Prologue

A field of flowers unfurled before him—an idyllic vision, and yet nothing more. No wind stirred the petals. No scent hung in the air. This paradise was the province of dreams, not reality, a pale echo of the future that his love had hoped to build.

“Never to be, because of me.”

He fell to his knees amid the flowers. Petals swirled up around him. They brushed his palms as they went on their way, yet their touch brought him no succor. They could not heal the wound in his heart. They could not fill the emptiness within.

“Tell me...how can I earn your forgiveness?”

He had done what he thought was right, only to look back on the path he had taken and find horror staring back. By the time he realized he had lost his way, it was too late to stop what he had set in motion. The turning of the ages had snatched him up and pulled him in its flow. None had ever scorned him for his choices, none had ever resented what he had done, yet their acceptance only worsened his torment. Every kind word was a dagger in his heart. He fought against the current, desperate to atone for his misdeeds, only to see more and more crimes pile at his feet. And so, when he found himself called back to this world, he realized...

At last, he had a chance to make things right.

The sight of the crimson-haired girl turned his suspicions to certainty. His sins lingered to the present day. And so he howled his fury at the world, a deluge of endless tears and endless laughter.

He begged like a dullard for her forgiveness.

He pleaded like a fool that she might smile.

He wished like the hero he wasn’t that she might find happiness.

And most ardently of all, he prayed that she would see her ruined paradise restored.

“All will be one.”

And to make it so, he would paint the world black with lies.

Chapter 1: The False Lord

In the beginning, Aletia was a world of chaos. Mortals were but the playthings of the godlike beings known as the Five Lords of Heaven. Only one refused to join his brethren’s game: Surtr, the Black-Winged Lord, a solitary monarch who ruled the skies with unassailable might.

One day, the black dragon furled his wings and descended to earth. Why, none could say, but to see a Lord alight in their midst, the people could not help but speculate. It was simply his whim, a king claimed. He had come to fill his belly, a priest declared. He had descended from on high to lay waste to all living things, the nobles lamented. As suspicion abounded, fear took root in their hearts, at last inciting them to violence. They swallowed their terror and set out to slay the dragon. Yet all their attempts met with failure...until at long last, a boy named Hiro Oguro met Surtr and bore witness to his battle with the Demiurgos.

“What’s got you lookin’ so glum, brat? Power’s what you wanted, ain’t it? C’mon, let’s see a smile.”

The great dragon brought his colossal head closer. A snort all but knocked Hiro off his feet. By all rights, it should have sent him flying, but Surtr’s strength was much diminished. His duel with the Demiurgos had been a clash for the ages, a titanic struggle beyond mortal ken, and after three days and nights of battle, the Lord was close to death.

“Is the Demiurgos dead?” Hiro asked.

Surtr expelled a pained sigh. “I’m still kicking. I’ll bet he is too.”

The black dragon’s belly lay open. Blood poured out across the ground, enough that one might have taken it for a lake. Here and there, grisly shapes that looked unpleasantly like viscera rose from the pool, although it was too dark to be certain.

“Why the long face, brat? Told ya, didn’t I? Can’t kill a Lord. Looks bad, aye, but it’ll close up in no time, you’ll see.”

Hiro did not feel convinced in the slightest, but he could only assume Surtr knew better than he did.

The black dragon shifted listlessly, lowering his head to rest his jaw on the ground. “Ain’t quite the same kind of immortality you’ve got, but never mind that. Once I’m fully abdicated, this’ll be all yours.”

“But how are you going to...?”

Surtr’s enormous mouth cracked open, revealing rows of pointed teeth that looked sharp enough to draw blood. From between them snaked a long tongue, upon which rested an orb.

“Each Lord has what’s called a core. Like those hearts you humans have, but harder to break.” He cocked his head, visibly choosing his words with care. “Well, more like you couldn’t if you tried. Ain’t nothin’ in this world can destroy ’em.”

Hiro frowned, uncertain what to do. The Lord seemed to expect something from him, but he couldn’t fathom what that could be.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that. You know how the world works. You eat or get eaten. There’s only two things to do with this kind of power: usurp it and make it yours, or abdicate it and leave it to its own devices.” Surtr paused. “Assuming you can take it, of course. If you can’t...”

“Then what happens?”

“Then you die, brat. What do you think? ’Course, you don’t gotta worry about that. Got a bit more goin’ for ya than the average vessel, see.” Surtr seemed uncertain whether to stop there but finally continued. “Fail and it’ll be business as usual for a vessel. I’ll be in control, and you’ll be a shell.”

“How’s that any different from dying?”

“You forgot what you’re trying to do here, eh? Can’t go splittin’ hairs when you’re out to kill a Lord. ’Sides, these things can go both ways. Fight back hard enough and it might be you who ends up on top.”

“Could she do the same? If she could hold on...”

“No chance. I told you, you’re a special case. Not every vessel’s lucky enough to be a fiend. In fact, Lords usually take steps to make sure they can’t fight back.”

Hiro sensed what Surtr was referring to: the black malevolence eating deeper and deeper into Rey’s flesh at that very moment. He grimaced, recalling the torment on her face.

“Vessels die young,” Surtr said. “No exceptions. This girl you’re out to save... She’s sick, you said? That ain’t a sickness. It’s a Lord’s curse, and there ain’t no cure.”

Hiro was well aware. Rey was at the mercy of a being too powerful for anyone to defy. That was why he had sought out Surtr’s strength.

“Say I did agree to take your power. What would I do then?”

“Devour the other Lords’ cores. That’ll weaken the curse. As I say, odds are you’ll lose yourself along the way. But if you really wanna save her, right now, that’s your best shot.”

“Only weaken it? How can I break it?”

“Devour all the Lords, make ’em all one, and you’ll know what to do. But you’ll have to stomach enough power for a god, and that’ll cost you dear.” Surtr fell silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was grave. “That a price you’re ready to pay?”

“I’ve always been ready. That’s what I came here for.”

Hiro did not hesitate. His eyes were devoid of doubt. All that mattered to him was Rey’s safety, her happiness, her survival. The friendship he had found in Surtr was a happy twist of fate, but he had come here for power. From the beginning, it was written that one of them would have to die.

“Good. Then just promise me one last thing.”

The orb lifted from Surtr’s tongue. Shining with a brilliant light, it slipped inside Hiro’s chest.

“What— Agh!”

Hiro had only a moment to register surprise. His vision flickered as some violent force rattled his brain. He thought he was going to pass out. Agony squeezed his cranium like a vise, but he managed to fight the pain and hold Surtr’s gaze.

“Do this right, brat,” the lord growled. “Save her...and don’t die until you do.”

With those words, soft yet cruel, the black dragon vanished forever. Amid a storm of diffracting light, Hiro watched him to the last. Their vow seared itself into his heart, and there it remained to this day.

“I kept you waiting a while, didn’t I? A thousand years, in fact.”

He emerged from recollection into reality. Before him stood a woman, silhouetted against the sky—the Crimson Princess, now grown gallant and fierce, a rare jewel that anyone would covet. Flames swirled around her, scarlet and beautiful. Hiro had seen them before. His comrade-in-arms had favored the same technique, laying waste to his enemies with flames that obeyed his every command. It was a sight Hiro had learned to associate with victory.

“But I’ve never seen it look quite this terrifying.”

Liz’s intercession had bought him space to breathe. As long as she stood between him and the Demiurgos, no harm would come to him. That he felt as surely as if Artheus himself watched over him. The little bird he had once known had found her own wings now. She no longer needed charity.

“So you’ve finally come into your own.”

Amid a storm of blood and fire, Hiro’s lips curled into a smile.

“You’ve grown strong. Stronger than I ever imagined.”

Silent mirth gripped him, and his shoulders trembled as he fought to keep it in.

“At last, all can be one.”

Letting his thoughts be known to no one, Hiro laughed in the depths of darkness.

＊＊＊＊＊

Zeal burned within her. Her heart threatened to burst from her chest with every beat. And who could blame her? At long last, they now stood upon the same ground. She sensed him behind her even now, and she had to force herself not to turn. The enemy before her demanded her attention now. She wiped the sweat from her brow and leveled Lævateinn at the Demiurgos.

“Leave him,” she said. “Now you face me.”

Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with unassailable confidence—with the exhilarating joy of knowing she had earned the right to stand by his side. A fierce will smoldered in her scarlet eyes. Her crimson hair danced in fiery splendor, a warning to any foe who might approach. She was as majestic as a valkyrie, her beauty undimmed by the savagery of the battlefield, and it only shone brighter with every passing second. She was Celia Estrella Elizabeth von Grantz, heir apparent to the empire that had conquered Soleil. Born the sixth princess, she had been called the first emperor reborn, and yet for most of her life, the nobility had believed she would never take the throne. She had taken a long road to get here, but no one would dare say that now.

“Crimson hair and Lævateinn in hand,” the Demiurgos murmured. “You must be the cursed child.”

Liz frowned at that name. She swung Lævateinn, warning the Demiurgos to keep his distance, but he did not even acknowledge the threat. She seemed to hold no interest for him. He stared past her at Hiro.

“Any advantage can be squandered if one grows blinkered, it seems.”

He glanced around the battlefield. A wave of imperial cavalry had struck his monsters in the flank, shattering their ranks. The scales of battle had tipped in minutes.

The hairs on the back of Liz’s neck prickled. The Demiurgos seemed to have no contempt for the incompetence of his subordinates or pity for the monsters bleeding on the field. Indeed, his voice held no emotion at all. He was simply describing what he saw, distantly and dispassionately, as if it meant nothing to him. Only when he turned back to Liz did the slightest expression appear on his face.

“A bargain, cursed child. Give me Surtr and I will cede victory this day.”

“You want to make a deal? Have you looked around you?”

“Have you, girl? Do you realize you stand before a Lord of Heaven?” The Demiurgos swung Ipetam, striking the tip against the ground. Dirt flew up and scattered on the wind. He raised the blade high before bringing it down to point at Liz. “Do you truly believe you can defy me with that curse-riddled body?”

Liz could only look back, perplexed. His meaning was a mystery to her.

At last, the Demiurgos showed a true emotion—disappointment. “So you truly know nothing. You are ignorant of the fate you bear. Ignorant even of why the man behind you fights so doggedly.”

“So it seems. So why don’t you tell me what you’re talking about?”

Liz felt her resolve begin to falter, but she knew she could not let it. This had to be a trick. The Demiurgos was trying to make her question herself, nothing more. She tried to see through to the truth with her eyes, but the Lord seemed immune to their effects. They returned a blank void.

“Humans always did value one another too highly. That, it seems, has not changed in one thousand years. You seek to protect each other, even if it proves your undoing.”

The Demiurgos paused. A monster fleeing the imperial charge burst into the space between him and Liz. It turned to him with pleading eyes, but its prayers went unheeded. Ipetam sank smoothly between its eyebrows and skewered its skull.

“The weak are best slain,” he said, “before they become liabilities.”

“That’s not my way!”

Liz braced her foot against the earth and launched herself at the Demiurgos. The Lord stepped easily aside. She struck the ground with a thunderous crash, throwing up a plume of dirt. Sparks exploded within the haze. The air rang with the clashing of steel, and withering rage radiated across the field.

After perhaps a dozen blows, the wind whipped up, carrying the dust skyward and rendering the pair visible again. Liz fought with deft technique, her flames coiling in her wake like snakes as she rained furious blows on the Demiurgos, but the Lord held his own, weaving between her attacks with the smallest of steps. Neither had yet drawn blood. If anything, they both looked like they were only getting started.

“Splendid,” the Demiurgos said. “You have conquered many trials to stand before me, and they have made you strong.”

“I didn’t conquer them for you!” Liz reached out, irate, and grasped him by the lapels. “And you don’t deserve that body. Let me burn you out of it!”

A shuddering boom sent the Demiurgos rocketing backward. His smoke-wreathed body bounced across the ground as if caught in a storm surge. Yet Liz was not content to watch. She slammed her fist against the earth so hard it shuddered, launching her enemy back into the air. He rose, but she was already higher, plummeting to meet him with Lævateinn in a reverse grip. Although he spun nimbly in midair, he could not avoid her entirely. Lævateinn sank deep into his arm. He ripped the limb at the shoulder and thrust her away, sending them flying apart to crash into the ground some distance from each other.

“I’m impressed. You didn’t even think twice.” Liz cast a glance at the arm skewered on Lævateinn. Flames consumed it, and it swiftly crumbled to ashes. She strode toward the Demiurgos as he picked himself up, approaching at a leisurely pace. She moved like a seasoned warrior, as regal and merciless as a lion stalking its prey.

The Lord narrowed his eyes as she grew closer. “The Flame Sovereign chose well, it seems.”

His arm began to regenerate soon enough, but it came back with the skin flaking off in places, as if his flesh was rotting. To anyone’s eyes, it seemed he was losing the battle...and yet he still exuded a chilling confidence.

“Or perhaps,” he drawled as if pronouncing something of great import, “you are finally coming into your own as a vessel.”

Liz stopped in her tracks. She regarded the Demiurgos with suspicion, but what doubt she felt was enough to allay her anger, at least for a moment.

“What do you mean, I’m a vessel?”

The Lord’s demeanor betrayed surprise. “So you were blind even to that.”

He shifted backward. Sensing he meant to run, Liz bounded toward him, but too late. He leaped high and back, vanishing behind a cluster of monsters.

“I will withdraw for today,” his voice echoed. “I sense you have more sights to show me.”

“Do you think I’ll just let you go?”

Liz raised her sword at a nearby officer and barked an order. He understood at once, directing his men to butcher the monsters. The enemy ranks crumbled easily before the imperial cavalry. Once they were gone, however, the Demiurgos was nowhere to be seen.

Scowling, Liz spun back to the boy she had saved. He had been grievously wounded when she arrived, his hand severed at the wrist and a spear rammed through his abdomen, but now there was not a scratch on him. Something cold crawled up her spine, but she took care not to let it show.

“You look cheerful for someone who almost died,” she said, trying to cover her unease with wry humor.

“I’m amazed you made it,” Hiro replied. “I didn’t expect you for three more days.”

He picked himself up and walked toward her, brushing the dust from his uniform. A monster pounced at him, but he waved his hand, and its head vanished with a crack of lightning. The might he commanded was no less impressive than Lævateinn...and it was all the more unnatural that he had mastered it in such a short span of time.

“I took the Schein High Road,” Liz said. “Aura laid the way.”

The Schein High Road was one of the arterial thoroughfares spanning the empire’s five territories. It dated back to the earliest days of the empire, when it had been built by the then-great house of Schein and named to commemorate their glory. Buildings known as stations stood at regular points along its length, offering stagecoach travel. It was upon this road that Aura’s plan had hinged; she had sent letters to the nobles with lands along it, asking them to supply fresh horses. Liz and her forces had changed mounts several times to arrive at the capital, riding without rest or sleep.

As Liz’s explanation continued, Hiro looked around, cocking his head. She seemed to have brought far too many soldiers for that, to say nothing of the heavy infantry presently engaging the monsters.

“I see,” he said at last. “You sent back the soldiers you left in Six Kingdoms.”

Liz nodded. “Aura ordered most of them back to the capital before we even left.”

“I’m impressed you managed to keep a force this big secret. I’d love to know how you did it, but...another time, perhaps.”

Hiro summoned Dáinsleif to his hand. The blade exuded malevolent darkness. Seeing it, Liz cast a meaningful glance at someone behind him. Hiro caught the look, but before he could spin around, he collapsed in the dirt.

Surprise glimmered in his eyes as he looked up at the woman standing over him. “We meet again,” he groaned. “It’s been too long.”

“So it has. But while I’d love to reminisce about old times, someone needs to rein you in.”

Meteia’s eyes flashed as she looked down at him. He had not seen her face since she stood by his side a thousand years ago, after losing Rey drove him mad with grief.

＊＊＊＊＊

The cries of battle began to die down with the coming of dusk. The crimson sunset dyed the blood-churned mud a deeper red, and the shadows lengthened to cover the chunks of dismembered flesh. Monsters, men, and all other living creatures quavered before the dark.

The Demiurgos watched from afar, eyes narrowing. “All dread the night, it’s true,” he murmured, “but it was Surtr who first taught them that terror.”

He had fallen back to a modest hill, far from the front line. Before him, the battle still raged, the combatants reduced to a black, churning mass in the chaos and the twilight. He watched impassively, talking to himself in a flat voice as he reminisced about bygone days.

The primozlosta Ceryneia and Khimaira appeared behind him. Ceryneia stepped forward. “Let us withdraw for today, my Lord,” he said. “You must allow your wounds to heal.”

“A matter of no import. Soon, I shall shed this troublesome shell for something more fitting.”

Ceryneia wore his hood low enough to obscure his expression. He was too ashamed to show his face. One thousand years ago, the twelve primozlosta had set out to conquer Soleil, but Hiro had crushed their ambitions, taking them captive, torturing them, and tearing out their eyes and manastones. The scars remained to this day, proof of their defeat at the hands of a race they believed their inferiors. They feared nothing more than letting that history be known, and so they had cast aside the names of primozlosta and retreated to the shadows, donning the mask of Orcus.

“If I may, my Lord, was your rightful vessel not destroyed a thousand years ago? If the body of the first emperor cannot contain you, what alternatives are there in the modern age?”

“That will not be a concern. I know now why this body is so frail.”

The Demiurgos grasped his left wrist and pulled. His arm came loose like the limb of a doll, quite literally detached at the shoulder. A new arm sprouted from the stump within seconds. Nonetheless, its flesh drooped like misshapen clay under the pull of gravity.

“Is it as we thought?” Ceryneia asked. “Is this Surtr’s work?”

“No. We thought ourselves into needless knots. The true answer is far simpler.” The Demiurgos turned to the field, extending a hand as if to seize it in his grasp. “But all I require has converged in this place. I have no more need for trickery. The coming battle will ensure that only the strong survive.” His lips curled into a smile as he crushed the field in his fist. “Even the Spirit King shall take part. She can no longer afford to watch from afar.”

“How can you celebrate, my Lord?” The hitherto silent Khimaira stepped forward, his voice laden with misgivings and ragged with anger. His shoulders trembled as he tried to contain himself. “Our forces now equal those of the empire. We have no more reinforcements coming from the north. If the sixth princess is on the field, Nameless has surely failed, and Verona must have fallen too.”

The primozlosta bit his lip so hard that blood trickled down his chin. His grief at the loss of his comrade was audible, but it seemed to strike no chord with the Demiurgos.

“What of it? Would you have me weep for the weak? She has only herself to blame. If she was unable to overcome that battle, she would not have lasted long.”

The Lord’s voice was cold and curt, giving Khimaira no compassion to cling to. The primozlosta fell silent for a long moment. Eventually, he marshaled his courage, struck the ground, and forced himself to continue.

“That is not all, my Lord. Why did you let Surtr slip away? He is surely too dangerous to be allowed free rein. I confess, my Lord, your intentions elude me.”

“Oh, Khimaira. Do you not see?” The Demiurgos looked back with disappointment, his figure silhouetted against the setting sun. “Surtr is still well within my grasp.”

His widening smile was lost in shadow, but the scar encircling his arm shone bright in the sunset.

＊＊＊＊＊

All things had an end. That much was an irrefutable truth. Change came with each passing second, inching living beings closer to death, shifting the face of the sky. Even the land transformed with the passage of time, and the plain that had served as the battlefield was no exception. Once a verdant grassland, its reddening earth was now dotted with the corpses of humans and monsters alike.

As the setting sun assumed its brief place on the horizon, the two sides continued to clash. The humans had left more dead than the monsters, but there was no question which side now had the upper hand. Liz’s reinforcements had instilled the Crow Legion and the rest of the allied forces with a ferocity they had not possessed that morning. Now that they had reformed their broken front line and pushed the enemy back, morale was soaring. It seemed like only a matter of time before the monsters were wiped out entirely. Nonetheless, human bodies had physical limits, and if they overstretched themselves, their offensive would quickly crumble. It was vital to know when to stop, and the crimson-haired princess leading the imperial forces had fought enough battles to know when to cut her losses.

“I daresay we can call this a victory,” Meteia said.

A half-blood with both álfen and beastfolk heritage, she sported a pair of canine ears from her head of white hair. Dead monsters lay on the ground around her, each slain with a precise thrust to a vital point—a sight itself proof of her skill with a blade.

Hiro lay amid the bodies, gazing up at the sky. He looked across to her. “You won the moment you hit them in the flank. Monsters can’t coordinate well enough to recover from that. I’m surprised they held out this long.”

“Keeping an eye on the battle, were you? Then why didn’t you do the same? Those eyes of yours would have made it easy enough.” Meteia patted his cheek and sat down beside him with a heavy sigh.

“Would they? Just because I can see the answer doesn’t mean I can put it into practice.”

“You always did hide behind clever words. I suppose it’s nice to see you haven’t changed, in a way.”

