to dream essence. He had known it wasn’t the real one, but he needed something to vent this fury.

He turned it on Emriss.

“You let him get away with a dream technique? Right in front of you?”

She gave him a sorrowful look that he wanted to claw right off her face. “I believe the primary technique he used was hunger, wasn’t it?”

“We need to tell the others,” Malice said.

Northstrider slammed his heel into the ground and created a new canyon. “Did anyone else notice the corpse is gone?”

Emriss shook her head regretfully. She tapped her staff on the ground and the diamond at its top flashed blue-green.

Her intentions stretched all over the world as she hosted another meeting between the Monarchs.

The illusory space she constructed was turquoise and serene, like it took place inside her gemstone. Malice and Northstrider were swallowed along immediately, of course, but he was surprised to see the others show up so quickly.

Good. At least they understood how serious this was.

Larian, representative of the Eight-Man Empire, collapsed to her backside as soon as Northstrider appeared. She looked exhausted, and she stretched her bow across her knees. “Which one of you pushed the Phoenix our way? Let me know now, so I can carve your name into an arrow.”

Sha Miara, sheathed in rainbows, stood at the side of Reigan Shen. Ordinarily, Northstrider would see that as a bad sign.

Now, Shen stepped forward and surveyed them. His white mane was slick and styled, and he looked completely at ease as he surveyed them. He must have seen their obvious anger, because his lips crooked into a humorless, tilted smile. “I warned you.”

“You think this is time to say ‘I told you so?’” Malice asked.

Sha Miara stomped her foot and the space around them trembled. “Which one of you killed the Silent King? We had almost driven away the Dragon!”

“Wei Shi Lindon did it,” Emriss said with a sigh. “He went too far.”

“Wei Shi Lindon Arelius,” Shen added.

Northstrider felt that entirely too much time had been wasted already. “Even this morning, any of us could have killed him whenever we wished. We were complacent. Now, he will only grow stronger. We have to strike while the window is open.”

“Do we?” Larian asked. She pointed one gold finger skyward. “You want to go best-of-three rounds with the scythe-man from the sky?”

“They won’t take revenge for anything we do within the bounds of our world’s Fate,” Sha Miara said confidently. “They cannot interfere to such a degree.” Northstrider heard the voices of her predecessors in her. For a moment.

Then she added, “…can they?”

“It seems the Abidan’s oath of noninterference is worth only as much as they decide it is,” Reigan Shen said.

Malice looked coldly into the distance. “We cannot allow this to continue. It’s a humiliation for all of us.”

Reigan Shen prowled forward like the lion he was. “You were late to see that we have a common enemy. But not too late. We can still strangle him out, we merely have to grab him by the neck and squeeze.”

“We should kill him,” Northstrider said. He could take Dross from Lindon’s spirit.

When he thought about how much time and energy he’d wasted on the two of them, his blood boiled. Lindon had taken his good grace and then spat on him.

Reigan Shen pointed a finger at him. It glistened with rings. “If we have to, we should. But I, too, am…not eager to risk a visit from Eithan Arelius. Let us instead back Lindon into a corner. Take from him until he cannot remain in this world any longer.”

Northstrider’s oracle codex spun out the possibility, and he saw it. He nodded. Malice’s lips twisted in distaste, but she nodded too.

The others weren’t so quick. Larian raised a hand. “Let me see if I understand our options. We kill this kid, and Ozmanthus returns from beyond to kill us all. Or we make the kid’s life a nightmare of misery, then he advances, and then he returns from beyond to kill us all.”

“Then let us do nothing,” Reigan Shen said. “Let us remain static and separated, focused on our own pursuits, until Lindon drives us from this world and ruins everything we’ve built. Or he fails in the process of doing so and breaks what he is attempting to save. Are those possibilities more palatable to you?”

“Sounds to me like we’re stuck between a snake and a tall cliff,” Larian said. “Or, I guess more appropriately, caught between one Dreadgod and another.”

“No, we are not!” Shen snarled. “If we continue bickering with each other, this boy will become a knife to our necks. But if we act together, he is a human boy carrying a weapon too big for him.”

Shen reached into a case at his pocket and pulled out a binding: a curled shell of white madra. It hadn’t truly been replicated into this space, so Northstrider didn’t sense anything from it, but he knew what it was.

The core binding of Subject One.

Reigan Shen’s trump card.

“We can win,” the lion continued. “But we move decisively, and together. We leave no possibility of failure. Are we agreed?”

Northstrider was the first to nod.

One after the other, the others all indicated their agreement. Except one.

Emriss had been frowning into the middle distance, clearly troubled, but she finally spoke up. “There is one factor we haven’t considered yet. The Dreadgods are self-aware, for the moment. What will they do now that another of their kind has been slain? Will they take vengeance, or will they see Lindon as a replacement for their brother until the Silent King is reborn?”

“All the more reason to be rid of him,” Shen said. Then he vanished. Sha Miara followed him. The others followed until Northstrider was left with Emriss and Larian, who appeared to be stretching.

“You made a mistake today,” he said to Emriss. “I won’t forget that.”

“I don’t forget anything,” she said sadly.

Then he vanished.

* * *

The second Northstrider left, Emriss turned to Larian. The archer of the Eight-Man Empire shed her persona almost immediately, leaping up and looking to Emriss with sharp eyes.

“So,” Larian said. “An opportunity.”

* * *

Ziel groaned as he slumped against a piece of wreckage in Shatterspine Castle.

The body of the Archlord, Helethshan, let off a stench as it began to rot. The dragon’s Remnant was trapped in Ziel’s void key, but he desperately wished he had room to get rid of the rotting flesh too. If only he could move.

Ziel’s breathing was shallow. It was hard to find a part of his body that didn’t hurt, and most of his right side was covered in burns. His core was so empty that, if he weren’t an Archlord, he wouldn’t be able to lift his own weight.

Not that he wanted to do that even now. He leaned against cool stone and wished to never move again.

Orthos was in better shape than him, comparatively, since Ziel had done the bulk of the fighting. The turtle snored like an earthquake next to him, such that even the pebbles on the ground shook and jumped.

The whole sealed cavern was lit with light both smoky red and dim silver. Ziel looked up at the source.

A primarily red Remnant, layered with black and rippling with scarlet-and-obsidian flames, stared back at him. It was solid enough to look almost as physical as Ziel himself did, and its spiritual presence dominated the space even through the huge silver runes that floated around it.

It was, of course, Noroloth the Herald. Or at least his Remnant.

Instead of looking like a natural black dragon, this was something like an exaggerated copy of one. Its head was three times the width of the rest of its body, with a thick underbite no black dragon ever had, and its tail dissolved to smoke.

Their battle had crashed into his chamber, and if they had accidentally broken the script sealing him, Ziel would be dead.

“Release me!” the Remnant demanded. It had surely shouted at a volume to shake the entire room, but Ziel heard it as though from the other end of a miles-long hallway.

Ziel took a drink from a watered-down healing elixir and winced as life aura stung his injuries. He and Orthos were buried under the entire Shatterspine Castle, and the problem now was digging their way out.

He could probably do it, even while protecting Orthos, once he had recovered. But the project was trickier than it looked. There were plenty of half-formed scripts in the wreckage, many of which used madra compatible with his own Path, and there was no telling how many of them he’d activate by accident on his way out. Or what they’d do.

If he messed up, the Herald Remnant would be released.

And then there was the mundane concern of shifting too much weight at once. He could lift a lot with raw spiritual strength, but enough force applied at the correct angle would still break his shield and hit him like a Dreadgod.

“Don’t ignore me!” Noroloth’s spirit shouted again.

There were more problems, of course. Like time.

This castle was in the middle of a desert, and there wasn’t much water in the air for his Ruler constructs to condense. And Orthos drank a lot. If they took more than a few days, dehydration would become a real concern.

The turtle had his own emergency measures, prepared by Lindon, but neither of them wanted to use them.

Lindon was surely fighting his own battles.

The dragon Remnant blasted the inside of the Rune Queen’s script with a river of black-streaked flame madra.

Another problem: he and Orthos had killed so many mind-controlled black dragons that their storage vessels were filled with Blackflame Remnants. They didn’t have room for those and this Herald, and the smaller Remnants would be easier for Orthos to digest.

They could just walk away, but Herald Remnants weren’t so common. Lindon would be disappointed.

Even if they did have room, they didn’t have any ways of handling the Herald. Ziel was exhausted, Orthos would be obliterated in seconds, and they’d used the constructs they’d prepared for this moment to defend themselves.

Ziel didn’t fear dying down here. There were ways to solve all these problems, even without admitting defeat and using a gatestone.

But not quickly. Once again, it came down to time.

Maybe the situation would make more sense when Ziel wasn’t so tired.

Noroloth’s Remnant slithered against the barrier of the silver script and never took its eye off Ziel.

“I will make you a deal,” the Remnant called. “Release me from this prison, and I will grant you my endless treasures.”

Silver runes spun around the Herald Remnant. More still-Forged sigils of the Rune Queen.

Potential keys to her power.

Ziel looked to the ceiling and extended his spiritual perception. Lately, when he listened to the distant hum of the script, he could more easily hear something beneath it. Something that called to him, that reminded him of protecting others. Like a song he had once known.

Ziel stretched his perception further, searching for a maze through the wreckage.

Something touched his spiritual sense and he shot to his feet. He had no madra left to cycle, but he hauled up his hammer with the remaining strength of his body.

“Orthos!” he called, but the turtle was already awake. Black-and-red eyes were wide.

“Ziel…”

“Yeah.” Ziel hadn’t felt a spiritual presence like that since the labyrinth. It probably wasn’t one of the Dreadgods, not unless the Phoenix had sent only a chunk of itself, but it was still an opponent they couldn’t handle.

Ziel turned to the Remnant. “I’ll make you a deal. We work together so we don’t all die, and then we fight each other afterwards.”

The Remnant slithered up close to the barrier. “There is an enemy? Who is it? Release me so that I may sense for myself!”

Ziel readied his hammer. “I’ll release you right now if you swear on your own soul not to harm us while we face a mutual threat.”

“Swear to a human? I would rather die!”

“You died a thousand years ago.”

Orthos cleared his throat. “You should listen. We don’t need help.”

The entire wreckage of Shatterspine Castle trembled. Ziel’s perception was overwhelmed and he withdrew it. If he hadn’t been discovered already, he didn’t want to be.

“Ziel,” Orthos rumbled. “That’s Lindon.”

Ziel stared at Orthos for a second.

Then he scoffed. “No, it isn’t.”

“I’m telling you—”

“If you’re wrong, we’re betting our lives on it.”

Orthos shook his head. “It’s hard for me to believe, but I can feel him.”

Ziel considered the situation. He looked to the Herald Remnant writhing inside the script.

Then the roof began to drift upward. Someone was operating aura of force and wind on a scale Ziel could only match if he was full of soulfire and supported by an entire script. And this newcomer was doing so with a precision Ziel could scarcely comprehend.

Every piece of debris was grabbed and levitated independently, with no degree of error. Whoever this was, they were lifting all of Shatterspine Castle.

“Let me go!” Noroloth roared. “Let me fight!”

Ziel readied his hammer. “If this is Lindon, he’ll help us beat this Remnant like it’s nothing. If it isn’t, we’ll have to use the gatestones.”

Orthos gave a smoky sigh.

A silver rune shattered under Ziel’s hammer and the Rune Queen’s script began to shake. This circle was sturdier than the others, and he had to strike down three more key sigils as the castle wreckage rose higher and higher.

Finally, Ziel weakened the seal enough that the Remnant striking from the inside was enough to shatter it.

“At last!” the spirit of the black dragon prince cried. “I am fr—”

Its perception stretched upward and froze. Then the spiritual sense spun right back into its soul.

“Put me back!” Noroloth demanded.

Ziel stared at the Remnant as Orthos gave a dry chuckle.

Now that Shatterspine Castle had lifted enough to expose their underground chamber completely, a man drifted closer. Pearls of Forged force madra hovered behind him as he drew on them for power. The same pearls he’d Consumed and vented from the Rune Queen’s madra. He was using them to fuel the Ruler technique that lifted the castle.

He was a hulking figure, radiating hunger, with a white right arm and robes that were torn and scorched from battle. His eyes were black, like Orthos’, but instead of the bright red circles for irises that Ziel was familiar with, these were shining white.

Ziel recognized the face, but the feel of him was completely different.

“Apologies,” Lindon said.

The Herald’s Remnant fled.

“Stop.”

The dragon of living madra froze in midair. It trembled and shook as it clashed its will against Lindon’s, but Lindon looked back to Ziel and Orthos.

“So he’s self-aware. That’s unfortunate. We’ll have to persuade him to cooperate.”

“Whatever you wish!” the Remnant cried. “Please don’t punish me for what my former self did.”

“What did your former self do?” Lindon asked curiously.

“I don’t know, I don’t remember! Whatever he did, I’m sorry!”

Lindon shifted the debris over his head and created an exit in the levitating pieces of castle, showing Ziel the sky for the first time in what felt like a year.

“I’m not going to kill you, don’t worry,” Lindon assured him. “But you are coming with us.”

The ancient dragon Remnant bobbed his head like a puppy. “Sure, yes, whatever you say.”

Lindon’s perception swept them, and it was at the same time as vast as an ocean and gentle as a breeze. That scared Ziel. It didn’t feel like Lindon anymore.

“Good, you found more of Emala’s madra than I expected. I worried you wouldn’t have enough time.” Lindon looked off into the distance. “We should leave, though. The Monarchs might be coming for us.”

“Is that who pushed you so far?” Orthos asked. He was already floating up under Lindon’s power.

“That was the Silent King.”

“You survived, I see.”

“I did.”

[And guess who else survived?] Dross popped out in front of Orthos’ eye, and Orthos tried to swim backwards in midair.

“Gah! Get away!” Orthos shouted. “Are you trying to stop my heart?”

Dross spread his tentacles. [It was a surprise! It’s me! I’m back!]

Orthos eyed him suspiciously. “You’ve been back for weeks.”

[Yes, I guess…well, I guess that’s true. And in a sense, I was never gone, but in another sense…hm. It doesn’t have as much of an impact to say ‘I returned to my previous configuration,’ does it?]

Only then did Ziel realize that Dross’ pebbly skin was a lighter shade of purple than it had been before. He had noticed that Dross hadn’t made any reference to dying or ‘the inky oblivion of the grave’ or whatever else, but he had assumed it was only a matter of time.

“Does that mean you won’t sound like a death Remnant’s nephew anymore?” Orthos asked.

Dross covered his eye with one tendril. [If we could just…remove that memory, set it aside, and we could all pretend I was like this the entire time, I would be grateful.]

“Done,” Orthos rumbled. “So what do you mean by saying you’re back?”

[Nothing at all.] Dross brightened, meaning he literally started glowing. [Oh, but I can do this now!]

A purple-white halo appeared over Dross’ head.

Without expression, Ziel called up his Broken Crown. A red halo, split in the middle, hovered over his head. One of his prizes from the Uncrowned King tournament.

Lindon saw what he’d done and called up two white Broken Crowns of his own. They were stolen, but they worked well enough for this purpose.

Dross’ eye narrowed. [I see through you both. I know what you’re doing. Ha ha. The new guy doesn’t think it’s funny, do you?]

Noroloth’s Remnant had been trying to do his best impression of wind aura, fading into the background as though he didn’t exist. When Dross pointed him out, he flinched.

“I’m not…an expert on human humor,” the Remnant hedged.

Lindon looked to him with black-and-white eyes.

“…but that was such a witty joke that even I can appreciate it, with my limited experience.”

Ziel was pretty sure Lindon didn’t care one way or another, but Dross winked out of existence and reappeared an inch from the Remnant’s face.

[I’ll remember this, new guy.]

The dragon-spirit shuddered.

Ziel had reached ground level by that point and started walking toward the labyrinth entrance in the distance. Lindon walked next to him, letting Orthos down onto the sand.

His black-and-white eyes looked up to the sky and Lindon’s expression hardened. “We need to move.”

Ziel nodded in response and prepared an acceleration script.

Dross floated next to him, so Ziel turned to the spirit.

“Welcome back,” he said.

Dross beamed.

* * *

If Yerin hadn’t been prepared to catch a powerful blood-spirit, she wouldn’t have been able to carry the Blood Sage’s Remnant.

Even with the spirit’s cooperation, it was so powerful that the scripted and sealed vessel in her void key trembled. It was hard even to shut the key itself. She looked back at the men, women, and Blood Shadows all across Redmoon Hall’s cloud fortress. Now that they’d gotten rid of the Remnants and corpses, there was a lot of space left over.

The deck itself was pitted and cracked from the battle, and the fortress wasn’t in great shape. Yerin didn’t know how to fix it, but she knew that when the base was leaking cloud madra with every passing second, something was wrong.