“And what about you? Why didn’t you tell me you were Cerberus? I thought you were—”

Meteia laid a hand on his head, cutting him off. She smiled wryly. “I was. As far as I knew, anyway. Dead as dead could be. I certainly never thought I’d find myself serving my mistress again.” Her eyes narrowed fondly as she watched Liz fight in the distance. “She’s gotten strong, you know. Enough that you don’t have to worry about her anymore.”

“She has. But she’s still missing something.”

Meteia wilted like a schoolchild singled out by a tutor. “I...” Her voice died away, lost in the din of battle.

“I’m guessing you told her,” Hiro said.

“I did, but she didn’t want to hear it. She said she’d find another way.”

A shadow fell over Hiro’s face. “It’s like I thought, then.”

Meteia reached out, grasped his head, and yanked it so it lay against her thighs. “Now, don’t try anything funny,” she growled, “or I’ll break your neck.”

“You don’t know the meaning of ‘gentle,’ do you?”

“Coming from you.” Meteia cracked a wry grin, but her shoulders slumped a little, and her ears flattened. “I should apologize. I let her die. The fourth archpriestess.”

“That’s not your fault. She would never have let herself be taken alive.” Hiro’s eyes took on a distant look. “There’s only so much you can do for someone who wants to die.”

Meteia opened her mouth to say something, but before she could form the words, Hiro spoke again.

“Don’t worry about Baum. I’ve taken care of it.”

“Hm?”

“The archpriestess’s disappearance caused...well, let’s call it a stir. I took the liberty of putting forward a replacement.”

Meteia’s eyes widened in surprise, but they soon softened in acceptance. Hiro had always thought two moves ahead. No doubt he had made alternative preparations as well, just in case Straea had survived.

“Is she someone you can trust?”

Hiro met her gaze. “I hope so. She’s you.”

“Pardon?”

“I needed someone the people of Baum wouldn’t question, and you seemed like the best candidate. After I told them the Spirit King had brought you back from the dead to fulfill the role, they seemed eager to have you.”

The people of Baum would accept more or less anything if they were told it was the will of the Spirit King—or at least, they would if told as much by someone with Hiro’s status. They would not have believed his claim if it came from some villager, but the name of a Lord of Heaven carried weight. After all, the Lords were nigh unto gods.

Hiro looked on as Meteia held her head in her hands, his eyes narrowing fondly. “It’s what Rey wanted.”

Meteia’s eyes widened at the sound of her mistress’s name.

“You were always her choice to succeed her. If you hadn’t died in battle, you would have.”

“I...” Meteia trailed off, caught between her guilt at failing her mistress and the weight of Hiro’s nomination. “I am not worthy.”

“Of course you are. In fact, I can prove it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you never wonder why you were able to enter Anfang Forest? Don’t worry. The role of archpriestess will be going to the person who was always meant to have it.”

When Hiro was summoned back to Aletia, he had encountered both Liz and Cerberus in Anfang Forest—a sacred place only the royal family could enter. In truth, the Spirit King had vanished by then, allowing anybody to enter the forest, but there was no harm in a white lie. It was still true that Rey had chosen Meteia as her successor.

Meteia looked at him moodily. “Very well. Consider yourself spared a beating.”

She raised her arm. Blood sprayed behind her. A monster had seen what it thought was an opportunity and pounced, only to be cut to ribbons. Around them, the battle was reaching an end. The monsters’ front line had broken before the imperial offensive and begun to flee in a full-scale rout.

“Still,” Meteia added, “I won’t soon forget you adding to my workload.”

“Call it punishment for hiding yourself.”

“Are you really that angry about it?”

“No. I’m glad you’re alive.”

Hiro’s voice fell on her ears like a warm blanket. She didn’t need to probe him to see he was telling the truth. Her tail began to wag.

“Oh, I almost forgot. You’re spared a beating from me...but I make no guarantees about Liz.”

She grasped him by the head again and set off across the battlefield, seeking out her new mistress.

＊＊＊＊＊

“Another day, and we still breathe.”

Chest heaving, the lilac-skinned man thrust his sword into the ground. Sweat drenched him from head to toe. It poured down his face like a waterfall, but he made no effort to wipe it away. It would make no difference.

“But we’ll be back at it tomorrow. And it’ll be worse.”

Garda swept the field around him with a piercing gaze. Liz’s reinforcements had helped to redress the numerical disparity, but they could not relieve the allied forces’ exhaustion. If anything would thwart them in the battles yet to come, it would be fatigue.

“The men are on their last legs,” he grunted. “The gods only know whether they’ll have the strength to stand come the dawn.”

As he took a moment to catch his breath, a cry issued from his right-hand side. He spun, sword at the ready.

“Release me, Huginn! I will kill him if it’s the last thing I do!”

“You can’t, Miss Luka! How are we supposed to hold formation without you?!”

Huginn had Luka’s arms pinned behind her back in a desperate restraint. Ever since Hiro had released the latter from their contract, she had thought of little but killing him.

“I don’t care! I will not rest until Vajra knows the taste of his flesh!”

“Just wait till the battle’s done! Then you can whack him all you like, I promise!”

Garda pressed an exasperated hand to his forehead and turned to Muninn. “Have the wounded carried to the rear. They’ll only get themselves killed if we let them keep fighting.”

“On it, chief. I’ll pass that on right away.”

“And we need to put our ranks in order. Give the monsters a hearty push and then fall back. Then do it again, and again, until their line breaks.”

“You sure? I’d have thought we’d be done for the day.”

“By all rights, it’s time for them to fall back, but...” Garda squinted against the rays of the setting sun. “Recall that they can see in the dark. No harm in encouraging them to leave well enough alone.”

“Consider it done, chief.”

With a firm nod, Muninn drove his heels into his horse’s flank and galloped off across the battlefield. Soon, he was out of sight. Garda drew a deep breath and let it go, then hoisted his greatsword onto his shoulder and charged once more into the fray.

Chapter 2: Soleil at War

The soldiers carved through the Vanaheim Theocracy like a hot knife through butter. As the sun dipped below the horizon, they rode on with swords in hands, morale unshaken and seemingly immune to exhaustion. Upon their banners fluttered the crests of Six Kingdoms. The most prominent was the serpent of Anguis, denoting the armies of Queen Lucia du Anguis, the presumptive successor to the High King. Her troops fought fearsomely on the field, laying waste to the álfar’s finest warriors. The holy capital of the Vanir Triumvirate was in their sights, and they would not let it elude them.

Their march had encountered little resistance, although that was only to be expected. The vast majority of the Triumvirate’s forces were advancing on the imperial border. A handful of álfen troops had tried to fight back, though they did not have the numbers to mount any appreciable opposition. The army was presently embroiled in battle with one such force.

A command tent, simple in structure but garishly adorned, stood overlooking the plain. Lucia watched the battle unfold from within, sipping lasciviously from a goblet of wine. Aides scurried around her, attending to their duties. She left them to their work as she savored the crimson liquid. Her army held such an overwhelming advantage that she saw no need to take command in person.

Seleucus, her long-serving aide, saw her goblet was empty and leaned down to refill it. “More offers of surrender arrive by the hour, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Do they indeed? What a bore these álfar are. Still, with their spirits broken, they pose little threat. And even if they do plan some treachery, what could they possibly do?” She downed the wine in one gulp and cast the goblet to the floor. A wicked smile took root on her face. “We have fought enough petty skirmishes. ’Tis time to focus on the capital. If the álfar wish to bow before our might, let them. And if they do not, we shall set their towns to the torch until they see the error of their ways.”

She stood up and strode forth from the tent, flicking open her fan and raising it over her mouth. For a long moment, she regarded the battle with a piercing gaze before turning her attention to the city of Vanr behind.

“We shall seize the city and take its faithful hostage. With its people in our grasp, the cardinals shall have no choice but to bend the knee...at least, if they know what is good for them.”

Six Kingdoms would profit handsomely from this venture. They had lost many soldiers in battle with the empire, and this conquest would strengthen their weakened military. Nala and Kwasir remained cause for concern, but with Vanr under Six Kingdoms’ control, the remaining members of the Triumvirate would have no choice but to accede to Lucia’s will. The city was a treasure trove of historical buildings, storied relics, and valuable riches. They would not risk allowing it to be sacked.

“This is proceeding more smoothly than I ever dreamed,” Lucia said. “Why, the Triumvirate has all but leaped willingly into my grasp.”

“And with minimal losses,” Seleucus said. “Do you mean to mount another assault on the empire?”

“I see no reason not to consider it should the opportunity present itself.”

Absorbing the Vanir Triumvirate would bolster Six Kingdoms’ strength significantly. It would be a shame not to put their newly acquired soldiers to use. A second grand invasion was an enticing prospect, and if it just so happened that Lucia’s intervention drove back the Demiurgos—well, that would surely win the loyalty of the empire’s nobles, and then her conquest would be all but assured. But that was a matter for another day. Right now, she could not help but notice that her aide looked troubled.

“Is something the matter, Seleucus?”

He shrugged. “Events in the empire are weighing on me, Your Majesty. Our agents are relaying all they know, but their reports take time to travel. Our information is necessarily delayed.”

Six Kingdoms’ spies were doing what they could, but every report seemed to contain some new development that upended their understanding anew. The situation was unpredictable, and there was desperately little information from which to decide how to respond. Nonetheless, Lucia reasoned, the ultimate outcome of the war in the east would not threaten her success so long as she played her cards right in the west.

“I care not what becomes of the empire,” she said, “so long as they slay enough of the Triumvirate’s soldiers.”

If the Triumvirate won the battle, they would continue eastward, giving Lucia the time she needed to conquer Vanr. If they returned home in defeat, their exhausted soldiers would pose little threat, if they even managed to return home without the Draali executing them as bandits.

“Our victory is already written. And once Vanr is ours, we shall give the Triumvirate’s exhausted troops a warm welcome with spear and blade.” Lucia hid her laughter behind her fan, but there was no concealing the trembling of her shoulders. Yet she stopped and looked up as a thought struck her. “But what of Steissen? If anyone remains to threaten our plans, it is them.”

“Our agents report no movement on their border with the Free Folk.”

“Good. But we must not grow complacent, Seleucus. Their high consul may be otherwise occupied, but that does not render their armies impotent. We must keep a watchful eye.”

Seleucia cocked his head, perplexed that Lucia was being so cautious with Vanr on the horizon. “Must we fear them so? They would have to pass through both the Free Folk’s lands and Kwasir to march on us. That seems an unlikely choice.”

“Tell me, Seleucus. Which do you think would be more profitable for them—to side with the empire or against it?”

“The empire is vast, Your Majesty. Surely Steissen stands to gain more by taking a piece of it for themselves. And with so much unrest in the south, it seems to me that they would have little trouble doing so.”

“I disagree.”

The empire’s lands made a tempting prize, but a nation that seized them too greedily might find itself unable to withdraw, and once trapped, it would be locked in a battle to the death. Taking territory was one thing, but holding it was another, and the process could well reduce their hard-fought prize to a wasteland. It would be much less risky to conquer somewhere smaller—somewhere like the territory of the Free Folk, which at present would only be lightly defended, and which formed a gateway to the lands of the Triumvirate.

“Our future, Seleucus, hinges on whether this high consul follows her brain or her gut.”

Once that question was settled, they would just have to see how events played out. Who would laugh and who would weep, who would taste victory and who would sup bitter defeat—the answers to those questions would be found in the space between life and death. A convergence was nigh, and the empire stood at the center. The coming weeks would be spoken of for generations to come. Win or lose, the names of today’s rulers would echo in history, and Lucia meant for hers to ring loudest.

She snapped her fan closed and expelled a heated breath. “A tale that spoke of the empire alone would be a tiresome one indeed...but I shall ensure it is not the only star.”

＊＊＊＊＊

The Republic of Steissen had not always been one nation. Four hundred years in the past, the three powers of Lichtein, Jötunheim, and Nidavellir had ceased their feud for the south of Soleil to join hands against imperial aggression. In time, Lichtein had split from the union, leaving control of Steissen split between the remaining two—a state of affairs that had held to the present day.

Recently, however, that arrangement had come under strain. The death of the last high consul three years prior had left the Jötunheimite and Nidavellirite factions fighting to elect a successor from their respective ranks. The dispute had escalated to poisonings, betrayals, and conspiracies, until Steissen descended into civil war. The nation had only become whole when the beastfolk of the Jötunheimites had prevailed over the dwarves of Nidavellir, in no small part thanks to the aid of the empire. Now, Skadi Bestla Mikhail, the current high consul, had returned to the Jötunheimite stronghold of Thrynheim.

Jötunheim was a land of beastfolk, who formed the majority of the population of the lands west of Thrynheim. It was home to the only grasslands in Steissen, and rolling plains stretched to the horizon in all directions. To the west lay fertile soil that fed the nation’s granaries. To the east towered the fortress-city of Gastropnir, home to the greatest hunting grounds in Aletia. The horses bred there were transported all across Soleil, bringing wealth to Jötunheim and forming a pillar of Steissen’s economy. If the dwarves were masters of the forge, the beastfolk were masters of animal husbandry. Together, the two peoples had made Steissen peaceful and strong, with its armies equipped with the finest arms and borne by the finest steeds.

Skadi yawned. “They still at it?”

A nearby aide smiled awkwardly. “They’ve been arguing for these causes their whole careers, chief. They’ll be at it a while yet.”

“Should’ve known. Gods, what a pain...”

Skadi looked around the senate hall once more. All around the circular chamber sat representatives from every region in Steissen. Until a little while earlier, they had been peacefully debating domestic policy, but once the topic turned to the empire, all order had dissolved. Some senators had asserted the time was ripe to invade. Others insisted it would be wiser to stand with the empire and maintain friendly relations. Yet others demanded that Steissen reclaim the territory it had ceded to Lichtein in the last war and cut off the River Saale. All manner of arguments had flown as the debate grew heated, from the realistic to the absurd, and affairs had dragged on with no resolution in sight. Angry senators had started trading insults and, finally, blows. The violence had renewed Skadi’s interest for a short while, but now she was simply bored.

“High Consul!” a Nidavellirite senator cried, chest heaving. “I support an invasion of the empire!”

The man’s clothing was torn in places, and blood trickled from his nose. It was all Skadi could do not to laugh, but she held it in. All the brawling had gotten tedious. The last thing she wanted was to start another fistfight.

“Proposal denied,” she said.

“On what grounds?! Beto von Muzuk is dead, and his nobles have no idea what to do with themselves. This is a golden opportunity to seize the southern territories!”

“’Cause it’s no fun, that’s why. Who’s gonna write songs about us kicking the empire while it’s down, eh? How does that prove we’re the strongest in Soleil?”

Had Beto still been alive, the southern territories would have put up a better fight, but now, a babe could tell how the invasion would end. The beastfolk’s hearts sang loudest when life and death hung in the balance. A preordained victory held no interest for them.

“Fun? What does fun matter next to the future of our nation? Capturing the southern territories would fuel Steissen to greater glory.”

The senator wasn’t wrong. There was a good argument to be made for territorial expansion. A large number of southern nobles would undoubtedly defect once they saw which way the wind was blowing. That said, resistance movements would inevitably form, and attending to them would sap Steissen’s strength. If the empire fell to the Demiurgos, the latter would grow in power, and while none knew exactly what the Lord’s intentions were, Steissen likely would be one of his first targets if he resumed the zlosta’s thousand-year-old crusade. The empire was victorious, prospects would be even grimmer. They would not look kindly upon an attempt to stab them in the back. The territory Steissen had gained would become next to impossible to hold, if not ruined entirely by the fighting. Even if Skadi did miraculously prevail, some other nation would sweep in to take the spoils—or worse, the dwarves of Nidavellir might try to take revenge on the beastfolk, an opportunity Lichtein would surely seize on. Steissen would follow the empire in short order.

The dilemma left Skadi in an uncomfortable position. As high consul, she knew it would be wisest to watch events play out. As a beastwoman, however, waiting bored her. Her blood cried out for excitement.

The dwarven senator approached her. “Are you listening to—?”

Skadi grasped him by the head and cast her gaze over the chamber. “Answer me this. Does it sound more fun to die quietly, or to raise some hell along the way?”

The senators could already tell what her answer would be. They could see it burning in her eyes.

“Then how about this? We do the empire a good turn and reap the rewards. I’ve got a deal in mind I’m sure the dwarves of Nidavellir will be happy with.”

She could afford to make some compromises. The last thing she needed was a revolt on her hands.

Released from her grip, the senator frowned back. “What are you suggesting? That we send reinforcements?”

“Waste of time. They’d never make it.”

“Then what?”

“The empire ain’t the only target. We got the Free Folk right next door, don’t we? All that land, ripe for the taking.”

The senator lapsed into thought. “Now that you mention it...”

The relationship between Steissen and the Free Folk had been contentious for generations. Border skirmishes were commonplace. Claiming their land and ridding themselves of a constant annoyance would be killing two birds with one stone.

“I’ll need a second force too,” Skadi added. “I’ll take command of that one.”

The senator looked perplexed. “Are you suggesting a two-pronged assault?”

“You got cotton for brains? Don’t you remember who’s on the other side of the Free Folk? If we’re doing this, I figure we might as well go all the way.”

This move would ingratiate Steissen to the empire and expand its borders in one fell swoop. She anticipated no objections. Sure enough, the vast majority of the chamber seemed to be in agreement. Internally, she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Now we’re square,” she murmured.

A face flashed into her mind—a boy whose short stature belied the power of a Lord. Once, not so long ago, she had given in to her instincts, challenged him to a duel, and lost. This choice was a direct result of that fateful day.

“But now I’m going to have my fun. Hope you won’t mind.”

Her debt was repaid. Now she could only pray the southern territories would hold strong. For their sake, she hoped they could find a capable leader.

＊＊＊＊＊

Sunspear, in the southern territories

A city grown rich on business and commerce, Sunspear was the heart of House Muzuk’s power. Their palace towered over the center of the city, exuding golden radiance. The pride of the people and the embodiment of their rulers’ authority, Glitnir attracted no end of sightseers. Today, however, the streets were bare of the typical excitement. A tense silence hung over the building.

Two armed forces stared each other down across the threshold. One, belonging to the southern nobles, was trying to force its way into the palace; the other, led by the eastern nobles, was trying to bar the way. Under ordinary circumstances, their positions would have been reversed, but these were no ordinary circumstances. The lord of House Muzuk had been slain by persons unknown, a great many southern nobles had perished alongside him, and the eastern nobles had been first on the scene. On hearing of the massacre, the southern troops had marched on the palace in outrage, leading to the present standoff. The situation was dry kindling waiting for a spark.

“Please, stop this madness! I ask only that you hear me out!”

A man at the head of the eastern noble troops was fighting to defuse the situation. He was Rugen Kiork von Gurinda, uncle to the sixth princess and margrave of Gurinda on the Lichtein border. An affable man with an ever-present smile, he now faced down the outraged soldiers with rare desperation.

“Let us through and then we’ll talk!” someone shouted back. “Why are you standing in our way?! Is there something you don’t want us to see?!”

The southern soldiers were already agitated. If they saw the butchered bodies of their masters, it was hard to imagine they would react with restraint. Letting them through would soon lead to a second massacre.

“You killed Lord von Muzuk, didn’t you?! You’re murderers!”

They were refusing to listen to reason as it was. Showing them Beto’s body would not change their minds. It would only risk pouring oil on the fire.

“It wasn’t us! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. And I have proof!” Kiork held up a stack of letters—correspondences that showed Beto had been conspiring with the Vanir Triumvirate—but it was no use. The soldiers were too furious.

“Lord von Muzuk served the empire his whole life! He’s no traitor! You wrote those letters yourself, I’ll bet! Everyone knows you shift loyalties like the wind!”

Kiork was well aware that he was not in good standing with the south. While technically a southern noble, he had worked extensively with the east, and it was no surprise to learn the people of Sunspear took a dim view of him. Still, the accusation rankled. He had sworn no loyalty to Beto von Muzuk, only to the Grantzian Empire, and he did not consider himself false. That said, arguing would only make things worse. He had no choice but to hold his tongue.

“I am telling the truth. It is his writing. By all means, see for yourself. I only ask that you listen to me! There is nothing to be gained from violence!”

“Silence, you treacherous cur!”

As Kiork watched the soldier reach for his sword, he sensed that all hope was lost. This was no time for imperial citizens to be squabbling among themselves, but these men would not be convinced. Lamenting the futility of it all, he reached for his belt.

“Stand down. Let us hear him out.”

A clear voice cut through the tension like a knife. The ranks of the southern soldiers fell aside, and a woman strode through them with her head held high. Kiork’s eyes widened. He had seen her before.

“Lady von Loeing...”

She stopped before him with a soft smile. “A pleasure to see you again, Margrave.”

She was the granddaughter of High General Trye Hlín von Loeing. Her grandfather’s rebellion had brought House Loeing to the brink of collapse, and they had only survived by disavowing him at the first opportunity. Kiork had been monitoring them under the pretext of taking them under his wing, but they had shown no sign of discontent. Indeed, they had sent their only daughter to the central territories to serve as a civil tribune, effectively volunteering her as a hostage. She was perhaps the last person he had expected to see here now.