As her perception passed through the entirety of Redmoon Hall, she got a feel for the number of souls remaining onboard. There were thousands. Between two and three thousand, at a rough glance.

Only about three hundred of them had a Blood Shadow, or at least one she could get a sense for. There were probably some other Emissaries of Redmoon Hall scattered over the world, but the battle between the Sage and Herald had given their ranks quite the beating.

In a sense, Redmoon Hall was gone.

Even if she left them to their own devices and the fanatics took over, the cult wouldn’t have the influence or manpower to wreak havoc as they once had. If it came to a conflict, the other Dreadgod cults would have them for breakfast.

But even the thought of abandoning them sent Yerin’s oath tightening around her throat.

On her shoulder, Little Blue gave her a concerned whisper. Kahn Mala looked up at her, waiting for her to make an announcement. She wasn’t the only one; virtually every eye and spiritual sense in the ship was turned to Yerin.

Yerin stretched out her Goldsigns and muttered, “Fine. You want me to hold the torch, I’ll wave it ‘till it goes out.”

Little Blue gave a quiet cheer.

Yerin tucked her red streak of hair behind one ear and cycled madra to her eyes so they’d glow the color of blood. Her scarlet Goldsigns caught the light of the rising sun, and she rested a hand on Netherclaw’s hilt at her belt.

“We’re going to milk the Phoenix dry of whatever we can get,” Yerin announced. “If that cuts you along the wrong edge, you can get out of here now.”

Several Emissaries shifted uncomfortably. None moved.

“Not going to kill you for that. Just get gone.”

Several refused to meet her eye.

“Oh, bleed and bury me. If you think I’m going to pull sword on you at every second breeze, why would you want to stay here?”

A few members of Redmoon Hall looked to one another.

“I’ve got to be more stable than your last leader,” Yerin pointed out.

At least three Emissaries nodded before catching themselves. A couple bolted, hurling themselves off the edge of the deck. Yerin just watched them go. They were making fools of themselves, running like chickens from a fox when she didn’t have half a thought of chasing after them.

She tapped fingers on her sword as everyone watched her. “Who else? I’m not all testy and twitching now, but if I wake up tomorrow and find you trying to fly away, that’s when we’re going to have a sharp discussion.”

One more woman hopped onto a Thousand-Mile Cloud and flew away. She morphed her Blood Shadow into a shield and held it behind her as though to catch Yerin’s attack.

But she was an Underlord. If Yerin sent a Striker technique after her, there would be nothing left of the Emissary but mist and regret.

“I’m not aching to waste another day, so I’m going to guess the rest of you are with me,” Yerin said. There were more left than she expected; only a handful had run away.

Most of the rest probably didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“I can tell you what’s coming up quick. My—uh, the Void Sage is going to meet up with us. He’ll take us back to the Blackflame Empire, where he’ll count every last scale and splinter aboard.” At least Yerin was getting to loot Redmoon Hall after all. If not exactly in the way she’d imagined. “After that, we’re going after the Phoenix. We’re aiming to tear it to feathers, and every one of you gets a piece.”

There was a chorus of horrified whispers all around the deck.

“How are the sect resources distributed?” Kahn Mala asked pointedly.

Yerin let out a breath. “I’ve been in this seat for a breath and a half. Looks like we’ve got one Archlord left besides you, so the two of you are about to run the sect. That’s clear as new glass. You can tell me what needs to be done and who needs to be put where, or you can make my day brighter and do it yourselves.”

Yerin could feel the doubt radiating from the others like a new aspect of aura. For most of her life she’d looked for any excuse to shove everyone wearing a Redmoon Hall robe into the nearest oven, but facing down their stares was still a special kind of uncomfortable.

“Listen. There’s only one reason why I’m making this speech instead of one of you. I can swing a sword the hardest.”

A handful of people among the crowd nodded.

“So here’s the only thing you need to know.” Yerin drew Netherclaw and slammed its black blade into the deck until it stuck. “I swore I’d see you safe and settled, so I will. Until you’re back walking on your own feet, if anybody crosses you, they’re crossing me. If the heavens open up and decide to strike us all dead, they’ll be striking me first. And that’s just how it is.”

She left her sword there as a reminder when she strode off, but the gasps and approving murmurs from Redmoon Hall were louder than she’d expected.

Kahn Mala followed her belowdecks. “That was smart, calling back to the heavens growing dark. People are still scared it will happen again. I’ve seen some try to keep count of the stars to see if any have gone missing.”

“Yeah, well, that’s like being scared you’ll find the Weeping Dragon in your bathtub. No point worrying. If it happens, you’re dead anyway.”

Yerin opened her void key and began changing into a new set of robes. The Archlady didn’t follow her in, but she stayed at the entrance. “I’m certain we can find a set of Redmoon Hall robes to fit you.”

Yerin held up the black outer robe she planned on wearing. “This is close enough.”

“It’s more of a symbolic gesture.”

“How many of those would you contend I need?”

Kahn Mala massaged her temples, and Yerin could have sworn the scarlet cobra around her neck rolled its eyes. “Where can we find the Void Sage, to send him a message? Or are you going to find him yourself?”

Yerin was sure the Archlady was really poking to find out if Yerin was planning on using her Moonlight Bridge to run. She didn’t trust the soul oath completely, which was sharp of her, in Yerin’s view.

“Not much of a need.” Yerin threw on the last layers of her robes and tied them shut. “He’s almost here.”

It would have been nice to take the time for a bath and three days of sleep after a bloody battle, but Yerin had to move. And if Lindon was heading her way before contacting her, that meant something had gone upside-down, so she expected another bloody battle anytime soon. Scraping herself clean with aura and throwing on some new clothes would have to do.

Kahn Mala didn’t look relieved. She scanned Yerin’s face. “Not to question the honor of the Void Sage, but we are vulnerable to his attacks now that we no longer have Red Faith’s protection.”

“Bet you three swords against a chipped stone that Lindon didn’t hold back because Red Faith was here. If anybody snaps and takes the heads of everybody onboard, it won’t be him.” Yerin gave Kahn Mala a reassuring clap on the shoulder, next to her Blood Shadow. “It’ll be me.”

“Oh,” the Archlady said. “Good.”

Then Yerin’s spirit screamed in warning and, without a moment of thought, she blinked out of existence and back onto the deck.

A gold-edged rift swirled over the cloud fortress, and powerful storm madra boiled beyond.

No, not just ‘powerful.’ Overwhelming.

Multi-colored lightning, blue and white and gold, swirled around a figure that looked down and met Yerin’s eyes. The Remnant looked like a man formed from madra even denser than Little Blue’s, and he stood on a floor that wasn’t “down” from Yerin’s perspective. It was just because of the way the portal was facing, but it looked like he was standing on a wall and staring at her from above.

She recognized his aura and instantly called Netherclaw back to her hand.

“I’m sorry,” said Tiberian Arelius’ Remnant.

A river of storm madra thundered out of the portal from the sky and crashed down on the ship.

Yerin unleashed the Final Sword and met that power.

She couldn’t just block the technique and weather it; she didn’t have any techniques that were so useful for defense or protection. The Path of the Endless Sword was all about cutting things.

The flows of silver-crimson madra and multi-colored lightning crashed into one another, and the air tore as they met.

Yerin gritted her teeth as her spirit and body trembled. This was her limit, but the Remnant had more in him. Even if this was all he could do, she would run out of madra long before he did.

The Monarch’s Remnant gave her a regretful smile.

Two more gold portals opened to either side of Yerin. This time, she felt the origin of the technique, and she cast out her perception.

Reigan Shen. He hovered nearby, watching while his weapons prepared to destroy Redmoon Hall.

Then the launchers inside the other portals took aim, and Yerin knew his target wasn’t the Hall.

He was after her.

If she used the Moonlight Bridge, Tiberian’s technique would destroy the Dreadgod cult. That would be a violation of her oath. She’d survive for another second, but then her spirit would turn in on itself and Shen could kill her anyway.

Yerin extended her Goldsigns and smelted her anger and fear into stubbornness. If she hadn’t died when the stars went out, she wasn’t going to die now.

And besides, help was on the way.

A voice echoed over the whole scene, dwarfing even the clash between techniques.

“Close.”

The portals to Yerin’s sides zipped closed as fast as they’d opened, but the one containing Tiberian’s Remnant only trembled. Shen was keeping his focus on it.

The space behind Yerin warped, and someone was standing behind her. She let out a breath of relief at the familiar presence, and Little Blue gave a cheer like frozen bells.

A thick bar of Blackflame shot through the portal and toward Tiberian’s spirit.

The Remnant reacted immediately, shielding itself with a crackling bolt of lightning, and the Striker technique slammed into it.

“Put away your toy before I break it,” Lindon said.

Shen allowed the portal to close, and responded at a normal volume. Lindon and Yerin were likely the only ones on the ship with ears sharp enough to catch it.

“You already took one of mine away,” the Monarch said. “I had prepared the labyrinth for myself. It’s only fair that I take a toy of yours in return.”

His eyes moved to Yerin and he gave a lazy, feline smile.

“Oh no, he called me a toy,” Yerin said in a flat voice. “I’m so angry that I’m stupid enough to hurl myself at a Monarch.” She slammed her sword back into its sheath.

Behind her, Lindon felt…silent. She was sure it was the effect of the Void Icon, but it almost made her shiver.

“I have not yet begun to take from you,” Lindon said quietly.

Then Yerin did shiver.

Reigan Shen raised his eyebrows. “Do you feel proud that you’ve alienated every possible ally before the other Dreadgods come for you?”

“What do you know of the Dreadgods?”

Dross whispered into Yerin’s mind. [Scary, isn’t he? We were practicing this on the way over in case he ran into a Monarch. When he felt you were under attack, I thought his heart was going to stop. Not that a heart attack would slow him down anymore. I feel like he could keep fighting if all he had left was a head.]

Yerin was too startled by the voice to pay attention to its message. Dross! You’re back!

[You know, I had this whole plan. I was going to pop out when you least expected it—well, that was my backup plan, I had another plan where I pretended to be the old me, then I shifted back…it doesn’t matter now. Anyway, I’m back!]

Little Blue gave a tinkling gasp and held out her arms.

[Awww, I want to come out…but Lindon’s having a stare-down with a Monarch. I wouldn’t want to interrupt.]

“Do you really want to have our grand battle now?” Reigan Shen had summoned a goblet full of wine from his apparently infinite supply and was gesturing with it. “When you have so much to lose?”

Lindon didn’t back down an inch. “Draw your weapon and find out.”

From Yerin’s shoulder, Little Blue stretched out her hands again and gave an insistent chirp.

[Awww, who can resist it when you ask so politely?]

Dross manifested next to Lindon and Little Blue dove onto him with a cheer. When she began chattering to him, his eye watered.

His body was entirely made-up and projected, so he didn’t have any tears, but Yerin thought the sentiment was worth it. She put her hand on the back of his head—he felt more solid than he ever had—and rubbed his scalp.

“Started to think we weren’t going to see this side of you again,” Yerin said.

With one tentacle, Dross wiped away a tear. [You two are the nicest to me, you know that? Well, except Mercy, but she’s nice to everybody. Where is Mercy?]

The strained tension between Lindon and the Monarch had grown somewhat awkward. Reigan Shen looked regally displeased.

“…apologies,” Lindon said eventually. “Why don’t you go prepare another ambush for me, since I won’t let you stall me long enough for the others to arrive.”

Reigan Shen sipped his wine. “This is hardly conduct befitting a Monarch.” Then he vanished.

“Monarch?” Yerin repeated. “You’re not—”

She scanned his spirit and froze. He wasn’t a Monarch, but she hadn’t felt the details of his spirit through whatever the Void Icon was doing to veil him.

“What are you?” she asked. Then she turned to see his eyes.

He scratched the side of his face uncertainly. The white circles of his eyes shifted here and there. “Apologies,” he said for a second time. “I didn’t expect the physical effects, or I’d have warned you.”

“I wasn’t after you for your eye color.” She levitated to kiss him, but after only an instant she pulled back again. “But it is just the eyes, right?”

[And the arm!] Dross said cheerily. [So far!]

Lindon rapped him with a knuckle. “That’s it.” He looked out over Redmoon Hall, who were shrinking back in fear. “We do need to go. The other Monarchs might be on their way.”

“Yeah,” Yerin said, “catch me up a step. Why are the Monarchs and Dreadgods after us?”

[We’d tell you if we could,] Dross said. [Although I’ve prepared a substitute presentation and three-act play that I think will give you as much of the general situation as I’m allowed to—]

“Oh, so it’s about the Monarchs letting the Dreadgods stick around. I’ll pass that to the others.”

Lindon looked gratifyingly surprised, but Dross deflated.

[Okay, that’s…sure. That’s just as much fun.]

19

Vroshir Homeworld: Tal’gullour

Daruman, the Mad King, stood silently in the center of his fortress Tal’gullour.

Though it was called a fortress, his home was larger than most habitable planets, with billions of souls living out their lives here, under his protection. He saw them only on his monitors, when he chose to look.

He couldn’t witness their lives for himself. Stepping out of his sealed chambers, even extending his senses beyond these walls, would condemn many of them to death. The weight of his existence was too much to bear.

Daruman’s chambers, therefore, were like a self-sufficient city of stone hallways. Complex workings or intricate machinery broke down around him, so there were no windows opening onto other worlds or robotic servants, but nonetheless he had everything he could require.

His servitors were masses of flesh, living robots molded like rough clay to vaguely resemble servants. They scurried here and there, mutating slightly under the pressure of Oth’kimeth, the Fiend inside him, but the servants were made to resist such pressures.

They cooked meals in case he wanted something hot, cleaned corridors, and maintained basic devices. Even simple gears and pulleys might break down after too long exposed to his chaos.

Daruman scanned them with only a thought, to ensure that the servitor population was thriving and that there were no problems he could address. Oth’kimeth the Conqueror examined them too, and was displeased.

Failure, the Fiend complained. We have failed.

From the wider perspective of the Vroshir, their alliance of world-striding liberators who opposed the Abidan, their operation had succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. Even now, there were celebrations across every Vroshir homeworld, as new populations and resources made it back to roost.

Even on Amorenthus, where the Reaper had struck. He’d damaged their defenses and struck fear into their populace, but that was only a slight damper on the world-wide holiday.

That world, and many others—including Daruman’s Tal’gullour—had received the loot of many worlds.

Now, there were new species of plants and animals that the people had never seen before. New sources and patterns of energy, new works of entertainment. Fresh blood into the populace, often including sub-species of humanity that had developed on different worlds.

All taken from the Abidan.

With the Abidan system in shambles, their worlds were ripe for the taking. Between now and when they crumbled to chaos, they were essentially piles of treasure for the Vroshir to pick through.

Daruman watched scenes of joy and celebration on the wall of monitors in front of him. This cheered him normally, though it took as much control as he could muster to keep the electronic screens from exploding.

This time, he agreed with Oth’kimeth.

They had failed.

And when he could avoid it no longer, he projected his will to the servitors, who deactivated the monitors. Only then did he stretch out his powers and look to the future.

He did not have the same philosophy the Abidan did.

While the Abidan read the Way and bowed to the current patterns of Fate, Daruman wrestled destiny and bent it to his own will. He created the future he wanted and projected it in front of himself, and he saw it spin out.

Daruman envisioned the destruction of the Abidan. He saw them execute Ozriel for his crimes, then the Judges dissolving into in-fighting while their worlds crumbled around them.

That vision spread in front of him like a pantomime, but when he searched for a path toward it, he found none.

He knew why. They wouldn’t execute Ozriel; he had too much utility to lose. But he had hoped.

Daruman wiped away that vision of the future and wrought another.

An image of the Mad King in his ancient bone armor strode into Sanctum, laying waste around him with his sword. Fleets of his warriors blackened the skies behind him. He smote the golden edifice that was their Hall of Judgment, broke the flying cities, and blighted populations.

He was eventually struck down for it. Makiel, Raziel, and a manacled Ozriel shoved him into the Way outside the Sector and erased him. The armies that followed Daruman were destroyed, and Tal’gullour substantially weakened.

Strangely, this future was more likely than the first.

Daruman froze the image, studied it, let it roll through his mind.

Oth’kimeth pushed the image away. What good is a conquering that ends in death?

That would be a worthy end, Daruman responded. If he cleared existence of the Abidan organization, at least in its current form, that would be a valuable use of his life.

But he didn’t need to spend himself so easily. There were other solutions.

It came to him immediately why this vision had seemed more possible than the other. He restored the image of the broken Hall of Judgment and pointed to it.

“It has not been restored,” Daruman pointed out.

The Fiend understood his words immediately. The Hall was indeed being repaired as they watched, but it should have been fixed immediately. Its slow speed indicated that it was being pieced together by lesser Phoenixes.

And not by the Phoenix.

Daruman traced this Fate-line back. He was not the Hound, but his vision was less restricted in some ways. He found himself in battle against a woman with bright green hair and a shining sword split into many branches.