As Kiork stood in shock, Lady von Loeing turned around to cast her eyes over the southern troops. “I know you grieve for Lord von Muzuk,” she said, “but you cannot let anger cloud your eyes.”

She was too new to her post to have made a name of her own, but none could fail to recognize a high general’s granddaughter, and the rank of Shield of the South still carried weight. The soldiers would listen to her more readily than a margrave they considered a lapdog of the east. Indeed, their tempers had cooled, and they seemed prepared to hear her out. Many of them no doubt still felt indebted to her grandfather.

“An army of monsters is marching on the capital as we speak,” she said, “and they would like nothing better than for us to keep quarreling between ourselves. If we can’t put aside our differences and stand together, there won’t be an empire for us to defend.”

The southern soldiers did not seem appeased, but they could not deny the truth in what she said. No one moved to object.

“Words, not blades, will get us out of this. Let us hear what Margrave von Gurinda has to say.” She lowered her head. “For the sake of the empire’s future, I beg you to set your outrage aside.”

Kiork joined her in a bow. “As do I. All I ask is your ear. If that is not enough, you may have my head.”

The offer was a sincere one. If he could not convince them to stand down, he would not be able to look his niece in the eye. Dying seemed preferable to living with the shame of failure.

“Please, give me the chance to change your minds. That is all I ask.”

He sensed their hostility cooling. Perhaps there was still a chance. He was tempted to feel a sliver of hope, and he had to caution himself not to let his guard down. The empire’s troubles were many. The battle in the central territories was the most prominent, but the fall of Friedhof was a close second. So long as the wall lay open, monsters would pour through, and if Beto’s correspondences were to be believed, High General Hermes had perished in the fighting. Kiork’s heart tightened in his chest. His worries were far from over.

＊＊＊＊＊

“It’s snowing...”

Herma raised a hand and watched a snowflake settle in his palm. It melted, and the water trickled away between his fingers. He looked up at the gathering clouds. They were dark and heavy, affording no sight of clear sky beyond—much like the empire’s future, he thought wryly.

“It’s time,” Phroditus said behind him.

Herma turned to look at his sister. She had always followed him without complaint, and he loved her for that, but he knew it had robbed her of the chance to find a good marriage. She did not seem to mind, but he privately hoped that she would retire to a quieter life once the war was over. The only question was whom she would wed. The only northern house prestigious enough for House Heimdall was House Brommel, and Phroditus would not want to marry into a family of traitors, but she would have no interest in looking south either—a quandary no less daunting than the recapture of Friedhof. It would have to wait, however. There were more pressing matters at hand.

“Very well.” Herma set off after his sister, letting her lead the way to the strategy meeting. “Where is House Brommel?”

“Already here. With their soldiers, we’ll have seventy thousand.”

The siblings had made camp near what remained of Malaren in advance of their ploy to retake the Spirit Wall. With the supplies and troops volunteered by the local nobles, their forces were steadily swelling, but they still did not have the numbers they needed. In Herma’s estimation, purging Friedhof of the occupying monsters and stemming the flow from the Sanctuarium would take the entire combined forces of the north, and even then, it would not be a sure thing.

“Lord von Heimdall!” a soldier called. “I bring word for Lord von Heimdall!”

Herma set his thoughts aside and raised a hand. The soldier sprinted up to him and dropped to one knee.

“My lord, an emissary has arrived from King Surtr of Baum!”

“From Surtr?”

“Yes, my lord. Do you wish to see him?”

“At once. Phroditus, go on ahead. Tell the others I’ll be late.”

“Of course.” Phroditus nodded and left.

Herma turned back to the man. “Show me to this emissary.”

“At once, my lord. Please, this way.”

He followed the man through the camp to a large pile of wooden crates near the entrance. At first, he took them for supplies, but then he noticed the soldier kneeling before it in a formal bow. By the man’s black garb, Herma surmised he was a member of Surtr’s renowned Crow Legion.

“Forgive me, my lord,” the soldier said. “This delivery was meant for High General Hermes, but the monsters barred the way.”

“Let me warn you, if you’ve brought provisions, we already have our fill.”

“These are spirit weapons, my lord.”

Herma’s eyes widened. “Every crate?”

His surprise was understandable. The pile was not small. If each crate contained spirit weapons, Surtr had sent a great number indeed. Herma knew nobles who had bankrupted themselves for a single such blade. Even in the relatively wealthy empire, only the likes of great houses could afford them. A mound of such weapons was almost impossible to imagine.

“Do you speak truly?” he asked finally.

“By all means, see for yourself.”

Herma approached the pile and opened one of the crates. A stash of spirit weapons, each wrought with masterful skill, stared back at him.

He closed the lid again firmly. “My thanks to King Surtr.”

A shiver ran through his body, but he managed not to let it show. He turned back to the soldier who had guided him there. “Send word to my honor guard. They are to guard these with their lives.”

The soldier bowed his head. “At once, my lord.”

“And as for you,” he said, turning back to the Crow Legionnaire, “I’m sure you’re hungry. I’ll see you furnished with dinner and drink. As you can see, we’re strapped for resources, but you’ll have the best we can offer.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the man said.

“No. Thank you.”

Herma realized he was smiling and slapped his cheek, reminding himself to focus. The spirit weapons were a great boon, but they would be worthless unless placed in the hands of people who could use them. A single one was too valuable to waste. He would have to think long and hard about whom to choose. Still, there was no denying they represented a light in the darkness.

“Would you look at that?” he murmured. “The gods might just be on our side after all.”

He glanced up. The snow had lifted, and a single shaft of sunlight shone down through the clouds.

＊＊＊＊＊

The sky had grown dark, and the moon emerged from behind the clouds to shower down its light. Dusk was drawing in. On the western horizon, the sun still struggled against the onset of night, dyeing the land red. The imperial and monstrous armies drew apart in the fading twilight. Bodies littered the ground between them, death in such quantities it left nowhere to stand. Broken swords, shattered spears, and all manner of battlefield debris littered the plain, ready to foil the footing of any who ventured in. The survivors forged through regardless, treading the corpses underfoot as they fell back.

Liz watched in silence from afar, holding her hair down against the wind. She narrowed her eyes at the monsters’ lines.

“All this fighting and they’re still itching for more.”

Monsters were too dim-witted to have morale in the sense that human armies did. They fought more by impulse—they would quail and flee if the tide turned against them, and they would plunge fearlessly into the fray if they saw an opening or were sufficiently provoked. One thing this battle had revealed, however, was that with only a handful of exceptions, they were herd animals. Therein, Liz suspected, lay their weakness—once their cohesion was broken, the human forces would have the upper hand. That was something to discuss further once Aura arrived. She would no doubt be able to turn Liz’s observation into a winning battle plan.

“My lady,” said a voice.

Liz turned to see Meteia.

“I’ve locked him up,” Meteia said. “And I relieved him of this for good measure.”

She held out the Black Camellia. The curious black garment possessed a will of its own, much like the Spiritblade Sovereigns. She had previously explained that, despite its appearance, it was one of the Dragon Lord’s Drakeblades—weapons forged from the corpse of the original Black-Winged Lord. That did not account for its sentience, however.

Liz took the mantle in hand. She could feel in its weight that it contained some strange power.

“It shouldn’t lash out unless Hiro tells it to,” Meteia added, “but keep your guard up, just in case.”

“It’s full of...all sorts.”

Liz could just about make out a mixture of forces within the garment, lurking in the depths of a pitch-black pit, but it was too murky to see clearly. All she could sense with clarity was resentment, so potent it seemed like it would swallow her if she stared into it unguarded.

“I wouldn’t look for too long,” Meteia said, evidently concerned to see it capture her attention. “It’s full to the brim with curses. Darkness has all kinds of faces. Hot and cold, friendly and hostile, foul and fair... Give that thing half a chance, and it’ll take you under its spell and tear your heart in two.”

“I’ll be careful.” Liz gave her a reassuring smile and turned back inside the fort. “Now, I think we’d better hear what Hiro has to say for himself.”

“If you like. Although I wouldn’t say no to some dinner first...”

“Later.”

Meteia laid a hand on her stomach and cocked her head. “Later?”

With a wry smile, Liz opened the door and headed through. She had left a portion of her forces at Fort Kaputo and relocated the rest to Fort Towen some distance away. Fort Kaputo was too small for her purposes and too frail to hold off an assault, while Fort Towen was garrisoned by the First Legion. As its former commander, Liz was more familiar with its capabilities, and she had much more confidence in its defenses.

“I’ve missed this place. Do you remember, Cerberus? How we brought Hiro back here from the forest?”

The air inside the fort felt a little chilly on her skin, but that would not last long. Soon, the place would be heaving with soldiers.

Meteia nodded. “He looked like he was at his wit’s end. Especially when we dragged him with us up the mountains the very next day. When I think of all that happened after, it’s a wonder he even survived.”

“It is. But not everyone was so lucky.”

Out of everyone who had left Fort Towen that day, only Liz, Hiro, and Cerberus now remained. Tris, Dios, and the soldiers who followed them had all been lost to the wars that had consumed Soleil. Liz would always look back fondly on the days they had spent together, but she felt their loss like a weight upon her chest. Every day, she asked herself whether she had become the princess they believed she could be. Every day, she hoped they had not died in vain.

“They’d be proud,” Meteia said. “Tris, Dios, and all the rest. They’d be overjoyed to see who you’ve become.”

“I hope so.” Liz nodded. “But I know some of them won’t be so easily impressed. If I really want to make them proud, I still have work to do.”

They came to the dungeon. The underground cells were under a heavy guard, with sentries positioned to cover Hiro from every angle. Under their watchful gazes sat the black-haired boy.

“How do you like your new accommodations?” Liz asked. “I had them readied specially.”

He lifted his head enough that she could see his face. “Some fresh air would be nice, but I can’t complain. Well, I do remember a friendlier reception last time, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“We’re pushed for space, I’m afraid. Too many soldiers, not enough rooms. And besides, if I didn’t keep you under careful watch, you’d be over the horizon before I even knew you were gone.” Liz unfolded the Black Camellia for Hiro to see. “I took the liberty of confiscating this. Normally, you’d just break right out, but without this, you’re like a bird with your wings clipped.”

“I don’t fly as well as you think, I promise you.” Hiro sighed. “So what are my charges?”

“Disturbing the peace of the empire by inviting Lebering’s armies across the border without imperial leave.”

“Pardon my interruption,” a female voice said, “but I don’t believe that’s quite fair.”

Both Liz and Meteia spun around. Farther down the corridor was a wooden chair, on which sat Queen Claudia van Lebering.

Liz’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, I thought it might make a novel venue in which to take my afternoon tea.” Claudia took a sip from her teacup, smiling blithely all the while. “I’ve been ever so busy lately, and the quiet of the dungeon seemed the perfect place to unwind. But it would be terribly dull with no one to talk to, so Lord Surtr has been kind enough to keep me company. Who can blame him? He has little else to do. It appears someone tied him up.”

She took another dainty sip and continued.

“But to the point, I daresay that our intervention was the best conclusion to the northern unrest you could have hoped for. Had the monsters made for Second Prince Selene’s lands after taking Friedhof, it would only have aided the nobles under the Demiurgos’s thrall. Monsters would now be pouring down from the north unending, and we would not be sitting here enjoying this delightful conversation.”

Claudia flashed one last smile, satisfied she had made her case. For all her provocations, it was hard to fault her logic. Only an external intervention could have saved the north from disaster, and Lebering had been the only party in a position to act. Inviting her across the border had ultimately served the empire’s interests. Now, the rebellion was over, and Claudia had brought them a ready supply of capable officers as prisoners of war, all while luring more northern troops after her in pursuit. Once the allied forces integrated the pursuing forces into their army and reinstalled the captives in positions of command, they would be far better positioned to face the Demiurgos.

“I know,” Liz said. “But Hiro isn’t the fourth prince anymore. He’s a foreign leader. The king of Baum. His actions might have been for the greater good, but they still cost imperial lives. You can’t expect my nobles not to take offense when another nation starts a war on our soil.”

That was why she had made the executive decision to take him into custody. If she could not placate the imperial nobles, their outrage would have distracted them from the battle at hand.

“It seems you have succeeded in talking them down.”

Liz nodded. “And Lebering has my thanks. I will make sure you are well rewarded.”

“Marvelous.” Claudia’s smile took on a hint of amusement. “And now that I have that assurance, I do believe I will take my leave.”

She finished her tea, got to her feet, and walked up the stairs without so much as a glance in Hiro’s direction.

“Well,” Liz said to herself, “that’s ruined the mood.”

She and Hiro had a great deal to discuss, but her time was in high demand. It was hard to find the opportunity to sit down and question him thoroughly. With any luck, Aura’s arrival would take a little weight off her shoulders, and she promised herself they would resume this conversation then.

“I have a strategy meeting to get to,” she told him. “We’ll talk another time.”

Once both Claudia and Liz were gone, Meteia heaved a sigh. Her face betrayed lament and exasperation in equal measure. Still, she was perfectly composed by the time she approached Hiro’s cell.

“Don’t get any funny ideas about escaping,” she said through the bars. “I’ve spun my threads all around your cell. Move so much as a muscle and I’ll know about it.”

“I know what they do. Go on. Go after Liz. I’m sure she could use your help.”

He was as hard to read as ever, but he seemed content to stay put for now, and she had the Black Camellia in her possession. There was surely little he could do even if he wanted to. That said, it couldn’t hurt to press the point.

“Take this chance to rest awhile,” she said. “You’ve been running yourself ragged.”

With that, she followed Liz up the stairs.

Hiro leaned his head back against the wall and stared up into empty space, a rueful smile forming on his lips.

“I’ve rested long enough,” he murmured. “Now I’m just biding my time.”

Chapter 3: The Darkness Stirs

“And these, please, shopkeeper.”

Scáthach held up two fist-sized bread rolls to the man behind the counter. Her arms were laden with vegetable and salad dishes—braised spinach with sesame dressing, broth-boiled potatoes, and a particular imperial delicacy: dried sour plums. Most of the dishes had been brought to the empire by Mars a thousand years ago, and the imperial officers seemed to be hoping they would raise morale before the coming battle. At any rate, the aroma was making her mouth water.

The man blinked. “Ain’t no shopkeeper, miss—just the one who keeps this dining hall running. And no need for my say-so. Take whatever catches your fancy.”

“I fail to see the difference, but...very well. Although, if I may ask, why no meat dishes? Is there a shortage?”

“Lady Vias, miss. She went and carted off all we had. We’re frying up some more in the back if you don’t mind waiting, but it’ll be a little while yet.”

“No, that’s quite all right. I’m not that hungry. That woman’s appetite does astound me, though. I wonder where she puts it all...”

The man looked skeptical for a moment—Scáthach was making off with no fewer plates than Meteia had—but he thought better of saying anything and forced a smile. “It’s a mystery, miss. We’ve had to take some, ah, precautions.”

Scáthach frowned, curious why he was being so indirect, but she quickly saw what he meant. A little to the side stood a sign reading “HIGH GENERAL VIAS WILL NOT BE SERVED.” Apparently, Meteia had earned herself not just a warning, but a permanent ban.

“You banned a high general from your dining hall?”

It was remarkable that they had dared, although the meatless plates attested that they had been left with no choice. Still, Scáthach couldn’t help but wonder if the man was worried about reprisal.

“Had to, miss. Lady Celia Estrella’s orders.”

“I see. Then I suppose you’re in the clear.”

A high general held no sway over a direct order from a member of the royal family. If the two ever clashed, any citizen of the empire ought to know where their loyalties lay—not that that would make it any less uncomfortable to be caught in the middle.

“The best of luck to you,” Scáthach said. “I fear you may need it.”

With plates in hand, she made her way out of the dining hall and down the hallway, nodding to the patrols as she passed. Her steps were light as she descended into the dungeon’s gloom. Heavily armored guards waited at the bottom. She thanked them for their hard work and approached Hiro’s cell.

“It has been a while since we last met, I believe,” she said through the bars.

At her voice, Hiro looked up and smiled wryly. “Eating dinner in the dungeons? I don’t remember you being the type.”

“There’s never any harm in a change of scenery.” Scáthach laid her plates out on the floor and sat down, meeting Hiro’s gaze. The guards moved to fetch her a chair, but she raised a hand. “No, thank you. I’d rather speak as equals. Have you eaten? You should get yourselves some dinner.”

“My lady, we have been charged to—”

“I am capable enough.” She summoned Gáe Bolg and rested it against the bars. “Or do you think a Spiritblade’s chosen cannot keep her eyes on a single prisoner?”

The guards shook their heads furiously. “Of course not, my lady. Thank you for your generosity.”

“Relax. Enjoy yourselves. If anybody questions you, tell them you’re under my orders.”

She dismissed them with a wave of her hand, and they hastened from the dungeon. Once all was quiet, she began to eat.

Hiro looked at her quizzically. “I thought that might have been for me.”

“If you were hungry, you should have told the guards.”

“Don’t worry. I’m still full.”

“I thought as much. Although, as I understand it, you couldn’t eat if you wanted to.”

Hiro was bound in place—not by ropes, but by Meteia’s threads. She had spun them so densely around his cell that the slightest twitch of his arm would set them off, but not a single one touched his skin. Scáthach had to marvel at her precision.

“Come to think of it,” she said, “how are you eating?”

“Meteia brings my meals. It’s the only time she takes these down, although recently I’ve noticed things missing from my plate...”

Scáthach put on her most diplomatic smile. The effects of Meteia’s dining hall ban were wide-reaching indeed, it seemed, and it was easy to imagine Hiro being happy to sacrifice the meat from his plate.

Once her plates were empty, she met his gaze again, her eyes stern. “I have a question for you, if you don’t mind.”

He nodded, seeming to understand what she was getting at, but otherwise did not react. She was grateful for that. It made the question a little less difficult to voice.

“Gáe Bolg has returned to me, but it has not resumed our covenant. You are still its master. What exactly have you done?”

He did not respond as she expected. His smile widened, and his voice took on a hint of amusement. “All will be one.”

She cocked her head. The phrase meant nothing to her. “What exactly are you trying to achieve? Is Gáe Bolg truly mine to use? If you need my help, you have it. I ask only that you explain yourself first.”

The offer was genuine. She owed him more than she could ever repay, and she was willing to do whatever he required if it would go some way toward redressing that debt. Yet he said nothing.

He broke eye contact and looked down for a long moment, visibly conflicted. At last, he seemed to steel himself. “Do you know what the Spiritblade Sovereigns are for?”

Scáthach frowned. “For?”

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you they’re powerful weapons, but there’s more to them than that.”

“Are you saying they have another purpose?” She swallowed hard, awaiting the answer with bated breath.

Hiro nodded. “Excalibur, the Blade of the Beginning, forms the vessel. Mjölnir, the Blade of Might, lends its strength. Gandiva, the Blade of Vitality, amplifies their power. Gáe Bolg, the Blade of Forbearance, seals the curse.”

He reeled off the list like an incantation. His eyes were as cold as ice, and resignation, sorrow, and anger lurked in their depths. His lips imbued the words with emotions beyond description, turning them dark and black like some unholy summons.

Understanding kindled in Scáthach’s eyes. She marshaled her courage and asked, “And Lævateinn?”

“And Lævateinn, the Blade of the End, lays all to waste.” Hiro’s eyes took on a distant look, and regret welled up from within them. “But only when all five are assembled can they unleash their true power.”

“And if they aren’t assembled?”

“Then...this. The last thousand years of history.”

Remorse filled Hiro’s face, as though he were confessing to some grave sin, but he continued nonetheless, as if it were the only path to atonement.

“Once, long ago, a human was born with the power to rival the gods.”

That man had been Leon Welt Artheus von Grantz, the founding emperor of the Grantzian Empire and the first of its Twelve Divines.

“He forged the Spiritblade Sovereigns, thwarted the zlosta, conquered Soleil, and built the greatest empire the world has ever known. But there were powers that even he couldn’t defeat. The Five Lords of Heaven.” Hiro fell silent for a moment. He shook his head, smiling ruefully. “Well, that isn’t quite true. He could have beaten them...if his friend hadn’t made a fatal mistake.”

“He didn’t have Excalibur,” Scáthach said.

Hiro nodded. “The Spiritblade Sovereigns were made to slay the Lords, but without Excalibur, they couldn’t fulfil their purpose. And so the Lords continued to wreak havoc across the land. An age of chaos that continues to this day.”

“Then why not give the rest of the Spiritblades to Lady Celia Estrella? If you lent her Excalibur as you lent me Gáe Bolg, would that not suffice?”

Hiro shook his head weakly. “It’s not that simple. You and Gáe Bolg had a bond, even if I’m its master. That’s why it rejoined you. It doesn’t have that kind of connection to Liz. It wouldn’t do the same for her, even to save her life.”

“And I presume the same holds true for the others.”