Suriel.

Ozriel and his Scythe crashed against Daruman’s sword, but the Reaper’s powers were suppressed. Daruman was going to land the killing blow…

...and then Suriel banished Ozriel beyond existence.

To save him, she cast him into the Void. He would return, of course; the Reaper was almost as adapted to the Void as a Vroshir. But it would not be easy.

In the meantime, Daruman struck down the Phoenix.

He watched in the present as the image of his future self tore Suriel apart. She kept regenerating, kept fighting, but eventually her power met its limit. He shattered her armor to dust, shredded her Mantle, and Oth’kimeth’s head emerged from Daruman’s body to devour her completely.

The seventh generation Suriel was gone, destroyed so utterly that there would never be another Phoenix after her. At least not until someone else rebuilt the position from the ground up.

The situation puzzled him.

How could it be possible?

Suriel had used herself as bait before, and the entire Court of Seven had shown themselves. Not only was the Phoenix vital to their organization, but this one in particular had a special place in the Court. She was a bridge between Ozriel and Makiel, as much as anyone could be. She promoted cooperation between the Judges, who traditionally operated independently within their areas of specialization.

So how could the rest of the Court allow Daruman to kill her?

When he discovered the answer, his eyes flashed a brighter red, and the light warped even the sturdy space around him. His servitors started to melt like candle-wax under the sun, and he wrestled that excess power to a halt.

Makiel, the Hound, saw this possibility when no one else did.

He would see Daruman’s attack coming. He would see the risk to Suriel, but he would judge it more likely that Daruman killed Ozriel in revenge. Six out of ten times, Ozriel died, and Suriel only died three out of ten.

Makiel would consider that an acceptable risk.

Investigating further, Daruman saw why. He saw the vision Makiel did.

If Ozriel and Suriel both lived, and the Abidan eventually regained control over their former systems, then Makiel would stand trial as Ozriel had done. Daruman saw the pleasing image of Makiel in chains while Suriel arbitrated over him.

He would be stripped of his Mantle and cast back to his home, to live out his days as a mortal.

If Ozriel died, then the Abidan couldn’t afford to lose Makiel as well. His crimes would be hidden forever. The Abidan would control many fewer worlds, but this Hound would rule over them for as long as he wished.

Daruman released his twisting of Fate and consulted Oth’kimeth.

“Is this worthy of a conqueror?” the Mad King asked himself.

There are always risks in conquest, but this promises glory befitting our name. Oth’kimeth spun out of Daruman, a hulking semi-physical form crowned in spikes of bone. No matter how it turns out, Judges will die.

Daruman could see that fact in this future, and it was as immutable as mathematics. If he followed this path, he would kill Judges.

It was the one prize he had been denied thus far. No matter that they had pierced deeper into Abidan than ever before; not a single Judge had fallen.

Now, in some possibilities he struck down Ozriel, and in others he killed Suriel. In some Daruman himself lived, and in some he died.

Died in glory, shaking the very pillars of heaven.

The Mad King spread his will to the millions of servitors inhabiting his chambers. “Prepare!” he ordered. “Once more, I ride to war.”

And this time, he would wet his sword with the blood of a Judge.

20

Everyone in the city of Moongrave had a very chaotic day, but Mercy thought hers deserved special mention.

Lindon’s Hollow Domain had shrouded her and everyone else in the tower where she’d been stationed from the Silent King’s attack, and she had been able to rally enough clear-headed sacred artists to mount an attack on their own defensive scripts.

She’d intended to wrestle control of Moongrave’s defenses away from the people controlled by the Silent King, but it turned out one of the Sages beat her to it.

Still, while she’d been fighting desperately and trying to save her family members all day—even saving Pride’s life once—that wasn’t unique to her. It had been a fight for survival for everyone in a hundred miles.

But not everyone could understand what happened when the Silent King was cornered. Not everyone had seen and understood the factors involved when Lindon had shot Blackflame through the Dreadgod’s head, then matched a blow from Northstrider.

Lindon.

Lindon had transported himself away immediately after, and while she wasn’t clear how he’d gotten away with that while standing in the middle of so many Monarchs, her mother and Northstrider had disappeared a moment later. Along with a transforming tree-woman that she thought was Emriss Silentborn.

She was confused by what she’d seen, but also disturbed.

Lindon knew what happened when the Dreadgods were pushed to the brink of death. And he knew that if one were successfully killed, not only would it draw the others, but they would all become stronger until the slain one was reborn.

But he’d done it anyway.

He put so many lives in danger.

Ever since she’d seen it, she felt like she’d swallowed a knife. Her gut was cut to ribbons. She couldn’t eat, and when she talked to others, she had to fake a smile. Aunt Charity was in recovery, and her mother hadn’t revealed herself since.

Until the night after.

Mercy had been sitting in the dark, pretending to cycle but really staring into nothing and letting her thoughts tear her apart. Then the shadows deepened, and she shot to her feet.

As she’d expected, her mother had called for her at last.

But Malice looked worse than Mercy had ever seen her. Her clothes were askew, she wasn’t wearing any jewelry, and she was slumped over in a chair she Forged from shadow, holding her head in her hands.

“Mother?”

“I’m sorry, Mercy,” Malice said quietly. “Today must have been…very difficult for you.”

The knife inside Mercy twisted. “What did Lindon…I mean, I know what he did. Why did he do that?”

She shook her head. “I should have seen it. I looked into the future, but Eithan Arelius blinded me before. He must have set this up all along.”

“Mother.” Mercy was wrestling with so many different feelings she couldn’t even sort them all. “I have to know what’s going on. Why would Eithan do that? He never even spoke bad of you.”

“Not to you. Who knows what he said to the others?”

Mercy hugged herself to stop trembling. That was what she’d been afraid of all along. She had a family, but the others didn’t. What did they share among each other while she was gone? Had they ever considered her one of them?

It was ridiculous. In the light, she knew that.

In the darkness, she wondered.

“The Abidan hate the Monarchs,” Malice said bitterly. “They consider us…parasites. Some of them even blame the Dreadgods on us, as though we intentionally allow monsters to rampage through our territory and cost us millions of lives.”

“What? That’s ridiculous.”

“The Abidan have a system built by those who left their worlds behind. They only care about advancing further and further, conquering more and more. They don’t care about stability, or family. We’re trying to build something that lasts, but they don’t see that.”

Mercy hesitated. That did somewhat remind her of Lindon and Yerin.

Malice saw the realization hit her. “Yes. You see why I never sped your advancement. It’s important, of course. But if you focus on advancing more and more quickly at the cost of all else…well. You end up paying that cost.”

Mercy shuddered. “What’s…what’s going to happen?”

“I’ve warned them to ascend immediately. As bad as the situation is now, they can only make it worse. If they move on now, we can still salvage this. If not…” Malice rubbed her face in one of the most human gestures Mercy had ever seen her make. “…I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Now that Malice had finally trusted Mercy with the truth, Mercy knew what she had to do.

“I can talk to them,” she said. “I’ll get them to ascend.”

That slightly pained her to say, because while she knew Lindon and Yerin planned to ascend one day, she didn’t want to say good-bye any sooner than necessary. But if the alternative was them dying to the combined force of the Dreadgods and the Monarchs?

Malice gave her a sympathetic look and pulled her daughter into an embrace.

“When the sky turned black, I thought I was going to lose you. I realized how much time I’ve missed as a mother, and a grandmother. I’ve spent so much time working for the existence of the family that I’ve forgotten to enjoy the family. For that, I’m so sorry.”

Mercy couldn’t speak through the lump in her throat, but she squeezed her mother tighter.

“I can’t risk you, Mercy,” Malice whispered. “Forgive me, but I can’t.”

Mercy hated to admit it, but she understood that from her mother’s perspective. She couldn’t send a member of her family into a situation where they might be betrayed and killed either.

“Can you send them a message?” Mercy asked.

Malice nodded. “Of course. That I can do.”

The Monarch brought shining dead matter out of the shadows, weaving it deftly around a binding. She had been a Soulsmith for centuries, and was once known as much for her skill as a craftsman as for her archery.

A message construct was ready in half a second, and Mercy looked into it. She smiled awkwardly when she felt the construct activate.

“Lindon. Yerin. I saw what happened today. I don’t know if I’ll be able to see you in person, but I wanted to ask you now to stop. People are getting hurt, Lindon, and I don’t want to see—I mean, I don’t want to see you all get hurt either. If you have to ascend, then ascend.” She forced her smile brighter. “I’ll join you one day. Tell Uncle Fury hello from me, okay?”

The madra in the construct vanished.

“Very good, Mercy,” Malice said. She waved her hand and sent the message off. “I’ve sent it as fast as I can. They’ll get it very soon.”

Mercy nodded, but she felt hollow. She wanted to send a hundred more messages. She had too many things to say, and too many questions to ask.

“As for you…let me see your Book.”

Absently, Mercy manifested her Book of Eternal Night. The violet tome hovered over her head, the scripts on the cover slowly spinning.

Malice stood and tapped the Book with one amethyst nail. Light spread out to fill the space with a web of intricate loops that Mercy couldn’t begin to keep track of. She adjusted one ring of script, pulled another over, and moved one connection between one spot of light and another.

Then Malice waved her hand again and the Book collapsed back into itself.

“I’ve removed the remaining locks in the Book of Eternal Night,” the Monarch said. “Now, you may draw power from it and advance as you see fit. You can even open the seventh page, though I warn you against taking any more than a peek before Archlord. That technique is very potent.”

Mercy stared at her mother, her thoughts blank. “…but I don’t need it now.”

“Now, you have the wisdom to handle it. You’ve seen where reckless advancement gets you, and you can make your own decisions.”

Malice grabbed Mercy gently by the arms and looked into her with deep purple eyes. “I’m proud of you, Mercy. You know that?”

Mercy’s heart warmed. Of all the terrible things that had happened lately, at least she still had a family. “Thank you, Mother.”

* * *

Malice straightened herself and summoned her jewelry when Mercy left. She sank back into her chair with regal poise and contacted an old enemy.

Reigan Shen’s voice came from a construct in the darkness. “Explain to me why you made me wait when the situation is so urgent?”

“You’re lucky I’ve allowed you into my territory at all.”

“Have you controlled your daughter?”

Malice bristled. So Shen had been spying on her, at least to the degree he could see through her shadows. “Question me again and perhaps you’ll find me standing with Ozmanthus’ disciples.”

“If you were willing to ascend for the sake of victory, then I’d be having this conversation with Fury, not you.”

No, he wouldn’t. Fury would never have ruled as a Monarch, but then, Reigan Shen had never understood her son.

“I spoke my daughter’s language. She’s under control, and I didn’t have to lock her inside a pocket world.”

“You’d be impressed what it does for their manners. Not a one of my children has ever questioned me twice.”

Malice realized she was exchanging parenting tips with a lion, and the disgust twisted her lips. “That’s enough. You have my permission. Use Blackflame.”

“So the Blackflame Empire is mine?”

“Not the Empire,” she snapped. She’d been clear about that from the beginning, but he had to pretend to misunderstand. “You can have Serpent’s Grave.”

* * *

Reigan Shen disconnected his mind from Malice, pleased with himself.

How could he not be? Every part of this battle was taking place in the Ashwind continent. No matter how it turned out, Malice would be the only one to lose.

…assuming it worked, and Eithan’s disciples ascended without Eithan himself returning for revenge.

That soured his mood significantly.

He stepped through space from the Wastelands into the western Blackflame Empire. Sand blew across another desert; he was sick of deserts, but he supposed that’s why it was called Ashwind.

Below him spread a city made of dragon’s bone. Yellowed buildings supported by ancient rib cages from the titanic ancient dragons; skulls that contained entire housing complexes.

It was a work of art, and he didn’t want to despoil it.

Reigan Shen swept his perception through the city. He could focus his attacks on the Twin Star Sect and the Arelius family, as though the Blackflame boy had lost himself and attacked his own allies.

Reigan blinked when he understood what his senses were telling him.

He scanned the city again.

The sect of Twin Stars was gone. The Arelius family was gone. He couldn’t keep track of every single person in the city wearing an Arelius uniform, not unless he was an Arelius himself, but he could search for their madra. Not one person with their bloodline legacy remained in the city.

Lindon had evacuated them all.

How? The Void Icon could hide futures and even remove obstructions placed on Fate, but it wasn’t specialized in seeing those possibilities in the first place. Had Eithan planned this far ahead?

He clicked his tongue in frustration. Now what? Destroying the city didn’t send much of a message if Lindon had already withdrawn all his allies.

Then again…

Reigan shrugged and reached into his King’s Key. He withdrew a spear of fire and destruction aura; it wasn’t technically the Path of Black Flame, but it had been made from a black dragon’s Remnant, so a scan after the fact wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

He activated the binding and scorched a line through the center of the city. Then he repeated that a few more times, incinerating streets and any building he saw that wasn’t carved from bone.

Might as well. It wasn’t his city.

Flames and smoke rose moments later, alongside screaming alarms, and he tucked the spear back away. He had remained veiled the entire time; with their primitive perceptions and the thin aura here, all they should know was that a Blackflame technique had destroyed the heart of their city. Most of the beautiful dragon-bone buildings remained intact, but he’d still taken thousands of human lives.

Perfect.

Reigan Shen admired his handiwork for a moment longer before he left.

* * *

Thousands of miles to the west, Lindon felt a great explosion of Blackflame madra.

[Serpent’s Grave,] Dross told him quietly.

Fury burned in Lindon’s heart. Malice was more brutal than he’d given her credit for. This may have been Reigan Shen, but either way, Malice had allowed it.

Fortunately, he’d prepared.

“Where are you going to keep us all, Lindon?” Cassias asked.

“Apologies, but you’ll have to make camp for now. We haven’t built up enough of the Valley yet.”

Through the open Nethergate, a seemingly endless line of people streamed out of the labyrinth into Sacred Valley.

While Lindon was much stronger now, he still wasn’t skilled enough to create a portal from Serpent’s Grave all the way to Sacred Valley.

Thankfully, the labyrinth expanded his options. He only had to open portals for short hops, to transition the Arelius family a few miles at a time, before they reached a labyrinth entrance.

He had relocated virtually the entire Arelius family, along with the whole Twin Star Sect and anyone else he thought might have been targeted by Malice. Windfall rested on the former site of the Wei clan, next to the ruins of Elder Whisper’s tower.

And, strangely, the massive ship that was the headquarters of Redmoon Hall.

It still twisted his eyes to look down over the Valley and see cleared land, partially settled, where he expected familiar landmarks. Especially considering the ruin that had come to the sacred peaks.

But this was the heart of the labyrinth. It was the safest place he could take them.

He and Cassias stood on the top of a hill overlooking the exodus from the Nethergate. He had already completed the transfer; now he was just waiting for everyone to walk out of the labyrinth. He and Cassias and…a few others.

Lindon looked to a figure folded up on the ground. “Gratitude, but please stop.”

“I have said so many insolent things to the Sage, hmm?” Fisher Gesha said. “This old woman can only atone for her actions, and protect her family, by offering her life.”

“Please, Fisher Gesha. I brought you here to save you, not to punish you. I can’t even think what I would punish you for.”

The Skysworn city of Stormrock had been nearby Serpent’s Grave—that wasn’t a coincidence, but the design of the Skysworn Captain, Naru Gwei. He had been on his way to Serpent’s Grave to inspect the new Twin Star Sect and evaluate it for ranking, as well as to see if Eithan Arelius had really ascended.

Fisher Gesha and her family had been aboard. They’d left Blackflame City when it was evacuated before the Wandering Titan and focused on their Stormrock businesses, which was fortunate for Lindon. He didn’t want to make a stop in Blackflame City unless he had to.

Fisher Gesha’s tightly wrapped bun of gray hair quivered. She raised her head, peeking at him with her wrinkled face. “Truly? You don’t mean to punish this old woman?”

Lindon’s lungs loosened. He had felt so awkward with her crouched there that he had almost pulled her upright with aura. “Of course not!” He bowed at the waist. “I owe you a debt of gratitude for your guidance that has allowed me to travel this far.”

“Hmph.” She straightened to her full, tiny, height and smoothed the front of her outer robe. “If you didn’t mean to punish me, then you would have paid me a visit.”

Lindon was struck speechless.

“Years it’s been! Two years at least! And now you can walk through space, whoosh, like that, and still you never came to see me. Not until after the world ends, hmmm? The sky fell before you came to visit! It really fell! I saw it!”

Lindon bowed more deeply. “My humble apologies, honored Fisher.”

“No, no need to apologize. You’re the mighty Sage. I’m just an old woman who once thought of you like one of my grandsons.”

[I’ve run a thousand simulations,] Dross whispered. [I’ve cross-referenced every memory you have of this woman, and I’ve built a model of her personality. I think she does want you to apologize.]

Cassias had a hand on the hilt of his silver saber, and he struck a heroic figure with his golden curls glistening in the sunlight. He surveyed the people of Serpent’s Grave as they streamed past him, and Lindon felt him scanning them with his bloodline ability.

“I don’t mean to question you, Lindon,” Cassias said, “but this cost me a lot. The family elders are not happy with me.”

That meant they weren’t happy with Lindon, but Lindon found he didn’t care.

“As for me, I’m hoping none of this becomes necessary,” Cassias went on.

Lindon had hoped as much as well. But an explosion of Blackflame madra around the location of Serpent’s Grave was not good news.

“I hope so too,” Lindon said.

Until he knew for sure what had happened in Serpent’s Grave, there was no sense in worrying Cassias even more. He had saved everyone he could, and he even warned the rest of the city that an attack might be imminent. Not much else he could do, especially since he couldn’t even tell them details.

This had only been a possibility glimpsed in the future by Emriss Silentborn.

She’d been sending him predictions and helping him with his plans since he killed the Dreadgod, which he appreciated. The Silent King’s madra should be useful in divining the future, but neither he nor Dross had made any progress on that front.

A white flash appeared in the distance, and Lindon felt Yerin’s madra. He turned to the others on the hill. “Cassias, I have a home set aside for you and your family. Fisher Gesha, you’ll be aboard Windfall, with my family. I’ll make introductions, but it will have to wait for a moment.”

Gesha waved a hand. “No, see to your Sage business. I can introduce myself.” The eight metallic purple legs of her drudge extended from the bottom of her robes, and she was lifted on spider legs before click-click-clicking away.

Cassias dipped his head to Lindon. “If you could show us where to go, we’ll settle our belongings before we meet with the rest of the family.”

“Dross,” Lindon said aloud.

Cassias lifted his eyebrows as he saw a sign pointing toward the house where he was supposed to stay. It was one of the few original Wei clan buildings that had been reconstructed after the Titan attack.

The sign was a picture of Dross pointing downward, and one large character that said, ‘HERE!’

“My thanks. Good luck to you, Lindon.”

Cassias started to walk, but then he hesitated. “Actually, I apologize, but there is one more thing I was wondering. Eithan…was he really…”

“Yeah.”

The Truegold’s brow furrowed, and Lindon wasn’t sure how to read the expressions crossing his face.

“Why?” Cassias asked at last.

“I’ve asked that myself every hour since he left,” Lindon said. “If you’ll pardon me for half a guess, I think he was lonely.”

Cassias nodded. “Yes. I think he was.” He straightened his spine and gave a crisp bow, then walked off to join his family.

The Arelius clan in the Blackflame Empire may have survived, but not everyone had.

Jai Chen sat listlessly on a rock, staring haunted into the distance. Fingerling crooned on her shoulder, and she held a blue spear across her knees.

Lindon knew what happened when he saw her. He had already suspected when he didn’t sense Jai Long anywhere in camp.

Kelsa was nearby, but not outwardly grieving. She was answering the questions of a nearby family, pointing them off in some direction, but her expression was a hollow mask.

Lindon walked up to Jai Chen and sat next to her.

“Apologies,” he said quietly.

Tears brimmed in her eyes, but they didn’t fall. “Why didn’t you protect him too?” she asked.

The question hurt worse than he’d expected.

“I didn’t think he’d need it,” Lindon said honestly. He had a limited number of resources and a limited amount of time in which to plan. An Underlord, as far as he was concerned, was much more capable of defending himself than Kelsa or Jai Chen were.

The best Lindon could do to protect everyone was to take down the Dreadgod.

“I didn’t either,” Jai Chen whispered, and then she swiped angrily at her eyes.

Lindon looked down at his chalk-white palm and considered what he could say. He didn’t know much about Jai Long that was positive, but this seemed like the time to say something.

Kelsa stomped up while he was still trying to make up his mind. “Gratitude. Without you, we wouldn’t have made it out alive.”

She gave Lindon a stiff bow, but Lindon tried to catch a glimpse of her face. She was still wearing that stony mask.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

“Better than I would have been if a monster had stolen my mind.” She met his gaze directly. “Did you kill it?”

“Yes.”

Dross slipped a comment into the conversation. [For context, I believe you should know that the Dreadgods have lived for thousands of years, and are considered all but impossible to kill.]

“But you did kill it.”

[Well yes, we did, I was only worried that you might not understand the full weight of that statement.] Dross paused for a second. [And my condolences for your loss, of course.]

“I’m glad you killed it.” Kelsa was standing perfectly straight and looking ahead, as though her spine had been replaced by a wooden post.

Lindon looked from Jai Chen, who was clearly grieving in her own world, back to Kelsa. He hadn’t spent much time with his sister over the last few years, but he suspected she blamed him for Jai Long’s death…but she knew that wasn’t fair, so she was wrestling with herself inside.

Ultimately, there wasn’t much else Lindon could say.

“You do have my apologies, for what they’re worth,” he said again. “If there’s anything either of you need from me, call my name. I’ll hear you.”

Both of them nodded slightly, but didn’t otherwise respond. He supposed that was the best he could hope for.

Lindon shot up into the air on aura of wind and force, then flew over to join Yerin. She waited for him on the former site of the Heaven’s Glory School, just outside the Ancestor’s Tomb, and she had already gathered Orthos, Ziel, and Little Blue. When she saw Lindon, she gave him a grim smile.

“Caught me a message from Mercy. Looks like it was headed to the closest of us two. You want to see it?”

Yerin leaned against Orthos’ shell as she held up a construct that resembled an inky black fish. Orthos snorted smoke.

Little Blue, on top of Orthos’ skull, made a sound like crashing glass.

Ziel barked a humorless laugh. “Yeah, of course it’s from Malice.”

Lindon played the construct so that everyone could see it. Mercy’s image appeared, earnest and packed with emotion. Her hair was tied back, and her cheekbones were so sunken it looked like she hadn’t eaten or slept in weeks.

“Lindon. Yerin. I saw what happened today. I don’t know if I’ll be able to see you in person…”

With every word, Lindon’s fury grew. He felt as though he could hear Malice’s laughter echoing in the background.

When Mercy finished speaking, Lindon cracked the construct and it crumbled instantly to dust.

Orthos chewed on a mouthful of grass. “Tell me again what’s really happening.”

“Hunger aura doesn’t happen naturally,” Yerin said. “It only shows up when there are Monarchs who stay too long. If they all went away, the Dreadgods would get weaker and weaker and eventually die.”

“But where does hunger aura come from?” Orthos asked.

“Do I look like the Blood Sage to you?”

“We need to make the Monarchs ascend,” Lindon said. He could discuss the truth with anyone who knew, so Yerin’s explanation had loosened his lips. “But if they ascend first, it will take years for the Dreadgods to die. Years with no one to stop them. So we need to get strong enough to kill the rest of them.”

“The rest of them,” Ziel repeated. “Except for the Silent King. The one you killed. The Dreadgod you killed yourself.”

Lindon cleared his throat. “The Monarchs did most of the work.”

“Oh. Never mind, then.” Ziel gave him a pointed stare.

Inside the Ancestor’s Tomb, Lindon looked around at his team. “Did you all succeed in your assignments?”

[We know you did,] Dross whispered to everyone at once. [He just wants to see it.]

Orthos opened the void key Lindon had provided and Remnants spilled forth, black dragons of dark red madra that snarled and prepared to wreak havoc.

Until Lindon stared at them with black-and-white eyes. They slithered back inside.

Orthos grunted at them. “I have one Archlord black dragon Remnant, two Overlords, six Underlords, and fifteen Golds. And one cowardly Herald.”

From behind the others, Noroloth’s Remnant peeked a head up. “May I say something?”

“No,” Orthos said.

The Herald Remnant had been bound so that its power was restricted, which just barely allowed Lindon to fit it into Orthos’ void key with the rest of them. If it had resisted, it could have broken the restriction, but then Lindon would have torn open the space and hauled Noroloth’s spirit out bodily.

Which the Remnant was very eager to avoid.

“Will that be enough to get Orthos to Archlord?” Lindon asked Dross.

[Mmmm…given time. If he can subdue all their wills. And if you’re willing to donate a little madra, and a lot of soulfire.]

“That’s Orthos taken care of,” Lindon said. “Ziel.”

“Got it.” Ziel cracked the scripted container at his waist, and silver light spilled out along with a powerful will. He shut it quickly. “You’ll have to tell me if it has enough authority for you.”

“It does,” Lindon said. “Pardon me.”

He walked up to Ziel, close enough that the man’s horns almost poked him in the forehead. Most people would have backed up a step.

“What are you doing?” Ziel asked flatly.

“Looking,” Lindon said.

He felt something in Ziel’s spirit, and…yes, he thought he saw a glimmer of understanding in the depths of Ziel’s eyes. So Eithan hadn’t been making it up after all.

Or maybe it was his imagination.

“When you reach the peak of Archlord, you’ll be close to Sage,” Lindon said. He stepped back. “At least, I believe so.”

Ziel sighed, but he nodded as though he agreed.

“Blue,” Lindon said.

Little Blue peeped and held her hand up.

“You did a great job.”

Blue ran around in a circle on Orthos’ head, cheering.

“I have a few more elixirs for you and I’ll feed you a little more power, but I think you’re ready. Yerin, how about you?”

Yerin opened her void key and jerked a thumb at the wide opening. A scripted chest quivered and shook as the vessel struggled to maintain the power within. Red light spilled from the lid.

“Still not convinced he’s not going to bust out and eat us.”

“He missed that chance. Dross.”

Dross appeared in the air next to him and pushed his tentacles together in a salute. [At your service, Sage!]

“Tell them how strong you are.”

Dross’ eye glittered. A shining halo appeared over his head, and then the world began to flex as he distorted the senses of everyone in the room. A thousand copies of Dross appeared in every square inch of air.

[Strong,] they all said.

“Now tell them what’s on their way.”

The extra clones of Dross vanished, replaced by an image of a huge red bird flying over the ocean. The Bleeding Phoenix gave a searing cry.

A miles-long sapphire dragon swam over a sea of clouds, and its mouth crackled with lightning anger. The Weeping Dragon roared.

A towering black statue with a shell and skin like stone waded through mountains. The Wandering Titan plunged its fist down into a canyon, and when its hand re-emerged, it was holding a gargantuan sword.

The images vanished and left everyone in silence for a long moment.

“Dross,” Ziel said at last, “now tell them how they’re going to survive the attack of three Dreadgods without the Monarchs to help.”

Dross gave a wide grin, revealing sharp teeth, but it was Lindon who answered the question. “We’re not just going to survive,” Lindon said. “We’re going to attack.”

Ziel looked from Lindon to Dross and back. “Oh.”

Behind his back, Lindon clasped his human hand in his white one. “Not long ago, far below this spot, I promised you that I wasn’t going to fight alone anymore. I swore to you, and to myself, that I was going to find a way for you all to catch up to me.

“Now we’re going up against enemies who have all defeated sacred artists stronger than I am. They have more support than we do, more people than we do. More skill. Centuries more experience.”

Lindon leaned forward, and his new eyes burned. “And we are going to beat them anyway. We are going far past them. I barely killed the weakest Dreadgod with the help of three Monarchs, but now I’m going to carve out its heart and make it a weapon. Next time, the seven of us are going to crush a Dreadgod, we’re going to mount it on a spear, and we’re going to use it to kill the next one.”

Yerin’s and Orthos’ eyes glowed in two different shades of red. Little Blue nodded, uncharacteristically solemn. Ziel raised a hand.

“There are six of us here.”

“Yes. But there are seven of us.” Lindon looked to Yerin as Dross projected several dozen images into the air. “The rest of you have training to do in the labyrinth. Cycle as much power as you can and prepare to advance.”

Orthos rumbled deep in his chest. “It will take months to prepare myself.”

“Then we will have to find you some months.” Lindon nodded to Yerin. “Time can be compressed into pocket worlds.”

“That takes Monarchs years to do,” Ziel pointed out.

“If they can make it, we can take it. Which brings me to what Yerin and I are about to be doing.”

Yerin looked down from the images floating in the air and finished his sentence with relish. “Stealing.”

“The Monarchs keep their best treasures in their void spaces at all times, but they own too much to carry everything. They have a lot of assets to defend, but not so many people who can stop me or Yerin. And they can’t move as fast as we can.”

He pointed to the images floating overhead. “These are attack points that a sympathetic Monarch helped Dross identify.”

[A Monarch who shall remain nameless,] Dross said before he coughed out a mouthful of leaves.

“The Monarchs can predict the future. We can’t. I can hide us with the Void Icon, but this will be a shifting situation. Since it is our intentions that influence Fate, we will each pick our targets separately, and not inform the other until the last moment.”

Lindon intentionally didn’t look at one particular destination floating in the air. He didn’t even think about it. Dross whistled casually in his head.

Even just having it up there skirted the edge of their oath, but they could justify including the assignment in their list. They hadn’t picked it, after all. And they weren’t encouraging Yerin in any way to pick it.

Yerin scanned them with her spiritual perception, and each image contained a message from Dross highlighting the location, the prize, and the probable defenses.

Her eyes glittered, and she gave a low whistle. “Can I take all of them?”

“We’re going to try,” Lindon said with feeling. “But the fewer remaining choices we have, the easier it will be to identify us. Start with three apiece.”

Yerin clicked her tongue in disappointment and began to look through the possibilities more closely.

Lindon ignored the one Everwood assignment and scanned through. He was familiar with the targets, but he had intentionally stopped himself from thinking about them until this moment so his will didn’t touch Fate.

A jeweled castle sealed in ice at the north of the Ninecloud continent contained the plague that had been used as a weapon to strike the previous Ninecloud Monarch dead. While it had Monarch-grade defenses, they were unmanned.

The shifting desert vault of the Dragon Monarch, which hadn’t yet been plundered by Malice. The ancient Herald of the green dragons had made his home there, but it was certain to contain a dragon’s hoard.

A museum in Rosegold, defended by a Herald from House Shen, contained relics from Reigan Shen’s first collection. A low-level Abidan artifact was rumored to be among them.

Lindon coveted them all, but he had criteria beyond raw materials.

Above all, they needed two things: borrowed authority and time.

Granting power was easy, but granting stable power quickly was difficult. It had taken multiple Monarchs combining their authority to stabilize Yerin’s spirit after merging with Ruby. She may have been able to become a true Herald without it, but then her progress would have ground to a halt. She wouldn’t have been able to attempt Monarch for centuries, if ever.

Lindon understood better now why that had taken several Monarchs in concert. It wasn’t a question of power, but of compatibility. Some Icons could do things others couldn’t.

Now, Lindon had his own Void Icon, which was useful for removing obstacles and hiding things. He had the script of the Rune Queen, which manipulated time, but only in one specific way. He had the Remnant of the Blood Sage, which would be extremely useful if he could get it to cooperate.

Living will could be flexible in the exercise of authority, but items were set in their function. It wasn’t enough to just have an artifact made by a Sage; it had to be made for the purpose he needed.

So, as Yerin plucked memories from the air like fruit, Lindon skimmed his until he found the three he needed.

He kept his perception away from Yerin so he didn’t sense her assignments, and blinded himself to keep from seeing whether she was looking at the Everwood assignment.

[There are other assignments in Everwood,] Dross pointed out. [But there’s only one the Everwood assignment. Which I’m not thinking about. And neither should you! Stop listening to me!]

Lindon blocked him out and turned to Yerin. She folded her arms and grinned. She was ready.

“Let’s go,” Lindon said.

Together, they strode into the labyrinth.

Little Blue rang out like a bell, wishing them good luck.

21

Within the labyrinth, Lindon let his sense of himself fade away to nothing, as though he were drifting into endless space.

That was when he felt closest to the Void Icon.

In the quiet, he could feel the world thinning. And the vast, inscrutable flows of order that kept everything working, like a skeleton beneath reality.

The Way Between Worlds, Eithan called it in his memories. Or, as Suriel referred to it, simply the Way.

There were different types of structures back there, and he could hardly tell the difference between them. This was a field of study to which he was a new student. But a certain cluster spread out into the future, forking off into a million branches that faded to nothing.

Lindon could sense this only dimly, but he’d learned enough. This was Fate.

There was no way he could hide all the possibilities in the future, especially not from Monarchs that had far more experience reading the future than he had veiling it. But Emriss had given instructions, and Dross drew Lindon’s attention to a certain cluster.

He couldn’t read them. When he focused on one such group of lines, he could see motion but not detail, like he was watching mice scuttle under a sheet.

But Lindon focused on this group of possibilities, the one that felt closest to him and Yerin in the present. These were the branches of their current course.

Lindon pulled the Void Icon around them, and they were hidden. With greater effort, he felt he could learn to remove them…but this was all his concentration and willpower could handle at the moment.