Hiro nodded again. “She has to prove herself to them. To show she’s worthy of wielding all five Spiritblades.”

To Gandiva, she would have to demonstrate her purity of heart.

To Mjölnir, her strength of arm.

To Gáe Bolg, her conviction.

To Lævateinn, her passion.

And to Excalibur, her vision for the future.

Scáthach fell silent, cowed a little by the intensity in Hiro’s voice. “It would not be the honorable way, but...can a powerful enough wielder not bend a Spiritblade to their will?”

“Not to use them for their true purpose. Liz might be strong enough to try, but if they didn’t accept her as their master, she’d end up afflicted by four curses at once. I don’t even want to think about how that would end.”

“But if she was strong enough to bear them...”

Scáthach was no longer Gáe Bolg’s chosen, but it had spared her from its curse, and it was just as powerful as it ever was. She had hoped the Spiritblades might show mercy on Liz in the same way, but Hiro did not look optimistic about the possibility.

“It’s only a technicality that she could even try. An unintended by-product of the Spiritblades having wills of their own. Forced servitude isn’t the same thing as loyalty.” Hiro’s shoulders slumped with a tired sigh. “Besides, the curse can pass down to future generations. Liz might not suffer, but there’s no guarantee her children would be so lucky. And it can take all kinds of forms. Someone might not even realize they have it until it’s too late. Even the Spiritblades don’t fully understand how it works. Or at least, they don’t have the capacity to be discerning with it.”

Scáthach frowned. “I understand that you fear this curse. What I don’t understand is why you are so fixated on destroying the Lords of Heaven. Would it not be enough to force them out of mortal affairs?”

Hiro had not said as much in so many words, but it was evident that he was wary of what the Spiritblades might do to Liz. What was less apparent was why he wanted to use them to destroy the Lords of Heaven at all.

“Are you familiar with the twenty-second emperor? The one who forced Lævateinn into his service to save the empire. You might know him as Vulcan, the God of Arms. Tell me, what was his most distinctive feature?”

“His red hair...”

Scáthach trailed off as she realized what Hiro was suggesting. All at once, his reasons became dreadfully clear.

“After I first met Liz, I started looking into the history of the empire. I spent every spare moment reading through every book I could get my hands on...and one of the things I found was that the twenty-second emperor was born as blond-haired and golden-eyed as Artheus.”

Only one thing could have changed his features so: a Spiritblade’s curse.

“That was the price he paid for Lævateinn. His hair and eyes turned bright red, his lifespan shortened, and he passed away young. You can look it up for yourself if you don’t believe me. I’m sure Fort Towen’s study will have the records.”

Scáthach found herself at a loss for words. She could not deny his claim, but neither was she willing to accept it. No suitable reply came to mind. She could only stare.

Hiro continued, indifferent to her shock. “And that was how I discovered the royal family’s darkest secret.”

He outlined to her the darkness within the house of Grantz that had begun to surface in recent years—the rumor that the royal line had been supplanted after the emperor was slain by Orcus three hundred years ago. Its origins were uncertain and its claims were hard to credit, so it had never risen above the level of hearsay.

“But it’s the truth. Liz is the only living royal with a drop of Artheus’s blood in their veins. Over the past three hundred years, the royal family watched the Spiritblades steadily abandon them. And just as the situation started to verge on crisis, Emperor Greiheit made a fateful discovery.”

“Lady Primavera,” Scáthach said. Liz had spoken a little of how her parents met.

Hiro lowered his eyes, his expression unreadable. “That was when I knew beyond all doubt that the curse was alive and well. Liz’s mother also had crimson hair and crimson eyes, and she also died young.”

Officially, the tragedy of the inner palace had been caused by the first empress consort’s madness. Unofficially, the true culprit was Orcus, although Greiheit’s negligence had allowed it to come to pass, and Six Kingdoms had played its own part. A convoluted web had converged about Liz’s mother, conspiring to steal her away at a young age.

“And if the curse remains,” Scáthach whispered, “then next will be...”

Hiro’s mouth twisted bitterly, but he finally nodded. “I doubt she has another decade. She might not even have five years. I don’t know how, or when, or why, but she’ll die young. It’s fate.”

“But she now wields Lævateinn, does she not? Who’s to say the curse has fallen upon her at all? The sin was the twenty-second emperor’s, not hers. Are you not being overcautious?”

“No. It’s passed down to her, no question about it. And like I say, Lævateinn doesn’t have any control over its curse. I doubt even Artheus foresaw something like this happening.”

It only took a glance at Liz’s life so far to see that death hounded her. Time and time again, she had come close to mortal peril, only to escape by some unlikely twist of fate.

“I think Lævateinn has been trying to make things right,” he continued. “It saw that its own curse afflicted the descendant of its old master and took it upon itself to look out for her.”

“And the Spirit King has been watching over her too,” he added softly, but Scáthach was too busy wrestling with what she had already learned, and his voice vanished unheard into the darkness.

A long hush fell. Silence swirled between them. At last, Scáthach spoke.

“If what you say is true...can the curse be broken?”

Hiro smiled broadly. “I’m doing what I can.”

“And what does that entail? Is there any way I can help?”

“All must be one,” he said, flatly and dispassionately, as if stating the most self-evident of truths.

＊＊＊＊＊

Fort Towen’s study was a room of little note. A cheap desk stood in the center, accompanied by a chair of similar quality. Bookshelves lay against all four walls, each packed to the ceiling. The chamber looked to be tidied regularly, but dust still lingered in nooks and crannies—a degree of inattentiveness that was its only remarkable feature, perhaps speaking to the male-dominated nature of the military world. It was not disorderly, nor was it clean, a perfect middle ground that would satisfy no one. It was in this room that Liz sat, eyes closed with a book in hand. A white wolf slumbered protectively at her feet.

The short figure of Treya Verdan Aura von Bunadala appeared in the doorway. “My forces have just arrived,” she announced. “The officers are integrating them into your army as we speak. Is there anything I should know?”

The daughter of House Bunadala of the western territories, Aura had graduated valedictorian from the Imperial Training Academy and become an aide to the Third Legion at a historically young age. She had proceeded to acquit herself in the Faerzen campaign, impressing then-commander Third Prince Brutahl, who had made her his chief strategist. With the promotion under her belt, she had applied her tactical acumen to devise and execute a series of ploys that had claimed Faerzen’s territory at lightning speed. Overjoyed with her success and the victory she had secured for the empire, Third Prince Brutahl had christened her the Warmaiden, a name taken directly from Mars’s moniker of the War God. Her talents were so indisputable that she had distinguished herself among the traditionally masculine military. Now, she put them to use as chief strategist to Liz, the heir apparent to the throne.

“Liz?” Seeing that the princess did not respond, Aura stepped closer and gave her shoulder a shake. “Liz? Are you sleeping?”

Liz’s eyes opened. “I’m awake.”

Her voice was calm, and she did not seem startled by the interruption. If anything, it was Aura who was surprised, jumping a good two paces back. The stack of books on the desk wobbled as she landed. She saw the danger, but it was too late—the pile crashed to the floor, sending books everywhere. Cerberus looked around in alarm, startled awake by the noise.

“Sorry I startled you.” Liz pinched between her eyebrows. “I was just using my eyes a little...”

“As long as you don’t tire yourself out.” Aura picked up a fallen book. “It’s not like you to read this much. What’s got you so interested in imperial history?”

Both the books on the floor and the one in Liz’s hand were on the subject of the royal family. Liz might have had royal blood, but she had never held her family history in high regard. She considered her father a contemptible warmonger whose absence had caused her mother’s death, and while she did not blame the previous generations of expansionist emperors for his sins, the association had hardly endeared them to her.

“I thought it was time I learned a little about my ancestors. Better late than never, don’t you think?”

“Then I recommend the Black Chronicle. The history of the empire begins and ends with Mars.”

“I’ve already read it to death, don’t worry.” Liz saw Aura reach for her pockets and hurriedly headed her off. “Anyway, I’m sure that’s not why you’re here.”

Aura nodded. “I had some questions about merging our forces. And I wanted to speak to Meteia too.”

Liz breathed a private sigh of relief at successfully redirecting the conversation, but she tried to maintain a neutral expression as she gestured to Cerberus. “Be my guest. She’s right here.”

The white wolf yawned widely, her round eyes piercing through Aura.

Aura cocked her head, turning to Liz with no small amount of hesitation. “Do you need a moment to wake up?”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s Cerberus.”

At last, Liz noticed that Meteia had reverted form. “Right. Um... Where to start? Cerberus, do you think you could turn back for me?”

The white wolf shook her head. Liz considered trying to explain the matter away, but it seemed easier in the long term just to tell Aura the truth. She launched into an explanation of Cerberus’s true identity, leaving it up to Aura to decide whether or not to believe her.

Once she was done, Aura nodded. “I see. Well, I don’t. But I understood what you said.” Her face was as blank as ever, giving no clues as to how much she believed, but she sounded at least half credulous. “I’ll ask Meteia once she turns back.”

“You could just wait a moment. She won’t be long.”

Cerberus nuzzled Aura’s leg apologetically.

“All right.” Aura reached down to scratch the white wolf’s head and nodded before looking searchingly around the room. “Where’s Hiro?”

“In the dungeon. I didn’t want him running off. He doesn’t figure in our plans anymore, and there’s no telling what he could do if we left him to his own devices.”

“We need every advantage we can get,” Aura said. “Someone like him on the front line could make all the difference. I wouldn’t ask, but it’s important. Will you consider letting him fight?”

“I wasn’t going to bring this up, but...maybe it’s better not to keep you in the dark.”

Liz pursed her lips and pressed a finger to her forehead, muttering under her breath as she gathered her thoughts. Aura peered at her curiously but remained content to watch, stroking Cerberus’s cheek while she waited.

Finally, Liz took a deep breath. “If I told you Hiro wasn’t really from this world, if he was someone from the distant past...would you believe me?”

“Anyone else, no. But him... He’s always been suspicious.”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

While not fully believing, Aura seemed surprisingly open to the truth. Liz slumped, the wind taken out of her sails. All her anxiety had been for nothing.

“I always had my suspicions. He tries to keep it a secret, but when you look at everything around him, at Orcus, at his fixation on Six Kingdoms, at the way so many people treat him... It’s not hard to guess.”

“All right. Then I’ll get to the point. Maybe you’ve noticed yourself, but...”

Liz broke off, casting a glance at Cerberus as if awaiting permission to continue. Aura’s brows pulled every so slightly together.

“Meteia says he hasn’t aged since a thousand years ago.”

“He hasn’t aged?”

Liz nodded. “I could hardly believe it myself, but...well, it’s the truth.”

The Demiurgos had intended for Hiro to serve as a vessel for Surtr, fashioning him into a fiend so that his flesh would be strong enough to contain a Lord’s power. Yet his plan had failed to come to fruition. Instead of becoming a vessel, Hiro had consumed Surtr himself. Immortal and equipped with the right of Lordship, he had avenged himself upon the zlosta, using his unstoppable power to lay waste to the Demiurgos’s ambitions. Thereafter, he had returned to his own world, only to be summoned back to Aletia by the Spirit King a thousand years later.

“But Meteia and I have been wondering...was it really the Spirit King that called him back?”

Aura frowned. “Who else could it have been?”

“There’s no way to know for sure, but I think it might have been the Demiurgos.”

The Demiurgos had fathered the zlosta, spawned fiends, unleashed the archons, and elevated the latter into yaldabaoth. Over the course of a thousand long years, he had founded Orcus and used them to undermine the Grantzian Empire. While his ultimate objective remained uncertain, it seemed to involve establishing dominion over Soleil—and now that his plans were approaching completion, he had called Hiro back to this world.

“I think he wants a new vessel.”

Liz’s battle with the Demiurgos had been brief, but it had been enough to see that his body did not meet his needs. Either it was too weak to contain him or simply fundamentally incompatible, but he had been unable to fully repair the arm she had severed.

“Orcus has been after Hiro ever since he returned. Lucia told me they came for his body three years ago.”

The corpse had been a decoy, intended to disguise Hiro’s escape, but that had not deterred Orcus. Indeed, they had hounded him since the moment he first arrived in Aletia, even as they used Stovell and others to fulfill their wider ambitions. With the benefit of hindsight, it looked an awful lot like they had been trying to test him, to forge him by fire into the perfect vessel for the Demiurgos. Certainly, there now appeared to be no one better to serve that role.

“That’s why I’m locking him up,” Liz concluded. “I can’t let them fight.”

Aura had been nodding along in silence, but she looked up at that. “That makes sense. If you’re right, it’s safer to keep them apart.”

“That was my thinking,” Liz said. “And Meteia tells me that the Lords lost their original vessels a thousand years ago. The Demiurgos might be immortal, but he hasn’t been at full strength for centuries.”

That was to say, they could defeat him with the forces they had on hand.

Aura seemed mostly convinced, but she cocked her head. “So losing their original vessels made the Lords weaker. All right. But isn’t Hiro a Lord now? Doesn’t he need a vessel too?”

Liz went to reply, but before she could...

“I can answer that.”

Before either could so much as squeak in surprise, a dazzling light filled the room. They closed their eyes against its glare. Gradually, the light subsided. They opened their eyes again to see a nude woman standing with her hands on her hips, seemingly unashamed of her nakedness.

“Hiro has—”

Liz’s fist extended in front of Meteia, clutching a cloak. Meteia glared back, annoyed to have been interrupted, but her eyes quickly softened, and her ears flattened against her head.

“Put some clothes on,” Liz said. “Then we can talk.”

Her eyes would not take no for an answer. Meteia nodded meekly and donned the cloak.

“I realize it’s just us three here,” Liz continued, “but that’s no excuse to be shameless.”

“I know, I know. Wolves don’t need clothes, that’s all. It’s easy to forget.”

Meteia was no exhibitionist, but she had spent so long in her canine form that clothing had begun to grate on her. It enclosed her in a way that felt oppressive, clinging to her skin and chafing unpleasantly when she moved.

“Very well, I’m dressed. May I continue?”

“By all means.”

Meteia sat down in a nearby chair and crossed her legs. Liz and Aura had to smile at how cowed she seemed, but they listened without further complaint.

“By all rights, Hiro would deteriorate just like any other Lord, but he’s found a way to avoid that. True immortality, with no need for a vessel.”

“True immortality...” Aura repeated under her breath. Those words rarely portended anything good. Aletia’s history was full of rich and powerful individuals who had sought the same thing, only to resort to dubious arts and drink strange elixirs that led them to wretched ends. They had not feared death, but rather sought to preserve their worldly wealth—a temptation that led others down the same doomed path to this day.

“Becoming a fiend made him immortal in a sense, even if it cost him his humanity. And absorbing Surtr’s strength gave him incredible power.”

Afterward, Hiro had taken to the battlefield as if possessed, seeking greater strength. His comrades had feared that he was bound for disaster, but they had hesitated to intervene. It was an open secret that he was driven by the hope of saving the first archpriestess, Rey.

“As Rey’s condition deteriorated, he grew more and more desperate. He started experimenting on himself, using the immortality he had to infuse himself with curses.”

And yet, in the end, he had failed. Rey had died, slain by the Demiurgos’s hand.

“I remember it as though it was yesterday. It was raining hard that day. The two of us were fighting elsewhere when word came that her castle had come under attack.”

Rey had been recuperating in a place deep in allied territory, in a fort with no strategic value. The zlosta had struck knowing they would not survive. Numerically, the battle had been an overwhelming human victory, but their aim had been to drive Hiro to despair.

“I followed him as fast as I could, but I was too late. By the time I got there, he was weeping over her corpse.”

Beneath the driving rain, he had cried his hatred to the world. Until the last, he had clung to hope, praying to the heavens for some kind of salvation, but as Rey’s body cooled in his arms, his heart broke forever.

“And he gave her corpse to the Black Camellia. So she could never be used as a vessel.”

Liz’s ears pricked up. “She was a vessel?”

“For the Faerie King. Just as, I am told, Artheus was a vessel for the Spirit King.” Meteia paused to take a sip of water. All the talking seemed to have dried her throat. “After that, he lived for vengeance. He hunted down the primozlosta, plucked out their manastones, and cut the head off the Demiurgos’s body.”

And it had turned out that after absorbing such a variety of curses, Hiro no longer needed a vessel of his own.

“But they’ve made him...thin. Like he’s teetering on the edge of nonexistence. And the balance could tip at any time. That’s why it would be unwise to let him fight the Demiurgos.”

No one could predict what might happen if he did. If they wanted to save him, they would first have to force the Demiurgos back into hiding. Only then could they concentrate on unraveling the curses within Hiro, hopefully before his body failed.

“His time is limited,” Meteia said, “but it is not a matter of days. There will be time to attend to him after we deal with our more pressing problems.”

“That’s good to hear,” Liz said. “I just hope he stays put in the meantime.”

“He would not if he could help it. That’s why I relieved him of the Black Camellia.”

“He shouldn’t be able to pull anything with Scáthach on watch, but we shouldn’t let our guard down.”

“I’ll visit him later,” Aura said.

“Good idea.” Liz smiled. “Do tell him off for me while you’re there. It might get through if it comes from you.”

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. The trio turned as one.

“It’s Garda,” said a gruff voice from outside. “I think we should talk.”

＊＊＊＊＊

“Lady Aura has arrived, or so I have heard.” Scáthach’s shoulders shook as she stifled a giggle. “I can only imagine what she will say about your present embarrassment.”

Hiro could only smile ruefully. After all, he had no one to blame for getting locked in the dungeon but himself.

The guards returned from the dining hall, and they looked scandalized by Scáthach’s amusement. In the eyes of those who worshipped the Spirit King, laughing at the king of Baum bordered on blasphemy. She was still their superior, however, so they had no choice but to stand back and watch the exchange unfold.

“You’ll be lucky if she doesn’t beat you silly with the Black Chronicle. Let me warn you, it’s surprisingly heavy.”

“She wouldn’t use that as a weapon.”

“She might if she was angry enough. Then she’d make you read it cover to cover and write an essay before the sun was up.”

“I shudder at the thought.”

Aura’s love for Mars was intense to say the least. She would no doubt thrust the Black Chronicle under Hiro’s nose the moment she saw him. Scáthach sensed more amusement in her future.

Unfortunately, the tide of history had not released its hold on Hiro just yet.

“Never mind,” he said, gaze shifting past her shoulder to something behind her. His relaxed demeanor was nowhere to be seen. “I don’t think she’ll have the chance.”

Seeing the change in his face, Scáthach realized an intruder had entered the dungeon. She spun, calling Gáe Bolg to her hand.

“Identify yourse—”

She slammed into the ground as if struck. The guards flew backward, crashing into the walls. In an instant, the corridor was filled with unconscious bodies—an uncanny sight, at the center of which stood an even more uncanny figure.

“Finally, you show yourself,” Hiro said. “Took you long enough.”

The perpetrator was a young girl of fewer than ten years. In her hand rested a crimson flower known as an anat, a rare blossom that grew only in the north.

“Why did you not heed my advice?”

She spoke with the hoarse voice of an old man, or perhaps of an old woman—it was curiously androgynous. Ignoring one’s ears, she seemed every bit a delicate young girl, but ignoring one’s eyes, she seemed something else entirely; an unsettling disparity. Hiro, however, was unperturbed. Not only did he know her, he had been waiting for her arrival for a long time.

“It’s been too long, Spirit King. Where have you been hiding?”

The girl lodged the lotus-like anat in the bars of his cell. “You ignore the question. Why did you not do as I asked? I warned you of the consequences countless times.”

Hiro snorted at the Spirit King’s arrogance. A provocative grin took root on his face. “And end up with the Lords fighting for control of Aletia a second time? Not a chance. You would have undone everything we fought for. You shouldn’t be surprised that I headed you off.”

“Perhaps not.”

The Spirit King’s voice was dreadfully empty, devoid of joy, sorrow, or anything else. Even Hiro almost questioned whether the entity before him really existed at all. Yet that was the way of the Lords of Heaven—they regarded the world with doll-like impassivity, never showing emotion, acting as if all the world was an open book to them. The one exception was Surtr. If anything, he had been too forthright with his feelings. But the rest of his brethren followed the habit of the Spirit King, displaying no interest in others, pursuing their own desires to their exclusion of all else, harboring no mercy even for their own siblings. In their eyes, the people of Aletia were nothing more than toys, and fragile ones at that.

The Spirit King held a black mantle through the bars. “Put it on.”

“Why?” Hiro paused. “Actually, how did you get that?”

The Black Camellia had been in Liz’s keeping. It was hard to believe the Spirit King could have stolen it from her. Even a Lord would not have emerged from that confrontation unscathed.

“Do you think it beyond me to fetch an unattended item from an empty room?”

She made the task sound far easier than it was. Then again, a Lord would have the advantage of being invisible to Liz’s Far Sight, and it was doubtful anyone on watch was equipped to detect the Spirit King’s power.

“If you give me that back,” Hiro said, “you know what I’ll do.”

The Spirit King nodded. She was undoubtedly plotting something, but whatever it was, he could not read it. He narrowed his eyes, but she only tossed the Black Camellia into the cell.

“Do as you will.”

“Excuse me?” Hiro cocked his head. It almost sounded like she was conceding, but that was absurd. She still had cards to play. It was all too obvious this was a trap.

“I will not disgrace myself with futile resistance. And more to the point, the future you will bring is the one I desire.”

Was she lying or telling the truth? It was impossible to tell beneath her haughtiness. Hiro had always disliked that about her. He had never managed to provoke jealousy, hatred, or anger from her, no matter how much he tried to goad her. She was as impassive when her plans failed as when they succeeded, always working mechanically toward her goals, making and disposing of enemies and allies alike as necessary to adjust her plans. Out of all the Lords, she was perhaps the most relentless.

“How magnificently you surpass my expectations. Perhaps that is why I can concede with grace.”

Her praise sounded sincere. It did not seem to be for Hiro, however, but rather for someone else who was not there.

“I repeat, do as you will. I lost this contest a thousand years ago.”

She passed through the bars and approached him, holding out her hand.

“But do not forget that all dance in his palm.”

In her palm rested her core, a Lord’s only weakness. Hiro regarded it warily but took it nonetheless.

“The Demiurgos won’t have his way,” he said. “I won’t give up as easily as you did.”

A dazzling light spilled from the core. It grew blinding to look at, brilliant enough to set the world aflame—and for just an instant, it banished the darkness.

＊＊＊＊＊

“Please, come in,” Liz said.

The door opened to reveal the burly, lilac-skinned figure of the zlosta Garda Meteor. After a fateful meeting with a slave girl, he had once roused a slave rebellion in Lichtein, only to be defeated in battle by Hiro and the armies of the empire. In exchange for that girl’s safety, he had sworn Hiro his loyalty.

“My thanks,” he said, stepping inside.

“You aren’t usually the type to listen at doors.”

Garda rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. “Forgive me. Eavesdropping was not my intention.”

Indeed, he was not at fault. Liz had called for him and he had duly complied. She had not foreseen that she would be discussing Hiro with Aura when he arrived, or that their conversation had caught his ear. Nonetheless, he had overheard something he was not meant to know. He lowered his head in unreserved apology.

“It’s all right. I was planning to tell you anyway.” Liz looked over his shoulder. “And the other three too.”

“I appreciate that, but...” Garda trailed off and looked back, frowning. The noise behind him had gotten too loud to ignore.

“I knew I should have killed him when I had the chance!” Luka hissed.

A teary-eyed Huginn held her in an armlock, trying desperately to calm her down. “This is why you’re barred from the dungeon, Miss Luka! You can’t keep saying that or they’ll never let you near him!”

Muninn, the third member of the trio, lay groaning on the floor, rubbing a fist-shaped welt on his cheek.

For all Luka’s anger, she looked a little calmer than she had during the battle. Learning the truth of Hiro’s situation seemed to have neutralized some of her bile. She was still in a spitting rage, but there was an edge of sadness to it now.

Garda gave a long-suffering sigh. “At any rate, we heard what we heard. Although by the sounds of it, you called us here to tell us just that.”

Liz nodded. “That’s right. Seeing as the cat’s out of the bag, we might as well make sure we’re on the same page. Did Hiro tell you anything I should know?”

Garda started to have an inkling that Liz had orchestrated the whole thing, from barring him and his subordinates from visiting Hiro to calling them here just in time to overhear the truth. More to the point, she knew him well enough to realize he never left a debt unpaid. No doubt she was fully aware he would not refuse her request.

“As you wish. But on one condition.”

“And what’s that?”

“If you mean to save the One-Eyed Dragon, I would join you once I have divulged what I know.”

“All right. If it helps, I was going to ask you anyway.” Liz couldn’t resist a smile. Garda was loyal to a fault. He had good reason, of course—he owed Hiro more than he could ever repay. Hiro had saved his life, ensured Mille’s safety, and given his comrades a place to belong. Most of the Liberation Army owed Hiro the same debt, Huginn and Muninn included—even Luka, in a way, although she hailed from Six Kingdoms. The Crow Legion had given the abandoned and rejected somewhere to call home.

“Then we have a deal,” Garda said, still looking a little conflicted. When all was said and done, he was betraying his liege’s trust. Still, Hiro would have understood, and he would have respected Garda’s wishes.

“The One-Eyed Dragon told me he sought forgiveness.”

Liz frowned. “Forgiveness?”

“He blames himself for all that has transpired. Every calamity that has befallen the royal family for the past thousand years, he said, was his doing.”

“And why is that?” Liz leaned in, her eyes gleaming. At long last, she was close to learning just what was driving Hiro to such lengths.

“All began with the Spiritblade Sovereigns—”

Garda broke off, staggering on his feet. It was not just him. All of Fort Towen was shaking violently. The tremors did not last long. As they subsided, Liz sprang to her feet, her face pale.

Meteia narrowed her eyes. “My threads have broken, my lady!”

“Understood!”

Liz burst through the door and hurtled down the hallway, sprinting as fast as her legs would carry her. She bit her lip as she ran, unable to shake the feeling that she was already too late.

＊＊＊＊＊

As the shaking died down, Claudia stepped out of her quarters to find the hallway filled with panicked soldiers. She shut the door behind her and turned a dispassionate gaze toward the clamor. More imperial troops vanished into the dark as she watched, the zeal of their voices heating the air.

Seeing her fascinated, her chamber guards—both soldiers of Lebering—stepped forward protectively. “Are we under attack, Your Majesty?”

“I must assume so. By a sizable force, if that shaking was anything to go by. But if so, one would expect all the noise to be coming from outside, and yet...”

One voice fell silent, then another and another. Sparks flared in the gloom, and the shouting and the clatter of armor grew a little quieter with every burst of light. Soldiers groaned in the distance. The clashing of steel rang in her ears. Her guards moved forward to shield her, but she could see they were trembling.

“Your Majesty, you must run.”

They were by no means cowards. If anything, it was because they were seasoned warriors that they could sense they were outmatched. Some unknown creature lurked in the dark, a monster against which they stood no chance.

Eventually, Hiro appeared at the far end of the corridor, holding a blade blacker than night. The guards bellowed battle cries and charged. They gritted their teeth as they ran, gripping their swords for dear life.

Hiro raised a hand in a nonchalant wave. “Why, Claudia. Fancy meeting you here.”

He split one soldier’s helmet with the hilt of his sword, then planted his left leg on the floor, spun at the waist, and drove his heel into the other’s neck. The first man went down like a sack of dirt, knocked clean unconscious. The second crashed into the wall face-first and tumbled to the floor, where he lay motionless. He, too, was out like a light.

“Lord Surtr. How you love to make an entrance.” Claudia arched an eyebrow. “Did you show the same mercy to the others?”

“What do you take me for?” Hiro sounded almost amused. “They’ll all come to soon enough.”

Grunts of pain and the faint rustling of armor issued from the darkness. It sounded like he was telling the truth.

Seeing that many seasoned warriors had failed to stop him, a question took root in Claudia’s mind. When he charged alone into the Demiurgos’s horde, had he truly been fighting his hardest? Monsters were sturdier than humans, that much was true, but something still didn’t seem right. The more she thought about it, the more she became convinced his supposed defeat had been a planned performance.

She regarded him with a stony gaze. “Why did you let them live?”

Hiro gave an irreverent shrug. “Things being how they are, I figure the empire could use every soldier it can get.”

“What exactly are you planning?”

“To make all one.”

He spoke in cryptic words, took absurd actions, and followed unclear principles, making it impossible to understand what he was trying to achieve. That was a rare thing. Usually, determining where someone was going was as simple as looking at the path they walked. Most people’s paths were well-worn and led to predictable places. Every person who had ever been or would be walked in the footsteps of the past, along roads that had been paved long ago, preceded at every step by those who had come before. Yet Hiro no longer followed any path. He laid his own, stone by stone, untrodden by any other and leading to lands unknown.

Claudia could not see the road he walked, so she could not understand what he sought to achieve. She had more questions than she could have ever hoped to ask, even under less pressing circumstances. She paused, uncertain what to say. Hiro, for his part, seemed to judge she was not a threat. He strode past her and down the corridor, almost vanishing into the darkness before she hurried after him.

“And where do you think you’re going? Sometimes I’d swear you don’t even hear me.”

“If you have questions for me, I’d appreciate it if you’d make them quick.”

Even as he spoke, he knocked another guard unconscious. Everyone who stood in his way dropped like a rock. The show of prowess would have broken most mortal men’s spirits before they even drew their swords, but the hardened soldiers of the Grantzian Empire still tried to do their duty, flinging themselves at him in hopeless resistance. Claudia did not see their actions as foolhardy. The underdog always won in bedtime stories. Fortune favored the bold, and very rarely, it made them legends.

The noise of Hiro’s escape was attracting more and more attention. Anyone else would have started to hurry, but his pace remained unchanged as he methodically struck down the guards in his way. As long as he engaged only a handful of opponents at a time, they couldn’t even slow him down. Claudia’s suspicions intensified. Surely that held true for monsters as well as men. Why, then, had he charged straight for the Demiurgos, seemingly passing through every monster he could? If he had engaged them piecemeal as he was doing now, he could easily have emerged unscathed, at the cost of only a little time.

“So you can do this, but you could not take the Demiurgos’s head?” she asked. “How very curious.”

She pressed him a little, trying to divine his true intentions. If she was right, if he did seek a truly new horizon, it would be in her interests to beat him to the punch. She was a ruler herself, and rulers thrived on renown.

“I could have killed him there and then,” Hiro said, “if I’d been willing to make certain sacrifices. But that would have defeated the purpose.”

“How so? The war would have ended, and you would have been victorious.”

Claudia had expected the battle to conclude with the Crimson Princess arriving just in time to clean up after her triumph, and for Lebering to be richly rewarded for standing by the empire in its hour of need. The situation had taken several unexpected turns since then, of which this was only the latest. The path she had thought she was walking no longer existed. Now, she felt like she was lost in a dark forest, blind to where she was going. All she knew was that the boy before her pulled her ever onward.

“And that is to say nothing of how you deployed your forces,” she continued. “You held them back, minimizing their losses...almost as if you knew what would happen. Almost as if you meant for the monsters to prevail.”

“War is such a strange thing, don’t you think?”

Claudia frowned, irritated at being ignored, but Hiro only continued blithely.

“Once war breaks out, someone has to win, and someone has to lose. Someone has to smile, and someone has to weep.”

“But of course. Why else would wars be fought? Victory brings spoils and defeat brings ruin. Forgive me, but this all seems very obvious.”

“Of course it does. No one ever questions it, even when they’re the ones fighting. They always think the war started with them.”

Claudia stopped. Her face filled with surprise. Anyone else would have taken Hiro’s words as an offhand remark, but she had glimpsed the terrible truth hidden within, and it cast him as fearsome indeed.

“Then when...?” Her voice cracked. Belatedly, she realized Hiro was still walking and hurried to catch up. “When did this war start?”

He lifted a hand, index finger pointedly extended. “A while ago.”

Claudia’s breath caught. Her eyes widened as if she had glimpsed some monster in the dark.

“The Lords of Heaven, the nations of Soleil... They’re all dancing in the palm of my hand.”

Her heart refused to believe it. It did not want to accept that a human being might be capable of such a thing. In the first place, how long was “a while ago”? When he became the fourth prince? When he had first begun to win renown? For how long, exactly, had he been planning this?

“Once you know what someone wants, it’s child’s play to stop them. Simply lay traps along their way with one hand and coax them along with the other, over and over, all while you prepare an ambush at their final destination.”

He made that sound like the simplest thing in the world, but to Claudia, what he was suggesting seemed impossible. Manipulating the entire world was too great a task for anyone. Too many elements would resist his control. If anyone truly could steer all of Aletia as they desired, thwarting every competing plot or scheme, they would not be a mortal man, but a god.

“Even the Lords of Heaven, you said?”

“All of them.” The firmness in Hiro’s voice left no room for doubt. “All in my palm.”

Claudia stared. Soon enough, she began to giggle. “Ha ha... Ha ha ha ha ha! What fun you must have had.”

Her laughter was not belittlement but praise—that, and genuine amusement that she had unwittingly been counted among the dancing fools.

“But this I will not accept.”

If he expected her to sit meekly and listen as he claimed the past few years of her life had been a farce, he was wrong. He had left her no choice but to spit in his eye. Somebody needed to teach him a lesson.

“I suppose you can guess what I mean to do next,” she said.

“But of course,” Hiro replied. “Anyone could sense you itching to cut off my head.”

“Tell me, do these plans of yours account for me taking you captive?”

He shrugged. “Don’t worry. I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

He opened the door to the outside. The central courtyard was awash with moonlight, but another light commanded the space, harsher and more fierce: the wavering red glow of hundreds of torches glinting dully off the blades of Lebering soldiers. The troops stared back at Hiro with stony faces. Behind him, Claudia stepped into the light, and zeal filled them as they caught sight of their monarch.

“Can you escape me and my finest?”

All at once, her hand held the blade of Lox van Lebering: the Fiendblade Asura, known to herself and her people as Hauteclaire. Her smile never faltered, but cold hostility flared in her eyes. She drove the blade toward him without a flicker of hesitation.

“Black Camellia, if you would.” Hiro patted his chest and his black mantle writhed like a living thing, billowing out to intercept the thrust. Darkness began to twine around the blade.

Sensing danger, Claudia sprang back. “Well. You won’t complain about being outnumbered, I trust.” She raised a hand and swung it down. “Forward! Show him no mercy!”

With a roar, the soldiers surged toward Hiro. With a sudden gust, Hiro was gone, sprinting toward the oncoming host. As he made contact with the front line, he cracked a soldier beneath the chin with the heel of his hand, knocking the man’s legs from under him and sending him sprawling. He leaped onto the fallen body and kicked a second soldier off his feet. As he landed, he planted his right hand on the ground and swept the legs of a half dozen more, then let his momentum carry him up into a spinning handstand. His feet knocked off helmets, struck faces, and broke noses. Groans of pain filled the air.

As he landed back on his feet, a soldier charged at him, sword raised. Hiro sank into a wide stance and lashed out with his elbow. The man flew back, his breastplate crumpled in. Hesitation rippled through the ranks. Hiro took his chance. He pounced on one man, grabbed him across the face, and slammed him into the ground, grasped another’s arm and flung him into the air, then struck a third in the throat and jumped onto his back as he doubled over, knocking down the soldiers behind with a spinning kick.

He slipped through the crowd like a breath of wind, neutralizing them down one by one. They stood no chance against his agility. He fought only with hands and feet, and still they could not lay a finger on him. The humiliation wounded their pride and stoked their anger, impeding their ability to think rationally and goading them into reckless actions.

“Clear the way!” Claudia barked.

Her soldiers fell back at the sound of her voice, parting to either side to let her through. As heated as they had grown, they were still alert to orders from their queen—either that, or their obedience was simply ingrained. In any case, they left her with a clear path to Hiro. She thrust Hauteclaire into the ground. Glacial mist raced toward Hiro, freezing the earth as it came.

“Too slow.” Hiro stomped down hard. The ice shattered into countless shards, tiny crystals spinning through the air that were soon snatched away by the wind.

Claudia scowled and broke into a run, hefting her greatsword high with ease. Hiro preempted her vertical slash, grasping the hilt before she could swing down. She unleashed a front kick, but he batted her leg aside and released the sword. Her center of gravity pitched forward. As she stumbled toward him, he laid one hand on her stomach and grasped her right leg with the other, flipping her into the air.

She caught herself before she crashed down and spun back into a fighting stance, sweeping the courtyard with a hawkish gaze. Hiro was nowhere to be seen. Her soldiers were also looking around in confusion. They seemed as bewildered as she was.

She cast out her senses, trying to track him down. It only took a moment to locate the tangible power radiating from the battlements. Hiro looked down on them with the moon at his back, his black mantle billowing like so many tentacles, his golden eyes shining in the dark.

“Running like a coward?” she asked.

“But of course.” He seemed to see no shame in the admission. “I wouldn’t rate my chances if I stayed.”

His eyes flicked to the front door of the fort, where a shock of crimson hair burned in the night—the scarlet mark of the sixth princess of the empire, undimmed by the darkness, casting back the gloom. She saw him atop the battlements and stepped forward, her mouth opening and closing uncertainly.

“Where are you going?” she asked at last.

“You’ve done everything I ever could have asked of you.”

He spread his arms wide and gazed up at the moon before looking back down at Liz with a soft smile. There was neither calculation nor malice in his face. Unaccountably, his eyes were pure, tender, and earnest.

“Now it’s time for me to return the favor.”

With that, he toppled backward and fell away into the night.

＊＊＊＊＊

Deep within the cool air of the forest, ringed by densely growing trees, lay an unnatural clearing. A gentle wind shook the boughs, sending emerald leaves fluttering down to rest upon the spring. Ripples spread out and faded away as they touched the water. Flowers of every hue bloomed around the banks, and shafts of silver light shone down where the canopy gave way to the night sky and the half-moon.

A young man stepped into the clearing. He was fair of feature, with a smile that would have made many a maiden swoon—that was, if their instincts did not compel them to flee first. He emanated hostility, radiated power to such an oppressive degree that almost anyone would turn and run.

His eyes gleamed gold as he gazed at the statues of Mars and Zertheus that flanked the spring—or, more precisely, at the empty space between them. To see the intensity in his eyes, one might almost have believed there was something there.

“And so the Spirit King falls to the usurper,” he murmured. “Now only I remain.”

Any semblance of sorrow in his words was hollow. There was no emotion in them at all; no grief, no regret, no anger.

“Finally, my siblings, our contest draws to a close.”

They had been five since the dawn of creation. Now, only he was left. Yet he did not feel especially sentimental about that fact. After all, it was he—the Demiurgos—who was responsible for most of their deaths.

“So long it lasted. A thousand years, to say nothing of the many that passed before. Too many for even a Lord’s memory.”

His voice echoed in the midnight forest as if addressing another, but only the chirruping of insects replied. No one answered him. He knew better than anyone that there was no one left who could...and he could not resist speaking aloud what that solitude signified.

“Victory is mine.”

At that moment, he heard a rustling of grass. Whatever uncouth individual had intruded upon this moment seemed to have no intention of concealing their presence. They approached with a steady stride, making no attempt to suppress their breathing, making no secret of their intent to kill. The Demiurgos turned to face them.

“My Lord. Our Father. I have a question for you.”

Before him stood one of the primozlosta, the zlosta sovereigns who had suffered such a humiliating defeat at the hands of the War God a thousand years ago. Stripped of the manastones that had been the source of their power, they were now little more than helpless children. The Demiurgos had lost interest in them after their failure. No more did he praise them for their work or console them for their losses. They were pawns to him, tools to carry out his orders. Despite his indifference, they had followed him faithfully, but now the twelve had been reduced to two.

“Why have you come here, Khimaira? I asked for no escort.” The Demiurgos turned away from his pitiful child, his attention drawn by a ripple in the spring.

Khimaira’s lips twisted to be disdained yet again. “My Lord...is defeating Mars truly your goal?”

“A foolish question.” The Demiurgos gave a scornful chuckle. “Do not waste my time with such nonsense.”

He glanced back over his shoulder. At that moment, something struck him, forcing him to one knee. He watched detachedly as his own arm sailed through the air. At last, he looked back down at his assailant.

“What is the meaning of this, Khimaira?”

Even this surprise attack—even this betrayal—could not draw anger from him. He regarded the traitor in silence, his eyes as empty as they had ever been. Khimaira fell back, his courage faltering. The Demiurgos stood back up, his arm knitting back together, although the regeneration was incomplete, leaving the flesh sloughing from the bone.

“You have only yourself to blame!” the primozlosta protested.

“And why is that?”

“We called you Father! We worshipped you! For a thousand years, we obeyed your every order! And yet you give us not a word of thanks for our loyalty! You have no tears to offer for my fallen kin, only insults and scorn! What father would treat his children so?!”

If Khimaira was capable of crying, tears would have been rolling down his cheeks. Yet with his eyes plucked out, he had no such capacity, leaving only the tremble in his voice to express his rage.

“What pettiness.” The Demiurgos’s voice fell like a blade. “I am a Lord. Nigh unto a god. All this world’s creatures are my children, and my playthings to use as I please.”

“Even us?!” Khimaira forced out between wordless sobs. “Even we twelve who swore loyalty upon our lives?!”

“Of course.” The Demiurgos sounded almost contemptuous.

“Then die! You are no Lord of mine!”

Khimaira’s hesitation vanished. He lunged for the Demiurgos, blade in hand. The Lord made no effort to move aside. Smoothly, dispassionately, he summoned Ipetam and brought it down upon the approaching primozlosta in a single decisive strike.

Blood sprayed. Khimaira staggered back a step, then another. Scarlet poured profusely from his wound, but sheer will kept him on his feet, glaring back at the Demiurgos. His lips moved as if he was trying to speak. Yet at that moment...