He released himself out of the state to find Yerin sitting on air next to him and wiping his forehead off with a cloth.

“You were dripping all over your shiny new labyrinth,” Yerin said with an easy smile. She tossed the cloth aside, and Lindon noticed she must have cut it off a set of robes.

“Gratitude. It should be harder to find us now. So where would you like to go?”

“Oh, I’m picking first? Cheers and celebration for me. And hey, I was wondering: what if we both picked the same one?”

[There’s more potential possibilities for the Monarchs to keep track of if your choices can overlap,] Dross said. [Also, I’ll win a bet with Lindon.]

“Oh, that takes some spine. You bet against Dross?”

“He didn’t model it out.”

[As far as he knows.] Dross manifested and gave one long blink. [I’m…that was a wink, just now. I was winking at you.]

Yerin told Lindon where they were going, and Lindon connected to the labyrinth. The exits blurred, and Lindon tensed.

The hourglass had been turned.

* * *

Northstrider’s oracle codex alerted him to a possibility, and he sank his awareness into it. Several possibilities had just vanished from Fate.

Lindon was on the attack.

There was always a chance of this, but the reality angered Northstrider. Lindon had an endless treasure chest in the form of Dross, but that wasn’t enough for him. He had to steal from his betters.

He had become skilled with the Void Icon, though, Northstrider had to admit. It was impossible to see where Lindon was heading, only that he had decided to steal from them somehow.

The oracle codex immediately compiled what they knew about the labyrinth’s range, Yerin’s Moonlight Bridge, and how far Lindon could likely bring a small group with his spatial transport abilities.

There were only a few such targets under Northstrider’s control, which was one advantage of not holding his own broad territory. He sent messages to the facilities in question.

Not to heighten security, because that was a losing proposition. Northstrider’s highest-value projects were either in his own personal void space or already guarded by people who could hold their own against Lindon long enough for Northstrider to show up in person. He couldn’t spare the manpower for lower-priority targets.

He told the facilities to call for help.

The sooner he could track Lindon’s movements, the easier it would be to spot a pattern. When amateurs worked with Fate, they felt invincible. They didn’t realize they could still be cornered, trapped, or lured into an ambush. The more information Northstrider had, the closer his victory.

The oracle codex queried him: should it contact the other Monarchs?

No. They would have seen the same thing he had, the same cluster of possibilities that had been shrouded by the Void Icon. Any other information was his.

If he gave too much to his rivals, he stood to lose more than he gained.

* * *

Lindon and Yerin emerged from the labyrinth into a jungle that buzzed with vibrant aura. A storm of green fire licked a grove of trees in the distance, but the affected trees didn’t burn. They grew brighter and larger by the second.

A leathery flying lizard dipped down from the clouds to screech at Lindon and Yerin, and its wingspan cast a shadow over the entire jungle. What looked like a small town was strapped to its back.

“Good choice,” Lindon said.

“Gratitude,” Yerin said pointedly. “See? I’m learning my Sacred Valley manners.”

[It’s that teeny little building on the tail,] Dross said.

Both Lindon and Yerin vanished, Yerin in a flash of light and Lindon in a rush of black fire.

They reappeared on top of a stone building on the giant lizard’s tail, and the lizard immediately began lashing the tail in an attempt to shake them off. They bound themselves to its skin with force aura, so it was a futile endeavor, but it was still annoying.

Yerin stomped on the tail. “Put an end to that right now.” Blood aura rippled throughout its body, and the flying lizard shuddered. It made a sound like a mewling kitten, then it flew straight.

[One of Northstrider’s facilities,] Dross reported. [Not his best one, obviously. Here’s where his team studies Remnants with unusual authority.]

That was clear from the contents of the stone building. It was a small one-room container, little more than a box, but the wall was obscured by scripted tanks containing Remnants that reminded Lindon of Sacred Valley.

An orange monkey took a bite of an apple, then restored it to pristine condition and bit it again. A squid-like slimy Remnant punched the inside of its tank, lighting up the glass; Lindon felt the punch containing a weight that twisted the world. A buzzing cloud of flies formed a vague outline of Yerin, mimicking her movements slightly before she did. She waved and began striking strange poses to see if she could force it to make a mistake as Lindon inspected the rest.

Then he followed the base of their tanks, to where lines of script connected them to a hatch in the floor.

[There’s a reason, besides his infamous eccentricity and dramatic flair, that he built this facility on the back of a flying sacred beast. The Colossal Moon-eater, as this creature is called, has a natural authority that imbues its blood aura with an aspect of preservation. Which makes it ideal for storing experimental material, as well as for this…particular project.]

The hatch didn’t go down far. It couldn’t, as it was dug into the Colossal Moon-eater’s skin. The blood aura, rich with preservation, hung over a silver capsule like a mist.

Lindon destroyed the security construct with pure madra and Yerin twisted a handle to disengage the capsule and pulled it up.

[Inside this capsule,] Dross whispered, [is—]

“We know,” Yerin interrupted. “Picked it, didn’t we?”

She opened her void key and tossed the capsule in. Then she reached for the tank containing the buzzing Remnant flies, but Lindon grabbed her wrist. “No, there’s no time!”

She stared at him like he’d sprouted a second head until his serious expression cracked.

Yerin gave a relieved breath. “Whew, thought for a second you’d been replaced.”

“Ha, no, of course we’re taking everything.”

Lindon seized every Remnant in the room while Dross complained.

[I know you know what’s in the capsule, it’s just…it’s about the experience, isn’t it? Is it really as satisfying, stealing from a Monarch, if you don’t bask in the weight of it? And to have it explained by me, the masterpiece of that same Monarch? It would be a wasted opportunity if I didn’t do it, I think.]

Transporting in hadn’t been a problem, but a transportation out might be thrown off by the authority of the Moon-eater. Lindon and Yerin walked off the edge of the flying lizard.

“You can tell us,” Lindon said over the rushing wind.

[Good, I will! Inside that capsule is one of Northstrider’s latest attempts at replicating an Abidan artifact. It manipulates the Way to perfectly preserve and stabilize any target, potentially even granting…eternal life!]

Yerin and Lindon vanished before they hit the ground, reappearing on the steps of the ancient fortress that led into the labyrinth.

“Wow,” Yerin said dryly. “You’ve cracked my mind in half, Dross.”

[That’s why you both picked it, and I win the bet.]

“What? I didn’t pick this.”

[You considered it very strongly. I should win at least fourteen percent.]

“Fourteen of what?” Yerin asked.

[Satisfaction. I will be fourteen percent more satisfied than I am now.]

“How about, instead, I let you explain the next target?” Lindon suggested.

[Oh, I will be doing that anyway. I cannot be stopped.]

* * *

While it was difficult to track the exact location of the labyrinth from the outside, there were fewer extensions of the labyrinth on the Ninecloud continent than anywhere else. Over the years, the Sha family had built up a good understanding of where the ancient maze fell.

They couldn’t sense it exactly, but there was only one labyrinth exit near anything of substance. Sha Relliar, Herald and Right Hand of the Luminous Queen, stood guard with a contingent of Lords and Ladies. They had the exit surrounded by security scripts and by the perceptions of their sacred artists.

Though none of them expected to catch someone.

The labyrinth entrance was buried in a beautiful nine-leveled pavilion, each a different color. The building shone as the labyrinth opened, and Sha Relliar instantly ordered the script activated.

All the aura in the area froze. The circle was temporary, not a permanent part of the installation, so it wouldn’t last for long against sacred artists of Wei Shi Lindon’s power. But it didn’t have to.

That was why Relliar was here.

He was much older than he looked, though during his advancement to Herald, he had kept marks of his age. The wings of white in his hair and subtle wrinkles at the corners of his eyes lent him dignity, he felt.

The red in his hair had faded with time, but his power had only waxed. A rainbow shimmer spread from him as his royal madra took control over the space.

Intricate turquoise doors swung outward as Wei Shi Lindon strode out.

He looked different than the last time Relliar had seen him, at the Uncrowned King tournament. He had always been a powerful young man, but now his right arm was dense enough to warp spiritual senses, made as it was of true Dreadgod flesh. His eyes, once darkening only with Blackflame, were now black orbs with white circles, and a Wintersteel badge with one character in the old language hung on his chest.

More important than how he looked was how he felt.

The second his perception made contact with Lindon’s spirit, Relliar drew his spear on instinct.

He had expected a Sage. He had not expected vitality that almost matched a Herald, spiritual power that made his perception tremble, and the hunger…such hunger. If Relliar had been told that Lindon was the son of a Dreadgod, he would have believed it.

Those black-and-white eyes sought out Relliar alone, ignoring the formation of the other Ninecloud legions.

“If you’ll pardon my rudeness,” Lindon said, “I’d like to suggest you retreat.”

Sha Relliar spread his spear out to the side and condensed royal madra into his right hand. “You invaded our lands. And with no enmity between us.”

Lindon glanced to his feet. “Apologies, but this looks like my land.”

Relliar hurled the bolt of royal madra. It was just a probe. Against someone of Lindon’s power, a Striker technique like this one wouldn’t count as too much aggression, and it would give him a sense of Lindon’s true strength. Battles between powerful sacred artists often started like this, as both sides were unwilling to devastate the landscape with their full power in the first instant.

The Striker technique passed through Lindon’s body, and terror flickered through Relliar’s soul.

“Ambush!” he shouted.

Then the illusion of Lindon’s body faded and Relliar felt the presence of the Void Sage behind him.

He let his arms drop to his sides. “The illusions of the Silent King. I let my guard down.”

“Gratitude for holding back.”

A terrifying hand seized the back of Relliar’s neck, but he didn’t resist. He was at the young man’s mercy anyway.

“I won’t take anything permanent,” Lindon said. “But you know I can’t leave you behind me with your cores full.”

Resisting would be pointless at this point. Sha Relliar was surrounded by his legion, but the collected Lords were afraid to move.

The Uncrowned Queen had appeared in their midst.

Her Broken Crown hovered over her head, the same color as her sword. Yerin clapped a nearby Overlady on the shoulder, and the older woman shuddered.

“We’re playing all nice and friendly today, aren’t we?” Yerin asked.

One word Lindon said caught Relliar’s attention, and as a force began devouring his madra, he repeated it. “Cores?” Like virtually everyone, Relliar only had one core.

Lindon hesitated. “Apologies. Slip of the tongue.”

* * *

[This condensed gem is one of the few Divine Treasures of royal madra, known as the Queen’s Gift!] Dross recited. [It’s like a crystallized command that the Luminous Queen can leave behind, allowing others to borrow her authority both political and conceptual.]

The guardian constructs fell to pieces around Lindon, and he placed a shimmering rainbow gem the size of his head back into its case. Then he slid the chest of treasure through the floor and into his open void key.

“I picked this one,” Lindon said. “Shouldn’t you be telling all this to Yerin?”

She had stayed behind with the Ninecloud troops to make sure no one tried to ambush Lindon from behind or to fly off for more help.

[Don’t worry! I left a copy of myself behind so that she will never be without the benefit of my instruction.]

“She must be grateful.”

[She has tried to destroy the copy several times, but I predicted that. There are thirty-seven more of me waiting to continue.]

Lindon swept a pile of royal scales out of their preservation script and into a sack. He hesitated and turned to Dross.

“That explanation wasn’t long. What are you telling Yerin?”

[Right now? The history of the Sha family and the Ninecloud Court. It’s really fascinating, you see…]

Lindon listened with interest to the story of the Ninecloud continent’s ruling family even as he robbed them.

* * *

Sha Miara hosted the meeting with the Monarchs this time, though not everyone showed up. The nine-colored space shook with her anger.

“Sha Relliar is my uncle,” she said. “I will not stand the disrespect.”

Reigan Shen prowled the edges of the meeting space like he was tracing the borders of a cage. “You will stand it, because you failed to prepare him appropriately for this attack. After I told you.”

Inwardly, Sha Miara quailed before the other Monarch’s anger. She remembered his rise to power from her grandmother’s time, and he was stuck in her mind as a dangerous man to anger.

But none of her ancestors would show weakness openly, so her disguise was intact as she responded. “I cannot and will not devote all my resources to defending myself when the Weeping Dragon has left such a wreckage of my home. The people need help. We agreed that Lindon’s attack on Ninecloud was a distant possibility in any case.”

“It was,” Shen growled, “and yet our sight has failed us at every turn. It’s almost as though someone has read the future and told him how to outmaneuver us.”

“Tragic,” Emriss Silentborn said gravely.

When Shen wasn’t looking, the older woman gave Miara a grandmotherly smile. Miara’s ancestors had trusted her, so the Sha faith in Emriss was engraved in her bones. She had also been the Monarch to accept Miara more than any of the others.

If Reigan Shen intended to shift the blame onto her, Sha Miara would take Emriss’ side. Even considering the aid House Shen had given her people against the Dragon, Miara just liked Emriss more. Besides, the idea of Emriss working against the stability of the world was absurd. No one gave more selflessly to global order than Emriss Silentborn.

Miara made her rainbow disguise return the smile.

Reigan Shen didn’t cast his suspicion solely on the Remnant Monarch. He spared glares for the spots where Northstrider and Malice were supposed to be standing, and for the huge, tusked man posing like a statue in gold armor.

“What have you to say? We find ourselves spread too thin. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we had a supply of Sages and Heralds who could reinforce us all?”

“The Eight-Man Empire is at your service,” the Sage said stiffly. He was a sacred elephant in human form, and he had refused to abandon his tusks. “We will not allow one Sage to slip past us, but even we cannot be everywhere. You know our prices.”

Reigan Shen growled.

* * *

Larian lounged with one cloud beneath her and another above, for shade.

Far beneath her, the White Lion Bank—a staple of House Shen—dominated an entire city as a fortress of white marble. It had powerful security scripts, a network of observational constructs, and guards like she’d never seen outside a Monarch’s personal home.

It would take some kind of Dreadgod to break that security.

Beneath her, Lindon and Yerin Arelius dragged chests out of a hole they’d cut in the back of the building. They bypassed the script somehow—Larian had never been interested in scripting—and were fooling the rest of the security with an elaborate illusion that must be exhausting to maintain.

She could see through them too easily.

The Bow Icon gave her keen eyesight, but even she wouldn’t be able to pierce an illusion fueled by the Silent King’s madra unless they were stretched too thin. Lindon’s mind-spirit needed practice with the technique, she guessed.

“Oh no, we’re under attack,” Larian muttered. With one finger, she plucked the string of the bow lying next to her. “Eat my best techniques, robbers! Pchew, pchew!” She clapped a hand to her armored chest. “Ack! They got me! I’ll tell my grandchildren of this battle. Let us part with mutual respect.”

Then she yawned and leaned back, pillowing her head on her hands.

* * *

[Did you hear something?] Dross asked.

Lindon stretched his perception out as far as he dared from beneath his veil. What was it?

[It sounded like a yawn. Plenty of sleepy people around here. I guess it’s nap time. Anyway, I can’t believe this is the easiest one so far. I thought for sure Reigan Shen would have hired the Eight-Man Empire to defend this place.]

We’re not away yet, Lindon responded silently.

He carried a scripted orb of dead matter in both hands; he could easily have levitated more behind him, but manipulating aura like that would have attracted attention. Dross was straining himself to maintain the illusion over the entire bank as it was.

The bank, and Yerin.

She had torn an entire vault out of the wall, and Dross had been forced to simulate a crack of thunder to help excuse the noise. Now she tottered with it balanced over her head; the weight wasn’t a problem, but walking with it constantly shifting was. Ordinarily, she could use force aura to spread out her physical strength and carry it with perfect balance, but that ran into the same problem of aura manipulation being easy to sense.

Yerin had all six of her sword-arms driven into it for balance. Her steps cracked cobblestones, leaving footprints in rock.

Dross turned his attention to the bundle in Lindon’s arms. [It is rumored that this device was crafted in the very Soulforge Eithan ‘liberated’ from Reigan Shen during his…creative negotiations. It was made with the Path of the King’s Key to be the heart of an isolated new world, similar to my own Ghostwater. I think we should make this one with even more water.]

What about in Yerin’s vault? Lindon asked. He hadn’t been able to penetrate the vault’s protections with his spiritual sense, and neither had Yerin.

[I cannot know, but I can speculate. Option one…]

Yerin glared at Lindon, who gave an apologetic half-bow.

But he wanted to hear Dross guess.

* * *

“You fought a mighty battle, did you?” Reigan Shen asked.

Larian nodded seriously. “Top ten of my life. Maybe top three.”

“And yet—” Shen glanced down at a sacred instrument in his hand, then back up. “—it seems my city is still intact.”

“I’m proud of my delicate touch.”

Reigan’s isolated space was made to resemble his treasure vaults, all marble columns and golden display. He didn’t want to break it by hitting it.

So he slapped Larian instead.

She was a projection of her consciousness, so a hit wouldn’t greatly harm her, but he still expected it to land. He was surprised she managed to block in time. His hand struck her gold-armored forearm, and the air of the room cracked.