“Begone.”

A black blade sprouted from his chest.

“Wha...?”

Feeling the cold metal run him through, Khimaira clutched at the blade with both hands, but to no avail. It withdrew forcefully, slicing through his fingers. The severed digits fell to the ground and rolled away. A boy strode past, crushing them underfoot.

“So this is where you were, Demiurgos,” the boy said. “You took some finding.”

Khimaira reached toward him as he walked away, only to topple over backward. His mouth opened and closed until it moved no more. The boy spared him only the briefest glance before turning back to the Demiurgos with a dark smile.

“Now that there’s no one left to interrupt,” he said as he walked, “why don’t we put this thousand-year-old grudge to rest?”

The Demiurgos raised a hand to the boy. “Why so hasty? We have much to discuss, you and I.” He spread his arms wide as if greeting an honored guest. “A fitting stage for this to end, don’t you think? After all, this was where it all began.”

They stood in Anfang Forest, the sacred sanctuary of the Spirit King: the place where Hiro had first met Liz, and where he had met Rey one thousand years ago.

“Now,” the Demiurgos said, perhaps perturbed by the boy’s silence, “which weapon would you prefer?”

“You know which one.”

With a chuckle, the Demiurgos snapped his fingers. Space ruptured and a spear came forth—Longinus, the Day of Genesis, a divine bolt capable of piercing any armor. He drew the spear from the rift and regarded the boy with a dispassionate gaze.

“Now, Surtr...or should I call you Mars? Or any other of the myriad names you bear.” Radiating cold hostility, he haughtily readied the spear, signaling that he was ready for battle. “You have forged yourself into a fine vessel. Release from your suffering will be a fine reward.”

“I could say the same to you.” The boy slid his black blade back into its scabbard and adopted a low-slung stance, hips sunken and weight forward. “Now I can finally kill you.”

A grin spilled across his lowered face. He surged forward, leaving a deep footprint in the earth. A storm of steel cut the night asunder as two fierce wills collided.

＊＊＊＊＊

Monsters were ugly by nature, so repulsive as to make a civilized person sick. They were dim-witted, readily ate corpse meat, and thought nothing of attacking their kin. Everything in the world was either food or a threat. They had not a scrap of higher intelligence, and Ceryneia despised them.

“What a foul stench.”

The primozlosta’s nose wrinkled as he surveyed the encampment. He would not have ventured into this wretched den if he could have helped it, but the Demiurgos was nowhere to be found, leaving him no choice. As it was, he had no use for creatures who could not even understand the words he spoke. He set off in the direction that sounded most raucous.

The sharp scent of liquor pricked at his nostrils as he approached, and coarse laughter drifted to him on the wind. Only a handful of monsters had the brains to converse in an intelligible tongue: those known as the yaldabaoth. Humans and their like regarded them with fear. For Ceryneia, however, they were no less contemptible than their lesser kin.

“Good evening,” he said as he stepped into the yaldabaoth camp.

Before him, a pack of the failed fiends known as archons were feasting on corpses dragged back from the battlefield. They did not possess a shred of dignity, but they were at least more intelligent than most monsters.

“Where is your commander?” he ventured.

One of the archons looked up, a lung still clenched between its teeth, and pointed a short distance away. Fresh blood dripped from its finger.

Ceryneia set off again without deigning to offer thanks. “For all I know, he is not even here,” he muttered. “Especially with Khimaira missing too...”

It was not unusual for the Demiurgos to vanish for varying lengths of time, but Khimaira’s absence was more concerning. The look in the primozlosta’s eyes as he had regarded his master in recent days set Ceryneia ill at ease. That said, to an extent, he sympathized. He himself was beginning to question the Demiurgos’s command.

“Surely he would not turn against our Lord, but even so...”

Hoping his fears were unfounded, Ceryneia entered the center of the yaldabaoth camp. The bonfires cast his shadow across the ground. A second dark shape stepped closer, even greater in size.

“Ceryneia,” a low voice growled. “I thought I recognized your stink.”

“A pleasant reprieve from the stench of corpses, I’m sure.”

Before Ceryneia stood a large, dark-skinned man swathed in intricate sigils—the chieftain of the yaldabaoth, an individual named Null. Once, in his human days, he had been poised to become high general, yet ultimately the position had proven beyond him. He had fled in shame, but rather than concede defeat, he had sought greater power, leading him to become the monstrosity he was today. Most yaldabaoth had walked a similar path. They were robbers whose misdeeds had caught up with them, deserters who had fled the battlefield, ruined nobles swearing revenge, clergymen who had been ousted in power struggles—a veritable pack of beaten dogs coming together to lick their wounds.

Ceryneia regarded them all with contempt. They had failed in everything, even in following Mars’s example. Given the choice, he would not have fought alongside them. Yet they were endowed with a certain intelligence and a strength in excess of common monsters, not to mention that the Demiurgos had fashioned them with his own hands. In light of that, he was forced to tolerate them.

“But you have not come here to smell corpse reek,” Null said. “State your business.”

“My Lord is nowhere to be found. I wish to know if you have seen him.”

It was perfectly possible that the Demiurgos had passed this way. Ceryneia could not read his master’s mind. The Lord’s thoughts were a mystery to him. All he could do was search everywhere he could think of, even places that made his nose wrinkle in disgust.

“I have not, but you know his ways. I am sure he will return before long.”

“And what of Khimaira? Do you know where he is?”

Null’s lips pulled back in an unpleasant smile. “I know very well what you twelve... Oh, but forgive me. There are only two of you left, are there not?”

Ceryneia’s eyebrow twitched. “Watch your words, half-made creature.”

Null chuckled. “Khimaira despises us just as you do. He would not come here. But mark my words, weakest of the zlosta. You will not look down on us forever.” A note of anger entered his voice. “Perhaps I might slay you now, so I may no longer have to watch you hide behind Father’s robes. I have spared you thus far for fear of his anger, but he is not here.”

More yaldabaoth stepped forward, gathering around Ceryneia. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he sensed their hostility. He was not the warrior he had been a thousand years ago. If they did decide to fall on him, he would not be able to put up much of a fight. He cursed his foolishness in telling them of the Demiurgos’s absence. Now they had no reason to fear laying their hands on him. Nonetheless, his pride remained stubborn, and it would not permit him to beg forgiveness from these misbegotten failures.

As his mind raced, trying to find a way out, a change rippled through the crowd. The yaldabaoth and their archons began to back away. Even Null retreated, looking suddenly uncertain or perhaps intimidated. Ceryneia’s faculties were honed enough to sense what he sensed, to realize what had prompted this reaction. Indeed, he had detected the uncanny new arrival even before they had, but it had been so strange and so overwhelming that its presence froze him in place.

“What is this commotion?”

The voice struck dread into the gathered crowd. The dull-witted archons, the proud yaldabaoth, and even Ceryneia trembled in fear as they fell to one knee, sweat slicking their skin.

“Null. Ceryneia. Explain yourselves.”

For a moment, Ceryneia doubted his ears. He had heard the voice before—from Surtr’s lips. Yet he sensed just as much of the Demiurgos as Surtr in this entity. The two were so closely intertwined that he could not tell where one ended and the other began, becoming something that was not quite either.

As Ceryneia reeled, the archons shrugged off their fear and rose to their feet, shrieking battle cries. Null bellowed at them to be quiet, but a handful were too heated to listen. They lunged toward the Lord, and the rest quickly followed suit.

“No!” Null roared, but they did not hear him. A wave of archons bore down on the newly appeared Lord, ready to tear him limb from limb...

And blood rained from on high.

A single stroke. A single stroke was all it took. A gentle breeze rolled through the archons, carving them limb from limb, painting the night sky crimson. Unpleasant smacks rang out in the night as viscera rained down. With peerless strength and a sword stroke as soft as a caress, the Lord reduced the archons to so much flesh.

Ceryneia sensed the Lord approach beneath the rain of blood, but he could not move for fear. Nearby, Null pressed himself against the ground, his breathing loud in Ceryneia’s ears. He was so terrified that he was not taking in sufficient air.

“Null.”

The yaldabaoth winced as a pitiless gaze fell upon him.

“Your troops lack discipline.”

“Gaaah!”

The Lord placed a foot atop Null’s head and put his full weight upon it. The yaldabaoth screamed in agony as his skull began to creak.

“Forgive me, Father! Mercy! I beg you, grant me a second chance!”

He apologized as best he could through the excruciating pain, waving an arm wildly from his undignified stance to order the archons back to their positions. As Ceryneia watched the exchange unfold, he knew beyond a doubt that the Demiurgos had finally claimed the vessel he sought. His heart danced with joy to see absolute power in his master’s hands.

“Congratulations, my Lord,” he said. “At long last, your vessel is yours.”

His joy was sincere, but the Demiurgos did not reply. He lifted his foot from Null’s head and sat down, using the yaldabaoth’s prostrate form as a chair. His callousness only proved his identity further. It was not out of character—he had always treated his servants with the same indifference. Ceryneia would have been more suspicious to hear him greet Null with praise. As such, it only seemed right to address him as if nothing had changed.

“Khimaira is missing, my Lord. Do you know what has become of him?”

“He turned his blade upon me. I disposed of him appropriately.” The Demiurgos sounded as if he were speaking of swatting a fly.

Ceryneia had suspected as much. Khimaira’s attitude toward his master had shifted in recent days, and he had become distrustful and paranoid. It had seemed only a matter of time before he did something rash. Nonetheless, the news left Ceryneia conflicted. One part of him wanted to berate Khimaira for his foolishness, while another felt a rush of solitude to learn he was the last of the primozlosta. He silenced them both. There was no time to indulge in such sentiments. All he could do was serve the Demiurgos as best he could, as the last of his brethren.

“I would beg a boon of you, my Lord,” he said.

“Speak.”

“I fear that I may not have the strength to serve you in the final battle. Please, allow me to wield Ipetam.”

It was a craven, presumptuous request, he knew. Regret filled him even as he asked it. Still, Ipetam could not be much use to the Demiurgos now. He had claimed his vessel. His power was complete. Surely he no longer needed the Fellblade. With sweat beading on his back, Ceryneia awaited his master’s answer.

“Very well. It is yours. Serve me well.”

The Demiurgos tossed Ipetam away. It landed point down in the ground before Ceryneia. The primozlosta trembled with joy. As easily as the Demiurgos had given the weapon up, it was a priceless gift, and it proved that Ceryneia still had his master’s confidence.

The Demiurgos stood back up, gazing up at the night sky. “Null. Ceryneia. Gather the chieftains.”

Neither needed to ask what for. They nodded and set about their task. As their footsteps faded into the distance, the Demiurgos stretched out a hand to where the half-moon hid behind the clouds.

“Now none remain to stand in my way.”

Chapter 4: Separate Ways

The sun was high and the sky was clear, with not a cloud to be seen. It made a welcome reprieve from the sordid sights upon the earth. As Kiork looked up at it, he had to trust that the future was bright. Perhaps he was only fooling himself, but it gave him the strength to look ahead with newfound determination.

Behind him, his army continued its steady march north, its banners fluttering on the wind. Most bore the imperial lion, although a handful were marked with the sigils of various nobles from the south and east. The alliance transcended factional loyalties. At forty thousand strong, it was the largest force Kiork had ever commanded, and his nervousness was written on his face.

Two days prior, he had finally managed to convince the southern and eastern factions to sit down and talk. The discussions had exonerated the eastern nobles of any involvement in Beto’s murder, but they had also revealed how rudderless the southern nobles had become after his death. Divulging his plot to betray the empire had only worsened their dismay. Kiork had hoped the negotiations would go smoothly if he took the lead, but they were so used to following Beto’s lead that they had been unable to come to the simplest decisions. Moreover, they had been reluctant to lend Kiork their troops; fearing unrest while they were gone, Kiork had decided to leave Sunspear’s eastern noble garrison in place, but when he asked the southern nobles for help replenishing his forces, they had failed to reach a consensus, causing the talks to drag on interminably.

“I cannot thank you enough, my lady,” he said, lowering his head. “If not for you, I daresay the south and the east would still be at each other’s throats.”

Lady von Loeing gave a bashful smile. “I am honored.”

While she was being modest about her contribution, it was almost entirely thanks to her that the army had set off so promptly. Seeing negotiations grind to a halt, she had talked the southern nobles around to Kiork’s point of view with diplomatic acumen worthy of the finest civil tribune. She would prove an invaluable asset to his niece in the years to come. As embarrassing as it was to be outclassed by a girl less than half his age, he had to concede she far exceeded him in talent. The gulf between them was far too wide to deny. Nonetheless, in view of their respective statuses and Soleil’s tendency toward male leadership, Kiork had ended up taking command of the army. Lady von Loeing had not complained, but Kiork had been loath to exclude her after everything she had contributed, so he had made the executive decision to appoint her chief strategist.

At first, she had refused the position, concerned about causing needless upset. Only on several conditions had she eventually accepted. Firstly, after the war was over, she would meet Liz face-to-face. That would be easy enough to arrange. Considering what she had already achieved, Liz was almost certain to reward her in person. Secondly, she would be reassigned to the central territories, where she wanted to serve directly as Liz’s aide. Kiork did not have the authority to decide that himself, but he had promised to lend his support to the request. And thirdly, she would serve as Kiork’s go-between with Liz once they joined forces. That, Kiork had been hesitant to agree to—he was already relying on her a great deal, and making her his messenger would only add to the burden—but she had insisted, and her zeal had eventually won out.

Together, Lady von Loeing’s three conditions left Kiork certain that she was one of Liz’s many supporters. His niece’s popularity had grown explosively in recent months. She stole the hearts of men and women alike with beauty that would put an álf to shame, and tales of her valor were giving the people hope. Devotees just as ardent as Lady von Loeing were springing up all across Soleil.

Abruptly, her voice broke the silence. “Margrave?”

Kiork was caught so off guard that he almost fell off his horse, but he caught himself just in time. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple as he turned to face her. “Yes? Is something the matter?”

He feared she might see that he was red with embarrassment, but she was not even looking at him. She was staring fixedly at her forefingers, which she was pressing together sheepishly.

“If you wouldn’t mind, I, um... I had a question...” Her voice was almost a whisper, barely audible over the drumming of hooves.

“I can’t promise I’ll be any help, but by all means.”

“Then, if it’s not too forward...” She lifted one hand to her cheek, blushing like a lovestruck maiden.

Kiork’s heart thudded in his chest. Where exactly was this going? She was young, well-mannered, and certainly beautiful. He awaited her next words with bated breath, reminding himself silently that he had a wife.

“Would you tell me what Lady Celia Estrella was like as a little girl?” She shook her head furiously, as if she had grown flustered after confessing her love. One could almost hear her squeal in embarrassment.

Kiork felt like his legs had been knocked out from under him. His shoulders slumped. “So that’s what you meant... Well, if that’s all, I’d be happy to.”

Her eyes sparkled with glee. “You would?!”

At that moment, a messenger approached her. “House Tausend and House Münster have agreed to assist us, my lady. Representatives from each will arrive shortly.”

She turned to face him. “Very good. I will make ready to receive them. While I attend to them, would you send this letter to House Frisch?”

A chill ran down Kiork’s spine. The bashful maiden of a few seconds ago was nowhere to be seen. Lady von Loeing issued her orders as precisely and authoritatively as a seasoned warrior. She truly did have her grandfather’s blood, he thought with an impressed sigh.

As the messenger left, Lady von Loeing summoned one of her subordinates. “House Tausend and House Münster have a long-standing grudge,” she said. “See that they march with House Artar between them.”

“That still seems rather close, my lady. What if we put one in the vanguard and the other in the rear?”

“That would be even more likely to cause a disagreement. The one farther back would complain the other was being favored. Lord von Artar is acquainted with both houses. He will be able to mediate if any disputes arise. And besides, I suspect they will both be more comfortable if they can keep an eye on each other.”

“I see. I shall inform Lord von Artar.”

“Very good. Tell him this is by my request.”

“As you command.”

As the granddaughter of a former high general, Lady von Loeing had connections in noble society, and she was using them to their fullest. Had she been less talented, some might have whispered that she was borrowing her grandfather’s influence, but no one would dare make that accusation now—at least, not without making an enemy of the southern nobles. They all saw that she had inherited some of High General von Loeing’s glory. She had proven herself an astute enough commander to be worth following, and those who might otherwise have ignored her or scoffed at her age obeyed her orders without question.

It helped, of course, that virtually every southern noble in the empire owed her grandfather some kind of debt. That was a card that Kiork, something of an outsider, could never play. As he was the sixth princess’s uncle, there were plenty of nobles trying to curry favor with him, but most had ulterior motivations, and he would not have trusted any of them. The difference in reception was to be expected. Liz had only recently risen to prominence, while House Loeing had held its status for generations, building up social capital and solidifying its position over decades of maintaining peace in the south. Kiork had no intention of being petty about the matter, however. Everyone had their place. So long as he played his part to the best of his ability, respect would come in time. All he could do was carry out his duty diligently and conscientiously, hoping that would win the southern nobles’ trust.

He returned his attention to Lady von Loeing. She had a promising future ahead of her, he thought.

He watched as she attended to a succession of messengers. A great many of them were coming and going, mostly because she and Kiork were trying to light a fire under the local nobles. A unified force of forty thousand was a potent tool for ensuring loyalty. That was the reason behind their leisurely pace. They were unlikely to make it in time for the final battle even if they hurried, so it made more sense to do what they could en route. If they continued to accrue the support of the nobility, their ranks would swell enough to give any ambitious neighbors second thoughts, and they would be able to contribute more if the battle was still going when they arrived.

“Fine work, my lady,” Kiork said once she was done. “Did you learn from your grandfather, by any chance?”

“No. He never taught me anything about diplomacy. I think he hoped I would live a normal life, outside the military.” Von Loeing lowered her eyes sadly for a moment before her face brightened again. “But I always admired him growing up, and I’ve tried my hardest to live up to his example.” Her cheeks reddened. “Not to sound conceited, of course! I mean to put in just as much effort serving Lady Celia Estrella.”

Kiork’s eyes widened. She burned with a sincere desire to better herself, remaining conscious of her immaturity and working to overcome it rather than letting it inflate her ego. He would have to strive to match her example.

Her eyes softened. “Of course, things would not have gone nearly as smoothly without your help.”

“You flatter me, my lady. This is your hard work, not mine.”

“Not at all. The nobles understand that it wouldn’t be wise to turn against the royal heir’s uncle.”

Kiork caught her implication: It was him the nobles were trying to please. They were only using her as an intermediary because they were wary of approaching him directly and potentially making an enemy of the south.

“That isn’t to say your only contribution is your status, of course!” She grew flustered, fearing she had caused offense. “Everything we have accomplished is a testament to your strength of character.”

Kiork smiled wryly. “I am under no illusions about my position, believe me. We must only take care that we are not being used.”

He faced northward, his thoughts turning to his niece far beyond the horizon. How quickly that little girl had risen beyond his reach, her status far exceeding his own. He was not jealous. If anything, he was proud. She had grown up to be just as valiant as her mother and just as beloved by the people. It was a tragedy that Primavera had not lived to see who her daughter had become, but she was undoubtedly looking down fondly from above.

Only a few short years ago, Liz had been helpless without his protection. Now it was he who was relying on her name. How quickly times changed, he thought. How soon the ages turned. The wave of change was already lapping at his feet. Once this war was done, his time would be over and the next generation would take the stage. A glance at Lady von Loeing only reinforced that premonition. Soon, he would pass the torch and retire into obscurity.

“But enough dwelling on all that,” he said. “Why don’t I tell you about the day I first saw my niece?”

“I’d be delighted!”

Kiork had to smile. Perhaps the future really was bright after all.

＊＊＊＊＊

Near Malaren, in the northern territories

The snow had thawed and the water had seeped into the ground, turning it to mud. Now that it had been churned by countless boots, it was sticky enough to snatch a man’s feet out from under him.

Yet again, the humans and the monsters crashed together. The former bellowed battle cries to rouse their spirits, but the latter would not be outdone, answering with animalistic roars. Soldiers swung swords all but snapped off at the hilt, staved monsters’ heads in with broken spears, shattered everything that barred their way to smithereens. Retreat did not even cross their minds. They forged ahead without looking back.

Herma watched proudly from afar. The first son of House Heimdall, one of the three foremost houses of the north, he had been entrusted with defending the region by Second Prince Selene. While widely considered capable, he was not a prodigy. Natural talent had never been his forte. He was, however, proud of his ancestry, protective of his liege, and no stranger to effort. He had earned his position as Selene’s advisor by remaining humble and devoting himself to his training, earning a reputation as one of the hardest-working men in the empire.

“Not far now until Friedhof.”