“Borrowing power from a Herald?” he asked. “For a friendly meeting?”

“That wasn’t very friendly of you.” She gave him a cold grin that, with her blonde hair, made her look uncomfortably like Eithan Arelius. “You’re treading close to a line I don’t think you want to cross, Shen.”

He leaned down into her face until she was forced to lean back. “I do not like it when humans lie to me. They stink when they lie. Especially when they lie to cover up their own stupidity. Do you understand what is at stake?”

“You’ll get your money back,” she said, as though that were what he cared about. “Besides, why are you worrying? The Weeping Dragon will take care of him before you get a turn, and we can take everything back then.”

Shen snarled in her face. “Am I the only one who saw the stars die?”

Larian spread her hands and danced backwards. “Hey, maybe the rest of us didn’t eradicate the Arelius family before learning that their founder was the interdimensional god of death. You know what they say about hindsight, don’t you?”

“You don’t have to see the truth! Just do your job!”

“Performance guaranteed or your money back. We don’t want the world turned upside-down any more than you do. But Shen?” She gave him another of those Eithan-like smiles. “Watch your mouth. There’s more of me than there are of you.”

She disappeared an instant before Reigan Shen tore the whole space to ribbons in his fury.

* * *

“I went to the Everwood continent myself for the first time not long ago,” Lindon said. “But it’s a big place. What’s the target here, again?”

Yerin looked to Dross, who stared straight ahead with no expression.

“Bleed me, he can keep his mouth shut. It’s called the Dreamway. Guess Emriss made it so she could slip into the dreams of people all over the world and teach them bits and pieces. Keeps lots of knowledge there. Figure it’s like the biggest dream tablet library we could get.”

Lindon’s heart pounded and he wanted to say something, anything, but he only nodded with mild interest and moved the labyrinth.

[Yes,] Dross said. [Surely there is much to learn from the Dreamway. So much knowledge to receive. Or even to s—grrk. Ahem. Sorry, I had something stuck in my…spiritual throat.]

Yerin leaned over to Lindon. “Are you stone-certain he’s patched up?”

“Oh, he’s fine.” Lindon couldn’t look Yerin in the eye lest he give too much away.

The heart of the Dreamway was buried beneath a tree the size of a city, with blue-green leaves that shone slightly under the starlight. A men’hla tree, the oldest in the world…or the second-oldest, if you counted the Remnant that had eventually ascended to Monarch.

There was security on the facility, but none of it was meant to stop a real opponent. Mostly, it seemed there to deter Lowgold vandals or children running in unsupervised. The Dreamway itself was open to all during the daytime, a fountain of knowledge.

Lindon and Yerin walked through the visitor’s entrance, which was clean and well-decorated, and completely empty. Visiting hours were over. Once they were through the outer scripts, they could sense the shape of the facility.

Then they both disappeared again, reappearing below.

Here, great rivers of images and flashing color flowed in from every direction to an island of steel. Memory constructs buzzed like bees around their hive, placing dream tablets beneath scripts and then sorting them once they had been filled with memory.

Yerin pointed toward the river of information. “Happy birthday, Dross.”

Dross searched for a reaction for a moment before he forced a happy gasp. [For me? Aw, you shouldn’t have. I’ll just be off, then, drinking deep of these delicious memories. You two just do…whatever. Whatever you do.]

Dross drifted off, continually sneaking glances behind himself at Yerin.

She scratched the back of her head. “Thought he’d be happier.”

“He’s distracted,” Lindon said, but that was all he could say before the oath he’d sworn sent him a warning. “I’m going to see if there’s anything here about the Void Icon. You?”

“Been shoving Ruby’s madra into the same old techniques. Looking to see if I can tighten that up a little.”

Lindon had worked on that with her back in Serpent’s Grave, but Dross had been gone. Without him to help simulate the techniques, neither of them had been confident enough in their understanding of blood madra to complete her new Path.

Since Dross had returned, there had been more pressing matters.

Yerin held out a hand. “Give me a scale, Dross? Slap my madra into a dream construct and we might have to stick the whole place back together with spit and mud.”

[Yes. Of course.] Dross Forged a purple coin, which shimmered more brightly than it ever had before. [Spend it well.]

Lindon drifted off before he said too much. One violation of his oath was enough.

With great effort, he focused on his own task. There was more he could find here than just dream tablets; some of the raw material used to form the Dreamway would be perfect for crafting a Divine Treasure from the Silent King’s core binding. If he could take enough, he might even be able to create a new mind-spirit like Dross, though he didn’t want to strip Emriss Silentborn’s masterpiece down to its core components after she’d risked herself to help them.

He had barely started when Dross tapped him on the shoulder. [Look!]

Lindon took his time before turning around.

Yerin stood at the center of the steel island, and she flipped the dream scale once. Then she crushed it and used the madra to power a giant script that lit around her feet.

A recording of Emriss Silentborn’s voice echoed around them. “This action is restricted. If you do not have permission to operate the Dreamway, you will be punished to the full extent of the law.”

“Clear as springwater,” Yerin said.

Emriss had included a full list of the Dreamway’s capabilities in her assignment, but she hadn’t drawn attention to this one. Lindon and Dross had seen the possibility as well, but they weren’t allowed to say anything.

Of the four of them, the only one not bound by an oath of secrecy was Yerin. She had to realize the potential on her own.

Lindon felt like his heart would burst with pride.

[That was exhausting,] Dross complained. [Do you know how close I came to saying something?]

“Yes.”

[Wait. It doesn’t count if we don’t stop her, does it? No, it can’t.]

They hadn’t sworn not to prevent the truth from giving out through inaction, just from saying it themselves.

Yerin waited for the memory constructs to arrange themselves around her, ready to memorize her face and her every word.

“Guess this is going out to everybody,” Yerin said. “Huh.” She rubbed her chin. “Let’s cut straight to it, then.

“The Monarchs are letting the Dreadgods live. All the Monarchs have to do is ascend and the Dreadgods would go away, but they don’t. You’re all dying so the Monarchs can keep ruling over you. But that sun’s setting.”

Yerin extended her Goldsigns behind her so they caught the light. “The Silent King’s gone. Killed by the Void Sage, Wei Shi Lindon Arelius.”

Heat ran up into Lindon’s face. She hadn’t needed to say that.

“We’re coming for the rest of them. It’ll be a tough road, I’ll tell you true, but hang on tight. When it’s over, we’ll have no Dreadgods left. And that’s worth the fight.”

She thought for a moment before she shrugged. “Guess that’s the end of what I have to say.” Then she marched off the platform.

* * *

Not everyone in the world had access to the Dreamway. Outside Everwood, most couldn’t draw from it freely, and only received messages when Emriss went through the great expense of sending them. The factions that could be reached by such transmissions typically took responsibility for disseminating them to lesser organizations. They were usually the ruling powers of their territories. The Monarch factions.

Like the Akura clan.

Mercy didn’t know where the message was coming from; she only knew that her family was getting messages from Everwood by every channel possible. At first, she assumed they were related to the Silent King.

Then someone said Yerin’s name, and she found a messenger construct relay of her own.

Yerin’s speech flowed into Mercy’s memory as though she’d been there herself, but she stiffened in shock at the content.

Shock. Followed by confusion, dread, and the first sparks of anger.

Mercy spoke into the air. “What is this all about, Mother?”

22

In the starry world of the Soulforge, Lindon hammered his will into shape.

Genesis, his double-headed hammer, cracked down on the ball of dead matter that resembled a bundle of skeletal hands all clasping one another. With each blow of the hammer, Lindon drove in a silver rune from the Rune Queen and bound it with his intentions.

When the script was complete, it slowed the time inside the sphere to a crawl.

Lindon didn’t have the knowledge or experience to alter every single law of a pocket world. He couldn’t craft it to his exact specifications.

But he didn’t need to do that. Reigan Shen had done it for him.

Ziel stood with him, supplementing his will and providing detailed instructions on the operation of the ancient script. Without him, Lindon and Dross would have been forced to spend more valuable time simulating and practicing this operation.

“Will you be able to finish everything before the Dragon gets here?” Ziel asked.

“Pardon, but the Weeping Dragon isn’t coming here. It’s headed wherever I am, and I don’t intend to be here.” Lindon paused for a moment when he finished one line of script to take a breath. “And I don’t need to finish anything but this. In here, we’ll have plenty of time.”

Ziel shook his head. “I just can’t believe you did it.”

“That was the easy part.” Lindon returned to hammering. “They didn’t know what we were after, so their defenses were light. But we’re still missing the most critical component.”

Yerin stood at the entrance to the Soulforge and she gave one decisive nod.

Ziel sighed. “It would make more sense to do this after entering the time-locked pocket world. We don’t have forever.”

Lindon hammered the final silver sigil into place, and the web of scripts around the ball shone silver. The entire space was filled with a triumphant, radiant note.

“That’s why we’re going…” Lindon tossed the ball to Ziel. “…now.”

They left the Soulforge, and then he and Yerin vanished.

* * *

While Malice observed the situation from one of her floating cloud fortresses, her irritation had reached its peak.

Her peers were incompetent.

They had allowed one Sage and one Herald to walk straight into their strongholds and take whatever they wished, like children plucking candy from the shelves. Now the Dreadgods were coming to her territory, again, as always seemed to be the case these days. Once the Weeping Dragon arrived, she would have the distasteful distinction of ruling over the only continent since the Dread War to have been invaded by all four Dreadgods inside five years.

These children had slapped her in the face publicly with their every action. She’d raised Lindon and Yerin like they were her own, and they’d prospered in her territory. Even represented her in the Uncrowned King tournament. She’d allowed her own daughter, her favored daughter, to shirk her responsibilities and travel with them.

In exchange, they were working to topple everything she’d worked for.

The message in the Dreamway was the flame that would ignite their funeral pyre. It was not an insurmountable problem on its own; the average person wouldn’t see the message, wouldn’t comprehend it, and couldn’t do anything about it if they did.

Over the years, there had been other leaks of information that had been easily controlled. “The Monarchs and the Dreadgods are working together!” was a popular conspiracy theory, especially as most never received a full education on the history of the Dread War.

But Yerin’s message had reached a few influential ears, and they were giving Malice a headache.

Whenever anyone inside the range of Malice’s spiritual perception spoke her name with intention, it felt to her like the tap of a finger. Like she was being prodded in the spirit. A mere mention wouldn’t draw her focus, and she could concentrate on many tasks at once anyway.

Mercy had called her so frequently and so furiously that it was a constant itch.

Finally, Malice summoned her daughter in a fit of irritation. She didn’t bother with an illusory world, or an isolated space. Mercy popped into the main sitting room of Malice’s favorite cloud fortress, stumbling as she landed.

“I cannot cater to your every doubt,” Malice snapped. “I told you what lies they would tell, and still you fell for this. Here is one lesson you can learn from your ‘friends:’ they have willpower like tempered steel, while you are turned like a leaf by every breeze.”

Mercy buckled under the sudden assault, as well she might, having gone from muttering her mother’s name in her room to weathering a verbal attack in under a breath. But this would be good willpower training for her as well, and it was with a faint pride that Malice saw those purple eyes go from startled to resolved in an instant.

“Swear on your soul that what they said isn’t true, and I’ll fight them myself,” Mercy said.

“Absolutely not. You know better than to take such an oath lightly. I cannot risk the damage, I will not suffer the indignity, and you couldn’t scratch them in a battle.”

Mercy’s face twisted, and Malice could feel the distress in her soul. She wanted to believe both sides.

That compassion would serve her well, but only when it was directed where it was deserved.

Malice sighed as some of her irritation released. Mercy was so very, very young. She would learn with time, assuming they all weathered this chaos that Eithan Arelius had brought to their world.

“This is only another reason to control the pace of your advancement. If your friends hadn’t raced ahead so fast, they wouldn’t have left you behind.”

Mercy slumped, holding onto Eclipse for support. “Yeah. Okay. I’m sorry to bother you.”

She drifted out of the room and opened the door. Malice allowed it because it amused her to do so.

Mercy saw the endless ocean stretching out beyond the cloud base and slammed the door shut. “I thought we were still in Moongrave!”

“This is where Lindon will lay his trap for the Weeping Dragon. I’m waiting for him.”

Mercy chewed her lower lip. “You’re not going to kill him, are you?”

“That’s not the solution I would prefer,” Malice said honestly. She would rather bind Lindon and Yerin with so many oaths that they couldn’t so much as inhale without her permission, then use them as weapons against the other Monarchs before finally shipping them up for the heavens to deal with.

“I’ll wait with you.”

“As you wish,” Malice said. This was only one of the visible possibilities for Lindon’s future. If he did show up while Mercy was here, she could always send Mercy back with or without her consent. Or tuck her away in a void space, as Shen suggested.

Then again, she could also allow some limited conversation between the two of them. If she couldn’t control the flow of a conversation between children, she didn’t deserve to rule.

Of course, there was always the chance that Lindon had left this branch of Fate unveiled to lure her here. That was what she would have done, with her command of the Shadow Icon. But she’d seen his use of authority, and he didn’t have the skill for such a subtle trick.

It was as Malice had the thought that she felt Lindon appear beneath her fortress.

For only a moment, her thoughts froze. Who had tutored him in the manipulation of Fate? Had it been Eithan? Emriss? The Eight-Man Empire? Had Northstrider taken him as an apprentice?

She calmed down almost instantly. He hadn’t reversed her trap through a clever manipulation of Fate; he’d arrived exactly where she predicted he would. She was still in control. And thanks to the wards on her fortress, Mercy hadn’t even sensed him arrive.

The sound of his bellow shook the clouds around the ship.

“Akura Malice!” Lindon shouted. “I’m here to talk!”

Mercy’s eyes grew round.

Malice clicked her tongue in dissatisfaction, but if she hadn’t been prepared for this, she wouldn’t have brought Mercy here to begin with.

She snapped her fingers and allowed shadows to carry her and her daughter outside. They stood on the edge of a purple platform of cloud madra, looking down on Lindon.

He hovered on pure aura as his perception searched for them. Malice deactivated the technique that rendered the fortress invisible, and he focused on them.

Malice knew she had to keep the reins of this conversation. “You have violated the laws of my realm and endangered the stability of humanity itself. Surrender yourself now, and we will punish you as lightly as the law allows, in recognition of your potential.”

Lindon looked to Mercy. “Gratitude, but I’m here for Mercy.”

“Lindon, what’s going on?” Mercy called.

Before she could ask any more, Malice cut in. “You can talk after we have you under my supervision. I won’t let you take my daughter hostage.”

“Mercy, I swear on my soul that we will—”

Malice spoke over him. “Enough. I don’t have time to chatter with a criminal.” She extended her hand and activated a piece of her bloodline armor.

The hand that extended from her was gigantic, almost the size of the cloud fortress itself, and it wrapped around Lindon in a moment.

A trickle of dream aura flowed into Mercy’s mind, and Malice cut it off violently. Lindon’s dream-spirit, Dross, had spoken into her mind. She cut it off before the message was fully formed, but Mercy still looked conflicted.

Malice felt a pressure in her hand, and she gripped harder.

In the center of her armor’s palm, Lindon blazed blue-white with his full-body Enforcer technique. He pushed against her.

And he really pushed. It was power she didn’t think he’d be able to show before Monarch: the physical strength of a Herald. The stolen Dreadgod vitality had treated him well.

Of course, it wasn’t enough. The Void Icon had no domain over physical power.

And she was a true Monarch.

She crushed him in her grip and held out her left palm to stop the other technique that shot in from the other side of the ship. The sword-and-blood madra splashed off her amethyst hand as Yerin finished her Striker technique.

“So you came to attack me,” Malice said heavily.

“You’ve got twice the tongue a snake does.” A claw of dense blood madra Forged itself over her from the binding in her sword. “If we leave here without Mercy, it’ll be in pieces.”

Malice let her armor vanish and stepped off the edge of her cloud fortress. “It doesn’t have to be that way. We were not enemies until you decided we were.” She drifted in the air until she was between Lindon and Yerin.

“Let’s keep Mercy out of this, shall we?” Malice suggested.

The three of them floated over the waves. A flying sword hovered behind Lindon while Yerin had her six Goldsigns and her one Archlord blade bare.

“Let us talk to her,” Lindon said quietly. “If she wants to come back with you after, she can.”

Mercy flew out on her staff. “No, stop! You can’t win!”

“See?” Malice murmured. “She does know me.”

Then her armor returned, but not at its titanic maximum size. It poured out of her in less than a blink until it fit her like a tailored suit. It flickered with shadow as the Dark Tide Incantation filled her limbs.

Lindon and Yerin didn’t waste time, striking out with dragon’s breath and the Endless Sword. But Malice had been slaying dragons for centuries, and the sword artists that had died to her arrows were beyond counting.