Herma and his forces had butchered every monster before them on their way to Malaren. With the spirit weapons they had received from King Surtr, they had been more than a match for the creatures of the Sanctuarium. Their numbers were few, but morale was high, and they had made remarkable progress in very little time. There was another reason for their success, however: The monsters had no commander to speak of. Without a unifying mind in charge, all their numbers made for little more than a mindless mob, nowhere near a match for the well-trained soldiers of the north. Nonetheless, resistance had intensified as Herma and his troops approached Malaren. Now that the wall towered before him, it was all he could do to calm his heart.

“Tear open their flanks,” he ordered. “Retract the center until our wings push them back, then charge.”

There was no need to rush. He had the upper hand. With the monsters so uncoordinated, the battlefield was his to control as he saw fit. It would be a simple matter to wipe them out steadily and thoroughly, and then he could see to securing the surrounding area. Yet Friedhof towered over him, and he was not the kind of man who could ignore it.

“The task force is ready to move,” Phroditus reported.

“Good,” he said. “Would you take command?”

“Happily. I’ll bring honor to House Heimdall.”

Her words bordered on arrogance, but Herma only narrowed his eyes fondly. While he was no prodigy, his sister was another matter. Her talents lay mostly in warfare, but perhaps half a dozen people in the entire north could hold a candle to her on the battlefield, and he had instructed her rigorously in strategy in case he ever perished on the field. She did not have much aptitude for politics or diplomacy, but she absorbed military knowledge like a sponge.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “Then go. Show the monsters at the wall what we’re made of. Remember, though, your job isn’t to wipe them out. If things get dangerous, fall back at once.”

Phroditus scoffed. “What kind of fool do you take me for? I would not fritter away His Highness’s soldiers.”

“Good. Now, get going. The more of their attention you draw, the better the front line will be able to breathe.”

She nodded. “Take care.”

With that, she mounted up and rode off to join her task force.

Herma tore his eyes from her and returned his attention to the battle. “Soon Friedhof will be ours again,” he murmured. “Perhaps that will go some way to restoring the honor of our house.”

Driving the monsters from the Spirit Wall would not undo the catastrophe in the north. House Brommel’s rebellion, the fall of Friedhof, the Lebering invasion... Had Emperor Greiheit still been alive, such failures would have cost someone their head. As it was, they had certainly moved Second Prince Selene out of reach of the throne.

“Not that he will mind, I’m sure. By all accounts, he always meant to give up his claim to the throne.”

Regardless, Herma wanted to put up a showing worthy of House Heimdall. The thought of his lord being disparaged was too shameful to bear. He would recapture Friedhof and restore the honor of the north—and as such, he would have to accomplish his mission with the north’s own soldiers.

“Crush their center,” he ordered. “These pests think they can occupy our hometown. Exterminate them.”

As the words left his mouth, he saw the task force begin to move. At their head rode Phroditus, her sword held out before her. They surged toward Friedhof, one with their steeds as they bore down on the empire’s greatest bastion. He could hear their battle cries from where he stood.

A dust cloud whipped up as they plowed into the waiting monsters, and his sister was lost from sight. He felt no fear for her well-being. He trusted her, both to complete her mission and to return alive.

“Remember our duty!” he cried. “Let them see what the guardians of Friedhof are made of!”

His thoughts were with Selene in the central territories, but his task was to retake the Spirit Wall, and he would do it to the best of his ability.

＊＊＊＊＊

“Look at it. Grass as far as the eye can see.” Skadi’s grin broadened as she gazed at the verdant plains from atop her horse.

“Damn well stretches from horizon to horizon,” her aide agreed. “Looks perfect for rearing horses too. Even the senate won’t be able to say no to this.”

Skadi nodded. The Free Folk who ruled these lands were a nomadic people, migrating with the seasons. They did not call any one place home, and as such, their lands were mostly untouched.

“Any sight of their fighters yet?”

“Neither hide nor hair, chief. We checked their camps, but there were only women, children, and old folks. Anyone who can wield a bow must be away in the empire.”

“Can’t complain, I suppose. Still, I was hoping for a little more fun...”

The Free Folk were born horse-warriors. That was one of the reasons they had held out for so long against Steissen despite being much smaller in size, and they were especially formidable on their home terrain. Skadi had embarked on this campaign prepared to take significant losses. Indeed, she had been looking forward to enjoying mortal combat again, so it was somewhat disappointing to have encountered no resistance.

“A few tribes have surrendered already,” the aide said. “Not that it’s much of a surprise.”

“Tell ’em we accept. No glory in slaughtering old men and children.”

In the distant past, the Free Folk had been allies, not foes. Most of their tribes were made up of beastfolk, albeit half-bloods who had settled there to escape persecution. The discriminatory attitudes of the empire did exist in Steissen too, but Skadi herself regarded such things as nonsense.

“You don’t have to kiss ’em on the lips,” she added, “but try to be nice.”

A positive first impression was important in building trust. In the long term, treating the people well would make them far easier to rule. Aside from anything else, it would blunt the tribal riders’ willingness to resist once they returned in defeat from the empire.

“I’ll see to it, chief.”

“Tell you what, though,” Skadi sighed, “this is fine soil.”

She had been looking forward to claiming this land. Galloping across these plains to her heart’s content seemed like the perfect respite from her duties. Not only that, the grasslands would produce hardy warhorses, further adding to Steissen’s strength. She wanted to preserve them, not lay waste to them with needless warfare, and being magnanimous in victory was key to that goal.

“At this rate, we might just take Kwasir too.”

From here, it was a straight shot to the holy city of the Vanir Triumvirate. It would have access to ample resources, its coastal location meant thriving trade, and there would undoubtedly be endless riches squirreled away within its walls. Skadi was itching to plunder it, but dishonorable conduct could have unforeseen consequences.

“This is why you gotta win your battles,” she said. “Or you wind up dissatisfied.”

Every decision she had made in recent days, from opting against attacking the empire to invading the Free Folk instead, stemmed from her loss to Surtr. Their duel had been a fair one, and she had no intention of questioning its outcome. She had only herself to blame for her defeat. Yet while she owed Surtr a debt for claiming her loyalty when he could easily have claimed her life, she did not mean to spend the rest of her life in servitude. Like all beastfolk, she was proud and given to rivalry. She would not renege on her promise, but she would challenge him a second time and force him to undo their agreement.

“Nothing for it but to press on, I suppose. I’m bound to find a worthy fight eventually.”

She sighed, a little regretfully. There was no telling when the empire’s war with the Demiurgos would end. Sooner or later, she would run out of time. That said, she doubted her army would encounter more resistance than it already had. If imperial intelligence was to be believed, the Vanir Triumvirate was currently under siege by Six Kingdoms. Most of their defenses had probably been scattered to the winds.

It was a shame she wouldn’t get the fight she wanted, but she couldn’t complain too much. She had claimed a whole new swath of land for Steissen with little effort and at no cost to her own forces. By all rights, she should be celebrating. The only question now was whether the empire would prevail. If it did not, there would be nothing left to stop the monsters pouring south, and her conquests would come to nothing. It had to survive if Steissen was to prosper.

Someday, there would be a reckoning between the empire and Steissen—a pure contest of might, free of the influence of the Lords of Heaven. For better or for worse, the empire had existed for as long as it had by the grace of the Lords. How much of its power it would retain after they were gone, none could say, but no nation lasted forever.

Skadi grinned. “Just a shame it won’t happen in my time.”

That was a matter for future generations. Defeating the Lords would usher in an unprecedented golden age for the empire. Afterward, it would gently decline as all empires did, but the decay would take many years to truly set in.

“But enough of that. The real question is how ambitious Queen Lucia’s feeling.”

Skadi had barely spoken to the woman beyond exchanging formalities, but that had been enough to recognize the unctuous eyes of a born schemer. If she was not careful, she would find herself stabbed in the back, and the Vanir Triumvirate would become the stage of a three-way war.

“Come to think of it, I never promised not to kill any Dharmic Blade wielders...”

She was itching for a good fight, and scattering Lucia’s armies and pouring into Six Kingdoms might be just what she needed. She licked her lips. The idea was starting to sound very tempting indeed.

＊＊＊＊＊

Every battle cry marked another life lost. Arrows flew, blood sprayed high, heads flew from shoulders. Some soldiers had their skulls shattered by clubs before they could even swing their swords. Others cut down their opponents, only to be run through from behind by spears before they ever proclaimed their victory. Friend blurred with foe in the melee, and a moment’s lapse could mean death. If a soldier concentrated too much on the enemies on the ground, they would be fodder for the arrows raining down. If by some miracle they managed to prop a ladder up against the walls, they would be doused in oil from above and set alight. And if they fought their way up through physical and mental exhaustion, dozens, hundreds, thousands of gleaming blades would be waiting atop the battlements.

The siege of Vanr was well underway. Six Kingdoms’ forces had encircled the holy city and were now staging a ferocious assault. Waves of soldiers crashed ceaselessly against the walls, staining the white bricks a gory crimson. The sight would have struck despair into anyone’s heart. The defenders held out regardless, fighting with all they had to hold back the tide. Those same walls were all that stood between the enemy and their families.

Lucia watched, fanning herself, as arrows rained down onto Six Kingdoms’ lines. Aside from a single entryway, the world around her was swathed in white canvas, the better to shield her from the sun. As she reclined on a leather-trimmed sofa in the artificial shade, she plucked a piece of fruit from the pile before her.

“Look, Seleucus. Enough war can turn the most beautiful walls red. A crying shame, is it not? I had so hoped to take them without bloodshed.”

The sullying of the once-pristine walls mirrored the downfall of those within—a parallel that did not escape her.

“They were given the chance to surrender, Your Majesty,” Seleucus said. “They have no one to blame but themselves.”

She hardly registered his reply as she changed the topic. “How fares the battle?”

Seleucus took no offense. He was used to her ways by now. “The fighting remains fierce on the east wall,” he said as an aide handed him a piece of parchment. “And on the west. Our troops on the south wall requested reinforcements, so I took the liberty of sending them three regiments. It appears resistance is thinning around the main gate in the north.”

“So our plan is working. Splendid.”

Lucia bit into an apple with a sharp crunch, her eyes narrowed with cunning. Before the battle began, she had come up with a plan to divide the city’s defenders between its four walls, holding back on attacking the north wall while besieging the other three with full force. Taken by surprise, the Triumvirate command had hurriedly reassigned the northern defenders elsewhere in the city. She had then sent reinforcements to the north wall, only to retract them again once the fighting grew thicker and the Triumvirate officers there sent for aid. The same process had now played out several times. The trick was naturally starting to lose its effectiveness, but it had already served its purpose in giving her an advantage. Once a single wall fell, victory would be as good as hers.

“Do you suppose we shall take the city today?” she asked.

“Doubtful, Your Majesty. This is the álfar’s most sacred ground, and they defend it accordingly. Its walls are high and manned with soldiers aplenty. We won’t break through until nightfall at the earliest, and we cannot fight in the dark.”

Lucia pursed her lips. “I had rather hoped not to destroy such a historic gate, but I suppose needs must.”

“I have sent the battering ram, but the gate is sturdy. It is unlikely to fall before sundown.”

“No matter. I doubt entering the city would persuade the álfar to lay down their arms in any case.”

“They are proud if nothing else,” Seleucus remarked wryly. “What would you have us do in that case?”

“Tell my darling soldiers that I will turn a blind eye to a little pillaging. Let us see how long the defenders’ spirits last when we hold their families hostage.”

Lucia sat back, fanning herself as she returned to watching the battle unfold. In time, a soldier entered, blocking her view.

“Your Majesty, may I trouble you with an important matter?”

“What is this matter? Glad tidings, I hope?”

“An emissary has arrived from the empire.”

Silence fell over the tent. It was like time had stood still. Lucia’s jaw tightened. Seleucus closed his eyes in resignation. The various aides and retainers halted in their work to stare at the soldier.

Lucia was the first to recover. She snapped her fan closed and pointed it at the man. “Summon them at once. Let us find out why they are here.”

As the soldier hurried from the tent, Seleucus stepped forward. “Is that wise, Your Majesty?”

Lucia’s eyes flared with irritation. “I cannot very well turn them away.”

Soon enough, the soldier returned with an imperial emissary in tow. The emissary sank to one knee in a respectful bow.

“Spare me the pleasantries.” Lucia turned her fan upon him. “State your business.”

The man looked a little taken aback—imperials placed much stock in proper etiquette—but he approached soundlessly and held out a letter in both hands. “I have come to deliver this, Your Majesty. It is from Her Highness Lady Celia Estrella.”

Lucia took the letter in silence, broke the seal, and opened up the sheet of paper within. Her eyes moved from left to right as she skimmed down the page. Her shoulders began to shake as she read. Abruptly, she raised her fist as if to dash the letter against the floor, only to sag as whatever energy had possessed her fled.

“I shall have your reply soon enough,” she said. “You shall have a tent in the meantime.”

“You are most kind, Your Majesty,” the emissary said.

Once the man had left, Lucia crumpled the letter in her fist. Her hand shuddered with anger, her eyes burned with spite, and her lip bled as she chewed it bitterly. Her aides trembled to see her so worked up. Seleucus sighed. He could more or less guess what the letter amounted to.

At last, one of the aides steeled himself and stepped forward. “What did it say, Your Majesty?”

Lucia’s eyes flashed, and the man cowered, but her anger faded as quickly as it had come. She sank into a chair. “The sixth princess demands our withdrawal from the Vanir Triumvirate. She asks us to refrain from unnecessary bloodshed.”

“If I may...do you mean to accept?”

“I have little choice. She claims the empire is poised to ride on Six Kingdoms.”

Seleucus cocked his head doubtfully. “One would think we would be the least of the empire’s concerns.”

Lucia snorted. “The Triumvirate suffered a worse defeat than we ever thought possible, I don’t doubt.” She gave a helpless shrug. “Trust them to inconvenience us even in defeat.”

“Why not decide how to proceed after we take the city? Surely we have more than days before the empire mobilizes.”

“’Twould be futile, I fear. Steissen is riding this way as we speak.”

Lucia might well succeed in capturing Vanr, but if she retreated, Steissen would take it for themselves, and if she stayed to defend it, the empire would lay waste to Six Kingdoms. An army could not fight without a home to return to. The soldiers’ morale would plummet, and this foreign shore would become their grave. She briefly considered allowing her army to sack the city before retreating, but that would be no good either. It would only make Six Kingdoms a pariah state, hounded by war until it fell to ruin.

“And that is to say nothing of her Far Sight,” she added. “For all we know, she is watching us as we speak.”

The sixth princess must have dealt the Vanir Triumvirate a truly humiliating defeat if she felt empowered to make such a presumptuous—if not outright threatening—demand. Odds were good that the empire would push clean through Draal to Vanr. Lucia did not have the numbers to face both the empire and Steissen at once, and defeat would mean losing everything. It had taken years upon years of waiting to usurp the High King, yet just as her schemes seemed poised to succeed, she had been handed what amounted to a death sentence.

“Fetch me parchment and ink.” With a hollow chuckle, she let Lady Celia Estrella’s letter drop. “We shall retreat.”

She lowered her eyes, her face twisting into a grimace. Her shoulders shook as she pressed her hands to her forehead.

＊＊＊＊＊

A gentle wind blew across the plain, carrying with it the smell of death. Groups of soldiers were hard at work despite the stench. In teams of two and three, they carried away the bodies carpeting the battlefield. Some of the corpses had been savaged by beasts unknown; some had been wounded beyond recognition; some belonged to comrades, friends, or family. One by one, the soldiers wrapped them all in cloth, holding back their tears just as they suppressed their nausea.

The battle with the Vanir Triumvirate was over, but the refuse of battle was still fresh. Rosa’s nose wrinkled. Aura had left her to clean up the mess, but she doubted she would ever grow accustomed to the smell of blood. Nonetheless, this was necessary work. Unattended corpses were breeding grounds for disease. The álfar might not have been her people, but leaving them to rot would risk starting a plague. They had to be disposed of promptly. There was no time for proper funerary rites—the bodies would be gathered together and burned. Sickness was not the only danger they presented if left unattended. They would draw monsters and battlefield scavengers, both of which would disrupt the peace, as well as bandits and brigands who would threaten nearby settlements. Rosa was obliged to stay until the grim task was done.

“Did the commonfolk agree to help?” she asked.

Behind her, one of her aides nodded. “We have a hundred laborers assisting already, but it seems word has spread. Three hundred more are begging us to take them on.”

“Tell them I accept.”

The man looked hesitant. “But, my lady, the expense...”

“Will not be a concern. Although I have no intention of threatening the local nobles for the coin, of course.”

The aide looked quizzical. “Then what will you do?”

Rosa came to a stop and gestured with a thrust of her chin. Her aides’ eyes followed. Prisoners of war from the Vanir Triumvirate stood nearby, bound at the wrists with their hands behind their backs. The ropes looped around their waists and on to the next prisoner. Their feet had been bound in a similar way, tying them together like a string of pearls so they could not escape. These were the soldiers who had chosen to throw themselves upon the empire’s mercy rather than flee to Draal. If the reports were to be believed, the rest had been apprehended by the Grand Duchy and any who resisted had been executed.

“We’ll ransom the nobles,” Rosa said. “The rest we can sell to Draal. I’m sure the Grand Duke will pay handsomely.”

It was not hard to imagine what would become of them. Álfar had fair, delicate features. They would fetch a small fortune at the slave markets of Lichtein. It was hard to say whether surrendering had bettered their lot, but Rosa did not pity them. They would have shown no mercy had their positions been reversed.

“And the ransom money will pay our labor costs, I presume?” one of her aides asked.

Rosa nodded. “House Kelheit will foot the bill in the meantime.” She made to set off again, but a thought struck her and she took on a distant look. “Oh, that’s right. Liz’s letter should be arriving around now. The Divines only know what Six Kingdoms will make of it...”

If she had been in Lucia’s place, she would have been red with fury. There was nothing more pleasing than to see one’s plans proceeding as expected, and nothing more galling than to watch them suddenly fall apart.

The empire had benefited greatly from Six Kingdoms’ invasion and could have allowed it to continue, but now that the Vanir Triumvirate was no longer an immediate threat, allowing the nation to fall entirely would be unwise. Balance was paramount. If the Triumvirate collapsed, a new, stronger player could arise from the wreckage. Rosa wanted Liz to inherit a stable Soleil when she was crowned empress.

“What if Queen Lucia does not agree to our terms?” one of the aides asked.

“Then we will soon be riding through Draal ourselves. We will have to join forces with Steissen and invade the Triumvirate.”

That was another reason she had enlisted the help of local laborers to clear the battlefield. There was never any harm in taking precautions.

“And I understand that the southern and eastern nobles are making their way north,” Rosa added. “If we must, we can leave matters in their hands and make straight for Six Kingdoms.”

Before the war even began, she had considered every possibility and made meticulous plans to counter them. She was confident she was ready for anything.

“But I doubt it will come to that. The Vanir Triumvirate will not be going quietly. If Lucia doesn’t withdraw from Vanr, she might as well don the noose herself. Retreat is her only choice.”

Lucia had already made herself High Queen. She would not sacrifice that long-held dream for foolish stubbornness. And then...

And then Liz would save Hiro, and at last, all of this would be over. All that would remain would be her coronation. After a thousand years, the empire would have its first empress. The legend of the woman who had ended the great war would be told until the end of time, and once she passed from this world, there would be a place waiting for her in the imperial pantheon. Her father had spent his life trying to become the thirteenth Divine; she would accomplish it. And the empire would—

No. Rosa shook her head. Enough speculation. None could say for sure what the future held. Half the fun of being alive was finding out. Nobody was guaranteed a happily ever after—further hardships could very well lie ahead. Indeed, without that awareness, people would not try their best in the here and now.

“With any luck, the next generation will be able to take care of itself,” she murmured.

Soleil had endured one of the greatest wars it had ever known, and the talent it had sowed was already emerging across the land. If the empire could seek out and cultivate that talent, its continued reign would be assured.

“All the more reason Hiro has to live. He has a promise to keep.”

She raised her eyes to the sky with a prayer for his safety in her heart.

＊＊＊＊＊

The sun sank softly below the horizon. Night fell once more. Nocturnal insects sang in chorus, and the beasts of the night prowled in search of prey.

As a black curtain settled over the world, one place glowed with blinding radiance: Fort Towen. Bonfires covered the battlements, burning so bright that the gloom had no foothold. Cooking fires sprang up in the encampment outside the walls, and soldiers crowded around them in search of light.

Spirits were far higher than they had been several days prior. The arrival of Liz and her reinforcements had done wonders to restore morale, and the soldiers were more than ready for their next battle. All over the fort, they prepared in their own ways. Some took to training to calm their nerves, and while it was too early to sleep, others drank and guffawed or enjoyed one last raucous conversation with their comrades.

Liz, their commander, was in Fort Towen’s war room. A shadow lingered on her dainty brow. Her most loyal retainers stood around her, in no doubt as to what was preying on her mind. At last, a short, silver-haired girl stepped forward as if to speak for the rest.

“Have you found Hiro?” she asked.

Liz shook her head limply. “For all I know, he’s been taken over by the Demiurgos.”