Blades of aura scattered off her armor and Blackflame madra splattered harmlessly in the air. She stood before Yerin in an instant and grabbed Netherclaw with one gauntleted hand. A weapon Enforcer technique lent it strength, but it was nothing before her armor.

Yerin instantly vanished in a flash of light.

In an implosion of shadow, Malice followed. They reappeared a hundred yards away. Malice didn’t even lose her grip on the sword.

Malice’s fist caught Yerin in the face and drove her down into the ocean.

Lindon’s sword drove at her with an impressive force of will, but she slapped it aside with a backhand. Constructs flew from his open void key, launchers by the dozen. They all sighted on her.

She summoned only one.

In the same time Lindon used to attack her and summon his own weapons, she called her bow and drew. Dense madra of ice and shadow formed into an arrow on the string.

A host of arrows shot out, and her aim was flawless. She pierced every construct Lindon had and forced him on the defensive by pelting him with a dozen shots. He defended with the flying sword and his Hollow Domain, but that was the end for him. He was on the defensive.

Malice lashed out with a Striker technique of pure shadow, but launched it half-finished as a dense stream of madra approached her from below.

She vanished and dodged, but the clouds parted overhead. Mercy was being buffeted and battered by the wind currents, and while everyone in the battle was avoiding her, eventually Lindon or Yerin would have a chance to catch her. Malice extended a hand and focused her will on Mercy and the entire fortress.

“Return,” Malice commanded. The Way obeyed, twisting to return the fortress to the city from which it had come.

In the fragment of a second before the transportation completed, both Lindon and Yerin appeared on the base of her fortress. They must have moved before her working began.

They’d anticipated her.

Yerin gave her a smirk, and a message slipped past Malice’s mental defenses. [Thanks for the ride!] Dross said.

Then they all vanished.

* * *

Lindon endured the rough trip through blue light as they were shoved through the Way. It had been difficult to predict Malice, and even harder to maneuver her into the position that she’d have to transport Mercy away. Especially since he didn’t want to hurt her by accident.

Still, they’d done it. An instant later, they arrived in Moongrave.

As soon as they did, Yerin grabbed Mercy by the shoulders. “Dreadgods, Monarchs, got to kill ‘em.”

Mercy looked like a child being shaken on horseback. “Wait, wait, wait! Explain from the start!”

They didn’t have time for that, as there was a better than ninety percent chance Malice would be seconds behind them. Lindon mentally nudged Dross, who sent Mercy the details in an instant.

Without a Monarch to interrupt the transmission, Mercy heard it all.

Her jaw dropped open…and then tears were in her eyes. “My mother…Uncle Fury? He knew? Nobody told me.” She looked to Lindon, pleading. “Did you make this up? It’s…it’s okay, I just…is it a lie?”

Lindon met her gaze and shook his head a little. “Apologies.”

“Move her!” Yerin shoved Mercy toward Lindon. They were hovering above Moongrave, but the air was already crowded. Hundreds of spiritual perceptions had locked onto them from the beginning.

Lindon gathered his will to move Mercy toward the closest labyrinth entrance. It was harder than just moving himself, but not too bad, as long as he kept it to a limited distance.

“Move,” Lindon commanded, just as Dross shouted, [Dodge!]

A pulse of shadow smashed through the cloud fortress, reducing it to rubble that rained down over the city. And a powerful will smothered his working.

Mercy trembled in place, but she stayed where she was.

Still in her armor and holding her crystalline bow, Malice looked down over the three of them. She extended a hand.

“Go,” she ordered Mercy.

Together, Yerin and Lindon matched their wills against the Monarch. In a warping of space, the working broke.

Malice sent a pulse of force aura to shove Mercy back, but Yerin crushed it.

“Mother,” Mercy said in a trembling voice, “I know everything.”

“You don’t know anything,” Malice snapped. “And neither do they.”

Blades of shadow sliced at Lindon and Yerin, but Lindon intercepted them with the Hollow Domain to weaken them, then tore them to pieces. Yerin stood in front of Mercy and returned Striker techniques with a Rippling Sword.

Lindon and Dross were more than familiar with how the Akura armor worked. The more stress they put on it, the harder it was to maintain.

But a Monarch could hold it through a lot more than a Truegold could.

Lindon and Yerin kept assaulting Malice with techniques, but Malice was an archer. As their Striker techniques slammed into her armor, she kept them on the defensive with arrows. And blades of shadow. And an oppressive, overwhelming will that seeped into their spirits.

Close up, it wasn’t much better.

Lindon slammed his fist into her, driven by the Burning Cloak, and the force sent thunder cracking over Moongrave and scattered air traffic. But the hit on her armor didn’t slow her down at all, and she borrowed the momentum to fly higher in the sky and return fire.

Her missiles were guided by living will. When the arrows missed, they looped around and returned, or flew at Yerin.

They couldn’t use the full power of their techniques for fear of damaging Moongrave. Malice took advantage of that, putting herself between them and the ground. Taking her own city hostage.

But Lindon and Yerin didn’t have to defeat Malice to win. They only had to escape.

Yerin landed a two-handed blow with Netherclaw that Malice had to block with the arm of her bow, but Lindon flew for Mercy.

She was trying to hang in there, bobbing on the back of Suu. “Get ready!” he called to her.

Then an owl flew up between them.

“Peace,” Charity said.

Lindon found his mind under attack. Dross dismantled the technique as he fought against Charity’s authority, but it distracted him long enough for the Sage herself to appear.

She was icy and furious, her hair bound up with a silver cloth, and a strangely vibrating sickle in her right hand. “I expected better from you,” she said.

Not far away, Yerin was forced to break off her attack against Malice as the combined attacks of the Moongrave Archlords focused on her. Even the skull-shaped launcher turrets on the walls lit violet, turning to aim at Yerin.

Lindon met the eyes of the Sage of the Silver Heart. “You should be on our side, Charity.”

“You’re fighting my grandmother.”

“I’m fighting to kill the Dreadgods.” Lindon flexed his right hand.

Charity’s cold mask slipped. “I can’t let you continue fighting over the city.”

“Then give us Mercy.”

“We can’t allow a hostage—”

Lindon’s temper flared, and the Burning Cloak burst involuntarily around him. “You think I’m taking Mercy hostage?”

Charity’s mask slipped further.

Mercy caught up to them again. “Let me go with them, Aunt Charity. The Dreadgods are headed for Lindon. We can deal with them, and then…talk to Mother.”

Before Charity could respond, Dross warned Lindon of an imminent spatial transport. Lindon dashed for Mercy.

Charity’s sickle swept out toward him, and he was forced to dodge.

He suspected she had only attacked out of defensive instinct, but it was still enough to move him aside. Malice, without her armor, landed a hand on Mercy.

Then a ball of shadow wrapped around Mercy, and she disappeared. Malice tossed a small black ball, no bigger than Suriel’s marble, in her hand. Lindon sensed what it was: a barrier of shadow madra containing the pocket space that had swallowed Mercy.

“That’s enough of that,” she said. “Are you going to surrender now, or…?”

Half a dozen Archlords surrounded them, along with sixteen Dreadgod-caliber turrets, Malice, and the Sage of the Silver Heart.

Yerin appeared in a flash of white light at Lindon’s side. She stuck one finger in her ear. “Old age do something to your hearing? Told you when we’d leave.”

“Yes, you did,” Malice agreed. “In pieces.”

Dross, Lindon thought.

Dream madra flowed out, forming illusory clones of them in an imitation of the Silent King’s technique.

Silver warriors clashed against the clones as Charity’s technique pushed against Dross, but Lindon was finished holding back.

He kicked out with force aura against the air, flying forward with his Burning Cloak. His fist smacked into Charity’s armor, and she blasted into the distance.

Malice spun her staff at his face, but it caught Netherclaw instead.

Rippling Swords blasted out from Yerin’s sword-arms toward the Archlords surrounding them at the same time as Lindon released a sweeping dragon’s breath empowered by the Void Icon.

Yerin used her Moonlight Bridge to evade a Striker technique that came within a whisker’s breadth of slicing a building in half, and Malice followed again. This time, Dross showed Lindon the destination and Lindon followed her.

“Move,” Lindon commanded.

He intended to take him and Malice far outside the city, but she interrupted the working. As soon as they re-emerged, they crashed into the inside of Moongrave’s walls.

Yerin appeared in midair sending a kick down on Malice. The Monarch caught it in one armored hand, but then Lindon struck at her middle with an Empty Palm.

He was forced to abort the technique and dodge a violet blast from a nearby turret, but the power from Yerin’s kick had cracked the stone wall beneath them. Yerin slammed her sword down. Malice spread the impact out with force aura, but no matter how far she dispersed it, that much more of the wall only crumpled.

Lindon moved them again, and again he wrestled wills with Malice.

They emerged in the center of one of the mountains that had been torn in half by the battle with the Silent King. Malice forced Yerin back with an eruption of shadow madra, but Lindon was there with his Empty Palm.

His Forged blue-white handprint was larger than his whole body.

She met the attack with her own palm strike, Forged of shadow madra, as launchers from the city sighted them again. Bolts of crackling violet madra scraped new trenches in the already-ruined landscape, and some of the Archlords targeted them with Striker or Ruler techniques.

Lindon and Yerin were pushed back at the same time, but just as they readied new techniques, an amethyst boot crashed down from the sky. Its conceptual weight was just as great as its physical weight, and both had to instantly teleport away.

Malice finished summoning her armor, hovering in the air where the heart should be.

“You should run,” she advised them. Then the crystal finished Forging around her.

Her bow reappeared and stretched until it fit her new size, and Lindon and Yerin gathered more power into their techniques.

“Round three,” Yerin muttered.

* * *

Mercy hammered on the inside of the shadow-barrier that had captured her.

She couldn’t sense anything outside. Here she was, trapped, in a ball of silence and darkness. And even if she escaped, there was nothing she could do.

She was too weak.

Much less a Herald or Sage, she wasn’t even an Archlady yet. All this with willpower and authority, it was beyond her.

Though she had the means to do something.

Hesitantly, Mercy flipped through the Divine Treasure in her spirit. There was power here. As much as she wanted.

But far more than she could handle.

That left her with one question. Which could she tolerate more: a flood of energy far greater than her advancement could handle, or the thought of leaving her friends to fight alone? Against her family?

Which, of course, was no question at all.

* * *

Arrows blackened the sky even as Yerin’s Final Sword lit it up again, but Lindon didn’t need Dross’ prediction to see where this battle was going.

At this rate, Malice was going to wear them down.

Yerin didn’t have the madra reserves to fight for another hour, while Malice could go for days. Lindon could keep up in endurance, but as soon as Yerin was out of the fight, Malice would be too much for him. Especially with the support from Moongrave keeping him locked down.

Malice knew it as well as he did, which was why she kept dancing around them. Minimizing the damage. Herding them where she wanted them to go.

She was fighting them like she would a Dreadgod.

Techniques split the sky and scorched the ground, and Dross pushed himself to keep them ahead of the fight, but they were going to lose.

It was fight until they were killed or captured, or give up Mercy and return another day.

[One of those options has a much higher success rate, if you were asking me,] Dross said. [Which you weren’t.]

Lindon knew that. If they left Mercy with her family, she would be fine. He and the others could increase their power enough to fight Monarchs, even finish at least one Dreadgod weapon. That would make the battle even, and they could throw enough weight around to retrieve Mercy.

He wanted to do that. It was a perfectly reasonable plan.

If only he was willing to move forward without her again. Advance the rest of the team.

And he was not.

For his entire life, he hadn’t had the power to make his own decisions. Now he did.

So he was going to.

Dross cackled to the point that Lindon wondered if his other personality had returned. [You know what, I like it! Win or die is more fun when you’ve chosen the fight yourself, isn’t it?]

Then a crystal hand emerged from Malice’s chest. A third crystal hand.

Oh no, Lindon thought.

Mercy punched her way out from inside the void space where she’d been trapped. She crawled out one giant fist at a time. Malice seized her by the shoulder…until Mercy threw her mother off.

She drew up to her full height, two amethyst titans facing one another. Mercy roared, and a phantom image appeared behind her. It was a tall, striking woman, like an empress. The same one who had appeared behind Malice during the fight against the Dreadgod.

Mercy drew her fist back, then punched her mother.

[She’s lost herself,] Dross said in horror. [It was too much.]

If that was true, then it was all the more reason to end the fight quickly. Lindon lashed out with dragon’s breath as Yerin brought the Netherclaw technique down on Malice with a swipe of its Forged claws.

Malice twisted her daughter’s arm back. “That…is…enough!”

Then she punched Mercy down into the ground. The earth quaked for miles.

“You idiot,” Malice roared. She slammed her foot down on Mercy’s armored chest. “Listen to me!” She hauled Mercy up and pressed their helmets together. “You don’t ever fight against the family. Ever.”

Mercy’s blows slapped against the sides of Malice’s armor, but the Monarch had her in an iron grip.

“Fight for us, or we don’t need you.”

She drew her foot back to kick Mercy’s armored form.

Dross’ madra blazed through Lindon and Yerin at the same time, and the world slowed for both of them.

A copy of the spirit appeared beside each of their heads, and Dross squinted in Malice’s direction.

[You know, it’s strange. She’s starting to look a lot like Harmony.]

Yerin, Lindon thought. Are you ready? Dross conveyed his mental voice, and it was brittle with the cold of the Void.

Yerin’s response, by contrast, burned with fury. You crack her out of that armor, and then you can watch me gut her like a fish.

Dross will show you. In thirty seconds, you’ll have a sword at her throat.

A Monarch might have any number of unknown life-saving mechanisms that Lindon had no way of knowing about.

But he was going to make her use them.

His black flames, his cleansing tide of pure madra, and his Dreadgod arm all harmonized with his will of destruction. The Void Icon sang, closer than ever.

And Yerin blazed with such anger that the fabric of reality warped around her.

The Monarch’s colossal foot swept at Mercy, but it slammed to a halt against a tiny speck that shone with silver-and-red power. A tide of wind blasted over the land, reaching as far back as Moongrave, but Yerin didn’t budge an inch.

Yerin didn’t have a full-body Enforcer technique, but with the more-than-physical strength of the Steelborn Iron body, she didn’t need one. She gathered all her power into her shining sword.

Malice focused on her, but Lindon had already moved.

His right hand pressed against the back of her neck. Shadow rushed over him, and dominating will.

Lindon Consumed it all.

Her bloodline armor began to dissolve into his arm. It was made of shadow, force, and a vow to protect so powerful that it had engraved itself into the souls of generations. Akura Malice’s bloodline legacy.

It was all food for the arm of the Slumbering Wraith.

Shadow madra Forged into blades and swept at him, but he weakened them with the Hollow Domain. Then he allowed them to land.

They cut his body and his spirit together, but he healed as fast as she damaged him. Malice’s stolen power now ran through his Bloodforged Iron body.

Then Yerin struck with her full strength and every single technique she had.

She hit Malice like a Dreadgod.

The Monarch flew backwards for miles, landing on a stretch of hills that somehow hadn’t been despoiled by battle already.

Malice abandoned her armor and Lindon was waiting for her. He watched himself reach out with a pale right hand and Malice swipe through him with her staff.

The illusion faded into Silent King madra, and Lindon grabbed the back of her neck through her phantom-like hair.

“Begone!” Malice commanded.

The authority shook him…but not for long.

He Consumed that too.

Black and violet scales dropped from his left hand as power flowed into his right. The Heart of Twin Stars couldn’t purify her madra as fast as he could absorb it.

And this madra didn’t belong to him anyway.

A construct exploded from her soulspace, shoving against him with the force of one of her blows. He endured it and kept Consuming.

Yerin appeared and put the black tip of her sword against Malice’s eye.

“Try something else,” Yerin said. “Try one more thing.”

Malice’s lips twisted into a smile, and she did.

Another construct activated from her soulspace, and this time it distorted space. Shadows twisted around her, dragging her away. Yerin shoved her sword forward, but Malice herself had warped into darkness.

Lindon punched his left fist into the Way and seized her wrist, but her authority wrestled with his. Thanks to the construct she’d prepared, she was growing further and further away. If he continued holding on, he would be pulled in with her.

He let go, and Malice escaped.

As one, Lindon and Yerin disappeared and reappeared at Mercy’s side. Charity had already taken her back to Moongrave, but it didn’t matter. Lindon and Yerin could follow her anywhere.

They were in Mercy’s office, where she’d been laid on a bed. Archlords loomed over Mercy’s unconscious form, and Charity stood with hands folded in front of her. Even Pride was at her side.

Lindon looked over them all and fully unveiled his spirit. He cycled his madra freely, so they could feel how much madra he still had left. With his will, he pressed down on the Archlords and Charity.

The knees of the Archlords buckled, and that was before Yerin joined him.

“Get moving,” Yerin said, “or get moved.”

Charity managed to stay standing, but she dipped her head to them. “Please. She needs treatment.”

Lindon scanned Mercy’s spirit. “We can treat her. Stand aside.”

Charity hesitated. She glanced around as though looking for help. Then, helplessly, she moved.

Lindon bent down to pick Mercy up, but one person stood up to him. Pride covered her. “We’ll take care of her,” the Underlord insisted.

Lindon picked Mercy up anyway.

“When I see you again,” Lindon said, “I hope we’re on the same side.”

Then they left, because no one could stop them.

23

Iteration 300: Vesper

While Suriel stitched together yet another ruined world, she left Ozriel with little to occupy him.

There wasn’t much she could do about it. This was part of her role as his caretaker. She had to keep him in her presence, under observation, and from using any powers without her permission. Therefore, while she dedicated her concentration to an important task like restoring the laws of reality to an entire world, she commanded him to do nothing.

Even without his powers, he could still access the private Abidan network for entertainment, education, or catching up on what he’d missed. Given that there had been a world-spanning war from which they were desperately trying to recover, he should surely have much to learn.

Instead, he drifted around her and talked.

“Oh, they’re already fighting Malice!” Ozriel said brightly. “Yes! Get her! Stab her once for me!”

Suriel reconstituted an entire continent from nothing. It had started to dissolve into the Void, so it was harder than usual. “I’ll catch up on the Report later.”

“Did I tell you Dross was back? I kind of liked the other one, but it’s nice to hear his old voice again.”

Suriel’s finger twitched. She wanted to see.

The gray featureless ghost of a woman appeared over her shoulder as her Presence manifested itself. [Suriel requires her full concentration for this task, and you are proving a distraction. I will accompany you instead. One moment, and I will temporarily seal her hearing so that you and I can watch together.]

Suriel wondered once again if it was possible to have a full-powered Presence with a cooperative personality.

Her Presence turned to her and folded its arms. [Permission to seal your hearing temporarily, for the purpose of having a private discussion with Ozriel?]

“Hurry up!” Ozriel insisted. He was looking off into the distance. “Malice is about to try transporting Mercy away.”

Suriel’s Presence shuffled a little closer to Ozriel. It kept its thoughts disciplined, but Suriel knew it wanted to go watch.

“Permission denied,” Suriel said irritably. “We can watch later. There’s work to do.”

Ozriel gave her a put-upon look. “You know there’s something different about watching live!” He sighed. “It’s even better watching from the inside. Being there. It’s so much more fun than downloading thought-records from an infinite number of kilometers away—”

“I can’t go down to Cradle, can I? I’m not from there.” She regretted that for a moment, then immediately felt guilty.

Her home world was a fine place, it had just been at peace for thousands of years. There were still the occasional petty squabbles over land or respect—there was no such thing as a true utopia, not as long as it was inhabited by humans—but she had no interest in descending as a mortal to influence trade disputes or border negotiations.

“You don’t need to go down there, just come over here and…” Ozriel made a disappointed sound. “Never mind, temporal sync is broken. Have to wait for time to catch up.” He shook a black-gauntleted fist at the planet floating beneath them. “Curse you, Vesper! Fix your time!”

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Suriel said, but she was relieved. She wouldn’t rush an actual job to watch something for her own entertainment, and now she could have both.

In truth, fixing the temporal stability of the world, making time run smoothly again, was a simple process. Barring actual damage from corruption, the world’s time would work consistently as long as it had a closer relationship with the Way. So restoring Fate and bringing people back to life also fixed the temporal laws at the same time.

Without Ozriel to distract her, she found the work soothing. While she worked to stitch reality back together, she could forget about the broader conflict and the scope of the damage in other worlds. Reconstruction was a purely positive action.

And it was gratifying to know that she was using her talents effectively. She alone could do the work of an entire squad of lesser Phoenixes, even including some of the more skilled and talented under her command.

Suriel was re-focusing her work while idly considering which of her subordinates might have the potential to succeed her one day when a sudden deviation from Fate flashed red in her vision.

Her own alarm spiked as her Presence spoke urgently into her mind. [WARNING: contact lost with Sector Thirty command. No warning from the Court.]

Suriel tied off her current working, stabilizing the world of Vesper for the time being. Then she informed Ozriel.

He looked irritated at the news more than anything. “If you’d let me have my powers back, I could have warned you in time.” Then he stood up, still floating in space, and stretched. He pulled one shoulder, then the other, tossing his long white hair out of the way with each movement.

His body had been perfected both genetically and conceptually. There was no way his movements were actually tight. He was just being theatrical.

Suriel’s eyes were already scanning Fate, but she found little she could read. She didn’t need her Presence to tell her that was bad news.

Ozriel sniffed ostentatiously at the vacuum. “Does it smell like a trap in here to anyone else?”

“Stop talking and help.” Suriel tore open a rift into the Way and stepped through, letting the pure currents of order push her, but she remained still.

This was a calculated action. They would be surrounded.

She sent out a message to the Spider. “Telariel. Telariel, can you hear me?”

When there was no response after a second or two, she knew they were cut off. Her Razor ignited in her hand, splitting into many branches.

[We are most likely to engage in a battle with the Mad King,] Suriel’s Presence reported. [There is only a one in sixteen chance of escaping with both of your lives. However, he must have left the other Vroshir behind to move undetected. In the case that he kills you, I project a two out of three chance that he is killed by the retaliation of the Court of Seven.]

“What are the odds that Makiel did not see this action?” Ozriel asked softly.

Her Presence remained quiet.

“Yeah,” Ozriel said. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he and Suriel prepared to do battle side-by-side.

* * *

Outpost 01: Oversight

Makiel watched the battle between Suriel and the Mad King unfold in Fate. He examined all the possibilities, and his mood was dark.

This was still the best course of action, but he regretted the necessity. At least, when Ozriel was dead, they could rebuild.

His Presence alerted him to contact from the Spider, which he allowed.

Telariel’s voice was as cultured as always. “I seem to have lost contact with Sector Twenty. There are interruptions in the Way everywhere, but the timing for this one is…not fortuitous. I suspect either Vroshir intervention or shenanigans from Ozriel.”

“I’ll look into it myself,” Makiel told him. “Nothing is as clear as it should be. Stand by in case direct action is required.”

Telariel acknowledged, and Makiel stayed true to his word and his purpose.

He watched.

On the violet screens in the air before him, Ozriel’s death grew clearer and clearer.

* * *

Iteration 110: Cradle

Across the Ashwind continent, through relays of constructs and messengers usually used to declare emergencies, Akura Malice personally delivered a message.

“By the authority of the Akura clan, let it be known that the sacred artist formerly known as Wei Shi Lindon Arelius has been corrupted by the power of the Silent King,” she announced. “He has forfeited his humanity and is but a shell of what he once was.

“To recognize his crimes and the extraordinary threat he represents, he is to be considered the temporary replacement for the Silent King. The fourth Dreadgod. As he is but a hollow mockery of mankind, let him be known as the Empty Ghost.”

All over the continent and all over the world, news spread. Millions heard Lindon’s name.

And fear spread of the new Dreadgod.

* * *

The Oracle Sage didn’t strictly have to, but she checked her pocket watch anyway. Not long now.

With her power, she cast her sight miles into the distance toward the wreckage of what had once been House Arelius. House Shen sacred artists prowled everywhere, but their Monarch’s resources weren’t infinite. He’d been forced to pull people away to deal with problems all over the globe, and to secure certain prizes here in Rosegold to prevent them from being stolen.

She’d checked the past, the present, and the future. This was their best opportunity. With a flicker of her madra, she triggered a construct in her soulspace.

Other constructs triggered in sympathy throughout her forces, and the entire remainder of House Arelius readied itself.

Very soon, the portal back to the Blackflame Empire would open.

And they would be there.

* * *

Lindon flew Windfall north, beyond the Blackflame Empire, back to the Trackless Sea. Where their battle against Malice had begun.

In the distance, he could see the clouds flickering with blue-and-gold lightning that signified the coming of the Weeping Dragon. If he stretched his perception, he could feel the Dreadgod coming, but he didn’t need to. His arm ached in sympathy with its power.

Lindon turned to a door in his home. It was a perfectly ordinary door; in fact, it led into a closet that he’d emptied out for this purpose. He carved runes into the doorframe to prevent it from deforming.

Then he shoved the pocket world construct into the door.

It unfolded in strange dimensions as he guided it with his will. While he did, Dross spoke.

[This is calibrated for the seven of us, so don’t sneak in any stowaways, all right? Oh, but do bring everything we told you to gather. Unless you don’t want to become more powerful than anyone has ever dreamed. Then stay outside. It’s not too late to run from the Weeping Dragon.]

Lindon fixed the last borders of the door and it began to shine. “When we come out of here, the Dragon will be running from us.”

Then he pulled open the door.

THE END

Cradle: Volume Eleven

Dreadgod

BLOOPERS

Dross projected the images of their goals overhead as Lindon pointed to each one of his friends.

“Orthos and Blue, all you need is enough power to withstand my madra and I can power you up myself. We can figure out how to unlock Mercy’s Book, and Yerin, the Blood Sage has already agreed to help you advance. Ziel, we’re going to give you the power to control time. Now, I’m sure you’re wondering where—”

Yerin made a choking sound. “Run that by me another time or three. We’re getting me a pile of scales, and he gets to freeze time?”

“I want his!” Orthos declared.

Even Blue chimed in.

[I too desire the power to bend time like a green branch,] Dross said.

Lindon was getting a headache. “You know not just anyone can use this Array. You’re the one who told me that, Dross.”

Dross slipped out of Lindon’s spirit and stared him in the eye. [Dig deep into your soul and tell me you don’t want to stop time.]

“…fine,” Lindon muttered. “Let’s all go.”

* * *

They had all gathered in the central room of Windfall, discussing their plans for the future.

Ziel leaned on his hammer. “Of course, this is only an issue if we’re staying in this world.”

Once again, everyone looked to Lindon.

“Staying?” Lindon repeated. “Obviously not. Let’s get out of here.”

Far away, Reigan Shen felt a weight leave his shoulders. “Well,” he said to himself. “That was easy.”

* * *

Across the Ashwind continent, through relays of constructs and messengers usually used to declare emergencies, Akura Malice personally delivered a message.

“By the authority of the Akura clan, let it be known that the sacred artist formerly known as Wei Shi Lindon Arelius has been corrupted by the power of the Silent King,” she announced. “To recognize the extraordinary threat he represents, he is to be considered a fourth Dreadgod. As he is but a child spitting in the face of his betters, let him be known as the Whiny Child.

“…what, Charity? Yes, I know. You think I want him to sound intimidating?

“Fine. Call him the…Slobbering Fool. No? Idiot Man-baby. The Cowardly Snail. Gluttonous Goblin. The Slippery Leech.

“Here we are, I’ve got it. Let him be known as the fourth Dreadgod: the Whimpering Flea! What?”

* * *

As Suriel worked to restore the world beneath her, Ozriel floated next to her and sighed. He pulled something from within himself, a construct of such little power that no one had taken it from him.

It resembled a small purple-red diamond, and as he activated it with a thought, it produced his own voice. “Of course, I saw this coming.”

Suriel looked to him curiously. “What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Ozriel said. He sighed again, and activated the small construct once more.

It was another sentence in his own voice. “What? How could I understand the mysteries of the Void Icon?”

“Why did you keep a recording construct with your own voice?” Suriel asked.

“It was for Lindon,” Ozriel said wistfully. “He was planning to silence me with a working, so I predicted what he might say and recorded a few responses. You know how much I love to be one step ahead.”

“That I do.”

Ozriel’s voice came from the construct again. “Nothing much, just volumizing shampoo and a custom conditioner.”

For a third time, Ozriel sighed.

* * *

“Charity.” Lindon pressed his fists together and bowed. “I would be grateful if you would overlook this.”

Charity gave him a disapproving look. “Inciting a member of our head family to steal one of our core secrets is a grave offense. Especially for a Sage. You might say that with great power comes great responsib—”

Charity shuddered as though she’d sensed something.

Lindon frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know…I just suddenly got the feeling that if I completed that sentence, I would immediately die.”

“You could phrase it differently,” Lindon suggested.

“I’ll try.” Charity straightened her spine and spoke again. “Power like yours carries heavy responsibility.”

She paused, waiting for something, and neither of them sensed anything ominous this time. Charity let out a breath of relief.

“That was very strange,” she said.

Lindon slapped his forearm.

“Now what was that?” Charity asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing. A spider tried to bite me, but I got it in time.” Lindon brushed his arm clean. “Now, what were you saying?”

* * *

Yerin sat at the bottom of…she wasn’t sure what to call it. A well? Some kind of deep hole in the ground lined with stones.

She sat on the ground. At least it was dry.

“It’s not a well,” the Sage of Red Faith muttered as he carved symbols into the wall. “It’s a waste purification pit. I suppose you might call it a latrine, or a toilet. A precursor to modern sewage systems.”

Yerin slowly lifted herself from the ground. “What was that?”

“They used scripts and specialized constructs to neutralize the waste. If not for those ancient constructions, the stench down here would still be unbearable. Yerin? Where are you going? Yerin?”

Yerin had already left.

* * *

Larian of the Eight-Man Empire raised a hand. “Let me see if I understand our options. We kill this kid, and Ozmanthus returns from beyond to kill us all. Or we make the kid’s life a nightmare of misery, then he advances, and then he returns from beyond to kill us all.”

Shen reached into a case at his pocket and pulled out a binding: a curled shell of white madra.

The core binding of Subject One.

Reigan Shen’s trump card.

“We can win,” the lion said. “But we move decisively, and together. We leave no possibility of failure. Are we agreed?”

Northstrider was the first to nod.

One after the other, the others all indicated their agreement. All seven of them.

There should only be six people here. Malice, Emriss, Northstrider, Larian, Sha Miara, and Reigan Shen himself. Why were there…

The hackles on the back of Shen’s neck rose as the seventh figure in the room dropped his veil. The man with black armor, white hair, and a broad grin.

“Sorry I’m back so soon,” Eithan Arelius said. He raised a black scythe. “I thought I heard someone threatening my students.”

Reigan Shen wished he had enough time left to cry.

* * *

Lindon finished modifying the force construct and stood back to examine his handiwork. The puppet had been made almost entirely from a sword-Remnant, with a hatchet face, a blade on its right hand, and a shield in its left.

It would be perfect to defend his family from Underlords.

“We’ll call this Underlord Countermeasure One,” Lindon muttered, writing it down.

[The Fleshripper,] Dross whispered into his mind.

Lindon flinched. “Actually, I’m trying to keep it non-lethal…”

[Fleeeesssshhhhhrippeeerrrr,] Dross hissed.

“You can call it that with me, if you insist, but it’s not official. To anyone else, it’s Underlord Countermeasure Number One, all right?”

[Let’s call that one Bludgeon,] Dross said, drifting up next to the earth construct. [Or maybe Mangler.]

Lindon put his head in his hands.

* * *

Lindon sat at a table, mug of hot tea in his hands. “Is it just me, or does this book feel shorter than the others?”

“That’s the goal, isn’t it?” Eithan pointed out. He was leaning back in his chair, with his black armor hanging on a stand behind him. “Don’t you want a story to feel shorter than it is? To leave you wanting more?”

“Couldn’t say I care if it is,” Yerin said. She rolled her empty mug across the table. “Tea’s not bad. Where’d you get it?”

“Space.” Eithan turned back to Lindon. “I’m not usually one for measuring things precisely, but I get the feeling that this book will actually end up longer than the last one. Thanks to a little strategic addition.”

“Really?” Lindon frowned and took another sip of tea. “You think this story is longer than the last one?”

“If my calculations are correct, this book should have more words than the last by exactly…” Eithan counted to himself. “…one.”

With Will, we mean.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Will Wight lives in Florida, among the citrus fruits and slithering sea creatures. He’s the New York Times and #1 Kindle Best Selling author of The Traveler’s Gate Trilogy, The Elder Empire (which cleverly offers twice the fun and twice the work), and his series of mythical martial arts magic: Cradle.

He graduated from the University of Central Florida in 2013, earning a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing and a flute of dragon’s bone. He is also, apparently, invisible to cameras.

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ALSO BY WILL WIGHT

Cradle

Unsouled

Soulsmith

Blackflame

Skysworn

Ghostwater

Underlord

Uncrowned

Wintersteel

Bloodline

Reaper

Cradle: Foundation

Cradle: Path of Gold

Cradle: Rise of Lords

The Traveler’s Gate Trilogy

House of Blades

The Crimson Vault

City of Light

The Traveler’s Gate Chronicles

The Traveler’s Gate Trilogy (Collected Edition)

The Elder Empire

Of Sea & Shadow

Of Dawn & Darkness

Of Kings & Killers

Of Shadow & Sea

Of Darkness & Dawn

Of Killers & Kings

For the most up-to-date bibliography, please visit WillWight.com