Immediately after Hiro’s escape, she had organized a search party of her closest allies and sent them in pursuit while she tried to track him down alone with the Far Sight. His trail, she had learned, vanished at Anfang Forest. As she drew closer, she had heard a thunderous explosion and felt the visceral weight of some terrible power. She had arrived at the spring to find it dried up and the statues shattered.

The spring had been her habitual bathing spot in the days she was posted at Fort Towen. Surrounded by flowers and sparkling with the faint presence of the spirits, it had been a welcome reprieve from her worries, as well as the place where she had first met Hiro. As exhausted as she now felt, finding him was her highest priority, but all her searching had yielded no trace of his whereabouts.

“For all you know?” Luka rounded on Liz, making no effort to hide her exasperation. “Surely if anybody here should know where he is, it’s you and your arcane eyes.”

Huginn stepped forward to restrain her. “Calm yourself, Miss Luka! Fighting with each other isn’t gonna help us find him any faster!”

“Lady Huginn is correct,” Scáthach said from where she leaned against the table. “A little more restraint is in order.” She turned to Liz with an apologetic smile. “If Lord Hiro eludes you, would it not be easier to track the Demiurgos instead?”

“You’d think so, but it doesn’t seem that way.”

Liz’s eyes had not lost their power. She could have scried from halfway across the world if she had wanted to, even on someone as distant as Lucia in the Vanir Triumvirate. It was more that Hiro and the Demiurgos were somehow exempt. She could not guess why that might have been, but she did remember detecting the power of the Lords not long after Hiro’s escape. She had sensed their clash well enough back then. Only now did they seem to have vanished.

“I can sense something else, though,” she continued hesitantly. “In the middle of the Demiurgos’s army. Something new. Unfamiliar.”

“Could it be him?” Scáthach asked.

Liz tilted her head, her brow furrowing. “I can’t be sure. It feels like him, a little, but there’s all sorts of other things mixed in too. It’s too hard to tell.”

“If that is indeed the One-Eyed Dragon,” Garda said, “we must ask ourselves whether it is possible to retrieve him.”

“Agreed. Even if it really is him, how are we supposed to get to him?” Liz shook her head. The only way to be sure what she was sensing was to see for herself on the battlefield. It might very well not be Hiro at all.

Selene had been quiet, leaning on the wall, but as the group fell silent, she raised her voice. “There is one thing I’m curious about.”

Liz looked up. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing much. I just thought, if the Demiurgos is missing, who’s leading his army?”

“This newcomer, maybe? They certainly feel stronger than the others.”

“If Hiro and the Demiurgos are both missing, they’re the most likely suspect. As I see it, at least.” Selene looked around the room, studying the others’ faces. “I just hope you’re all prepared for the worst. Once battle starts, you fight or you die. Unless you plan on sitting back and watching the empire fall.”

The coming battle would have no room for mercy. If this newcomer truly was Hiro, they would have to be ready to face him and to cut him down if need be.

“No need to be hasty,” Scáthach said. “There may be alternatives yet. That said, I no longer believe we can spare any more effort searching for Lord Hiro. The enemy before us demands our attention.” She turned to Liz. “You do not object, I trust?”

“No. Of course not. Our problem now is the monsters. We can work out what to do about him after they’re dealt with.”

There was no time for indecision. The final battle with the Demiurgos’s forces was at hand. What was at stake was bigger than any one person.

“We should adjourn for today,” Selene said. “I’m sure we all have a lot to think about.”

She clapped her hands, shooing the rest from the room. Once they were gone, she followed them out with a sigh almost too quiet to hear.

As the door closed, Liz clenched her teeth, trying with all her might to hold back tears. Her chair gave a hollow creak as she leaned back and buried her face in her hands.

“Again. I’ve lost him again...”

At her feet, a white wolf watched in silence as her shoulders began to tremble.

＊＊＊＊＊

Eerie shadows danced in the torchlight. Howls split the night, resounding to the beat of drums made from human skin and bone. They formed a battle chant, a potent narcotic to set the blood aflame. Brawls broke out as the hypnotizing beat overcame the monsters. Bone crunched. Blood sprayed. The fights did not stop; they were to the death. Monsters were creatures of feral instinct, and their instincts told them to kill; to stand and to fight and to savor the taste of victory.

All at once, their fervor cooled. As one, they sensed the malice regarding them, the cold disdain in the void-black eyes watching them from the dark. Like mice trapped by the eyes of a snake, the brawlers froze. Two of their heads sprang from their shoulders as they trembled in terror. The frenzied clamor quieted away, and cold dread swept in. All eyes turned, as if compelled, toward the darkness. The blood pools from the fighting pits formed a circle like a coliseum floor, strewn with dismembered bodies. And in the center stood a boy with black hair and black eyes, radiating an intense animosity.

A figure approached him. “My Lord,” it whispered, “have you grown accustomed to your new body?”

The boy flexed his fingers a few times, then reached out and crushed the head of a nearby yaldabaoth. Brain matter sprayed in every direction. Monsters swarmed about it, mistaking it for a gift.

“Well enough. Tomorrow, we bring all our forces to bear.”

Ceryneia’s lips trembled with emotion beneath his hood. “At last, the world will know your wrath.”

The boy did not so much as acknowledge the primozlosta. He turned and walked away.

Ceryneia hurried after him. “Your forces are ready, my Lord. They ache for battle. We have been starving them for days. They hunger for human flesh.” He spoke eagerly, possessed by a strange excitement. Even his master’s disdain did not deter him. “Our reinforcements from the north have halted, but we have a hundred thousand—and you, of course. Soon the banner of zlosta supremacy shall fly over—”

A sudden crash cut him off. The shattered remnants of a chair built from human skin and bone sailed through the night.

“Enough. Your prattle exhausts me.”

There was no mistaking the fury in the boy’s voice. Ceryneia froze and flung himself to the ground, trembling.

The boy spared his quivering form only a single glance. “I shall slay the last of Artheus’s bloodline myself.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

Sweat poured from Ceryneia’s brow. It was all he could do to reply. As the words left his mouth, however, his eyes filled with doubt. The Demiurgos had devoured the rest of the Lords, claimed his perfect vessel, and tested its fitness to his satisfaction, yet he did not even seem mildly pleased. In fact, there was no change in him at all. He had never been one to let his emotions show, but he had been waiting for this moment for a thousand years. Why was he so indifferent? Misgivings and revulsion began to gnaw at Ceryneia’s heart, and darkness filled his mind.

“My Lord,” he whispered, conscious that the question might mean his death, “who are you?”

Ice ran down his spine as a pitiless gaze pierced him through. He shivered so violently that his teeth chattered. It felt like the blood had frozen in his veins.

“What nonsense,” the boy said.

Ceryneia flinched. The tension drained from his body. Relief replaced his fear. Contemptuous as they were, the boy’s words left him shaking in joy. They were his Lord’s words, his Lord’s voice, his Lord’s affect, all as he knew them.

He bowed his head. “Forgive me. I spoke presumptuously.”

The boy gazed disinterestedly at his own hand. “I have achieved much, yet still I feel no triumph. Something is missing.”

Ceryneia clenched his teeth, cursing that he could not answer his master’s doubts. “Perhaps you will find it once you slay the sixth princess, my Lord. Once you put an end to the von Grantz bloodline.”

“I can only hope so.”

The boy looked up at the stars, narrowing his eyes. A pitch-black smile formed on his lips.

＊＊＊＊＊

The field of flowers was barren now. The gently smiling álf, the birdsong in the air, the floral scent on the breeze... All now lay in inky blackness. Only a single shaft of light shone down through the dark. It guided Liz’s path, reassuring her that she still had a place here.

“Forgive me,” Rey said. Her eyes glistened with sorrow, melancholy, and grief. She looked on the verge of tears.

Liz looked perplexed. “For what?”

The álf smiled as if holding back some great pain. “I failed to tell you everything.”

“That’s all right.” Liz looked around. “But I don’t understand. What happened here?”

The flower field, her face, her eyes; all looked lightless now.

“I fear his strength has run dry.”

“Whose...?”

Before the question left Liz’s lips, Rey began to disappear. Her feet faded into darkness, and her legs began to follow.

“This was always my fate.” The álf looked resigned. “It was only a matter of time.”

Her despair was written in her face as she looked up at what would have been the sky had anything distinguished up from down in this place. Liz’s chest clenched tight. Happiness suited Rey so much better than this tearstained sorrow.

“Don’t cry,” she said. “I’d much rather see you smile.”

Rey’s eyes widened. A faint smile appeared on her face, but the shadow was far from gone.

“You can’t give up now.” Liz tried to make herself sound as upbeat as she could. “You still have to see this through.”

Rey’s face grew a little brighter, but her smile still looked forced. Liz felt a pang of guilt for making her pretend. Still, Rey did not chastise her. She only opened her arms, inviting Liz into her bosom.

“He might still be saved,” she whispered beside Liz’s ear. “I shall find a way.”

Liz trembled. “But...can he? I’ve tried everything I can think of, and I don’t have much to show for it.”

She was starting to doubt that she had the strength. It felt like all the confidence she had built up was crumbling down. No matter how strong she grew, no matter how much she seemed to have closed the distance, every time she reached out for him, he vanished somewhere she could not follow.

“Rey... Maybe...”

Something dangerous hovered on her tongue. Something she knew she would regret as soon as she spoke it.

“Maybe you’re the one he needs.”

Those were words that would cut like a blade. Words that could not be unsaid. Yet Rey met them with a smile, compassionate and affectionate. She took the blade softly in her hands and smoothed away its edge.

“That is not true. It must be you who saves him or everything will have been for nothing.” She leaned closer, so close Liz could feel her breath, and smiled wider. “Let your heart burn, my child. Hold your convictions firm and true. So long as you do not let that fire go out, there will always be another chance.”

She leaned in to press her forehead against Liz’s.

“All that I am, I give to you.”

“No!” Liz cried. “You can’t go! There’s still so much I want to say!”

For Rey to vanish was the last thing she wanted. She had promised to convey the álf’s feelings to Hiro. To let her disappear before hearing his answer would be all too cruel.

“You are very kind. But fear not. I will always be with you. If you ever wish to see me again, there I will be.”

Liz looked at her and saw herself—the same heart, the same soul.

“There is no need to mourn me. I will not be gone. And a smile suits you better than tears, I think.”

Rey reached out to cup Liz’s cheek, wiping the tears from the corner of her eye with a thumb.

“I’m glad it was you.”

And with one last radiant smile, she disappeared.

A cold lump lodged in Liz’s throat, but she held back tears. She had promised not to cry. Besides, a warmth burned in her breast, firm and unmistakable. She laid a hand on her chest and felt a firm rhythm. Rey was not gone. She was still there, as she always would be.

This would be the last time Liz came to this dreamworld. She bid it a silent farewell...and yet, no matter how long she waited, she did not wake.

“What now?”

Left alone in the sunless field, she looked around, confused.

“Hm?”

She turned, sensing someone behind her. There stood a youth with an easy smile. He was someone gallant, heroic, and utterly uncompromising, someone who shone so brilliantly that Liz could only wonder what he was doing in this world of darkness—Leon Welt Artheus von Grantz, the first emperor of the Grantzian Empire. In a word, he was a lion. In essence, he was a born ruler, a monarch said to be closer to divinity than the Lords themselves.

He folded his arms, flashing a grin. “At long last, time flows again. The gears that stopped a thousand years ago turn once more.” A look of regret came over him, and he bowed his head. “Forgive me. I have done you a great wrong.”

Liz’s eyes widened. Why was such a legendary figure here at all, let alone offering her an apology? So much was happening at once. It felt like her head was spinning.

“Weep not for Rey,” he said matter-of-factly. “All that she did, she did of her own free will. She always knew it would come to this. Her fate is not your burden to bear.”

Liz was still frozen in shock. Her mind struggled to keep up.

Seeing her mute, Artheus gave a wry grin. “But you wonder why I am here at all. That, at least, is simple. Lævateinn contains something of a...residual memory.”

He lifted a hand into empty space. A tongue of flame sprang into being above his palm. The fire coiled playfully around him, gamboling and flaring like a faithful dog reunited with its master.

“More importantly...Rey’s actions are her own, but I still regret that I have caused you pain.” He bowed again. “The Lords of Heaven proved too formidable one thousand years ago. I was helpless before their might. But now...”

He produced a slip of paper from within his garments. It was pure white, like virgin snow.

“I left this within Lævateinn. A twin to the one I gave my comrade-in-arms.”

Liz could not help herself. “What does that mean?”

Artheus shrugged in mock exasperation. “No word of thanks? If only you knew the toll it took upon me.”

“How could I know when you haven’t told me anything?” Liz stepped closer insistently. “I don’t know what to make of any of this.”

Artheus brought a finger to his lips, grinning mischievously. “You shall have no answers from me. Not yet, in any case. As of now, they would do more harm than good. I ask only that you bear this in mind when the time comes.” A shadow of remorse fell over his face. With a self-effacing snort, he tapped his chest. “Do not become like me, child. Do not allow doubt to sway you. Failing to save my blood-brother haunted me until my dying day. If you must choose, make a choice that you will not regret.”

He gave a half smile. There was more than a little of Rey in it, Liz thought.

“Believe in who you are, and the way will be revealed.” He raised his hand high. The white card shone between his fingers. “For there is a way. Trust that it lies at your feet. Walk it without doubt, walk without fear, and hold your convictions high.”

His words rang with all the authority of a man who had founded an empire.

“Cast down all who oppose you. Crush any who stand in your way. Show your enemies no mercy. Suffer none to impede your advance.”

In one sense, he was advocating arrogance, but in another, he was describing strength of heart. The monarchs of the Grantzian Empire had to be the strongest, the mightiest, the grandest of men. Only the most delinquent of children could ever fit such a mold.

“The road ahead is yours and yours alone. Walk in faith, and yield it to no one.”

Artheus spoke as the only man ever to stand atop the world. Liz’s was the path of the chosen few, a path that only a handful of people in all of history would ever know: the path of kingship.

“Arrogance is your privilege. Conceit is your right. Be as prideful as you please, for only the most regal deserve to sit the throne.”

He spread his arms wide, the very picture of a man who knew he was born to rule. That was his right of kingship, forged in bloody combat and harrowing trial. He knew no doubt, no uncertainty, no fear. That very arrogance and audacity were what marked him as an emperor. And yet, at the last, he lowered his head. In his final moments, he spoke not as an emperor, but as a man like any other—one who wanted the best for those he held dear.

“He is my only brother. I beg you, see him safely home.”

With one final smile, Artheus dissolved into particles of light that scattered the gloom. The darkness thinned as light spilled through, and the world began to fall away. Liz sensed that this would be the last time she would ever see this place.

It almost seemed like Rey and Artheus had vanished too readily. They had said their pieces and disappeared, giving her no time to come to terms with their loss. In that respect, they were a lot like someone else she knew. Fondness warmed her chest. They and Hiro truly had rubbed off on each other. It was almost enough to make her jealous.

All three siblings, blood-brother included, had been self-centered to the end, but they were strangely hard to dislike. Liz could not bring herself to feel resentment, only affection. They had shown her vital truths, enough that she could see them off with a smile on her face.

“Thank you.”

The words were worth speaking even if there was no one left to hear them. Rey and Artheus had helped her shed the last of her doubts. There was no more hesitation in her heart, only the heat of a newly kindled flame.

“I’ll carry on your legacy. You just watch me from Valhalla.”

Now that she bore their hopes on her back, she had no more time to waste.

At that moment, she noticed something lying at her feet: Artheus’s slip of white card. He had left it for her, no doubt, yet she had never had the chance to pick it up. As her fingers closed around it, the light swelled—and she woke up.

As she came to, she felt something around her eyes. She reached up to touch her cheek and felt telltale traces where tears had dried on her skin. She rubbed her eyes, realizing she must have been crying. A familiar ceiling came into view as her sight adjusted to the darkness.

She slid out of bed and looked at her hand. The white card was nowhere to be seen. She still did not fully understand what had just happened. All she knew was that she felt no more doubt. She reached down to lift up the white wolf dozing on the covers.

“Wake up, Cerberus.”

“Ruff?!”

Suddenly finding herself in midair, Cerberus snapped awake and looked around in alarm. Once she saw Liz was the cause, she relaxed again, although not without a resentful glare.

“There’ll be time to sleep later. We need to...” Liz trailed off, her eyes flattening into unamused semicircles. “Wait, why are you so heavy? Have you put on weight?”

Cerberus’s ears flattened against her head. She looked away innocently. Liz’s jaw tightened—it was obvious the wolf was playing dumb—but there was no time to press her on it. She had to act before this surge of inspiration faded.

“Once this is over, you’re going to tell me exactly what meals you’ve been sneaking.”

Warning given, she hurried out of the room. The ladies-in-waiting at the door looked at her in surprise, but she ignored them and burst into the next room down. The door swung against the wall with a thunderous crash.

“Eek!”

Aura shrieked, practically leaping out of bed. She stared at Liz in pale-faced shock, the Black Chronicle open in front of her. At a nearby desk, Scáthach spun around in similar surprise, a quill in her hands and a sheet of parchment before her. Liz put the pieces together at once: This was another of Aura’s compulsory study sessions. Still, that was not important now.

“We need to talk,” she said.

Two women and a wolf looked at her dubiously.

“We have to win this battle. And I’m going to need your help.”

She did not offer them a reason. Her request was entirely selfish. It was the middle of the night—far too late for anyone, even a member of the royal family, to call on anyone else’s bedchamber. Yet the intensity in her face permitted no refusal, and the confidence in her eyes compelled obedience. There was an arrogance to her now, an unswerving belief in her own cause...as if she were truly the first emperor reborn.

Final Chapter: Sunrise

The lands of the Free Folk, near the Kwasir border

The clear skies made for perfect riding weather. It would have been a fine day to take off atop a fine horse, bow and arrow in hand, hunting down rabbits for supper or perhaps even chasing bigger game. Flowing water attracted creatures of all kinds. Deer, skittish and flighty, bounding away in the blink of an eye. Boars, stubborn and fearless, with a charge that could break a man’s bones. Bears, clever and hard to kill, made for uniquely challenging sport. The heart danced at the possibilities. For natural-born hunters like the beastfolk, this place was nothing short of paradise.

“Look at it! The grasslands! The game! It’s all right there, and I’m just supposed to ride on through!”

High Consul Skadi of Steissen howled her frustrations to the sky. Her aides looked on, a little exasperated but not unsympathetic. She glanced around as she clawed at her hair. Her beastfolk senses had caught the scent of prey—a deeper instinct than rational thought could suppress. Her jaw clenched as she faced the road ahead.

It had all begun with a letter. Now she and a handful of bodyguards were en route to the location it had proposed. Her face fell as she pulled out the missive from Lucia du Anguis, Six Kingdoms’ prospective High Queen.

“Damned shame the way this is going. I was hoping we might at least get a decent war out of all this...”

One of her aides saw what she was looking at and turned to her uneasily. “You sure it ain’t a trap, chief? Not that I don’t think you could take a fight or anything. Just thinking, maybe we could have brought a few more swords.”

“I wondered the same thing, but no, she’s on the up-and-up. I’d bet my hide on it.”

“How do you know?”

“’Cause my gut says so, that’s why.”

Skadi pointedly turned her attention back to the letter. It was a simple request for a secret meeting, along with directions to the meeting place, but the terse quill strokes betrayed that it had been written begrudgingly.

“If she ain’t happy about all this, odds are there’s somethin’ to it.” Skadi grinned as she scratched at one of her horns. “Still, pickin’ out a prime hunting ground for the meeting spot... Feels like one last kick in the teeth and no mistake.”

She looked around again. Pristine wilderness stretched in every direction, untouched by civilization. With so little blood in the air, the grasslands held no interest for any but the feeblest monsters, making them an ideal ecosystem for fauna low on the food chain. Skadi’s hunter’s instincts would not stop itching. Surely just a little wouldn’t hurt, she thought...but then, when it came to hunting, beastfolk didn’t know the meaning of moderation. They kept going until they had their fill, which would take days at least. In a place like this, it might never come at all.

With no small amount of restraint, Skadi and her party made their way toward the meeting spot. At last, a tent came into view. It flew no banners, but the attending soldiers were too well equipped to be bandits. It could only have been Lucia.

Skadi pushed the temptation of hunting from her mind and spurred her horse a little faster. As she drew close, she leaped down from the saddle and approached the man standing before the tent.

“Six Kingdoms, I’m guessing? Got an appointment with your queen.”

“Thank you for coming. Her Majesty awaits within.” With an elegant bow, the man stepped aside.

Skadi turned back to her troops. “All right, you lot. Wait out here.”

She strode inside, her frustration showing in her gait. The tent was dark and cloying with incense. Her sensitive nose wrinkled in discomfort.

Toward the back, Lucia reclined on a leather-trimmed couch. She smiled as she registered Skadi’s arrival. “Why, High Consul. It has been far too long. Please, have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”

Skadi flung herself down into a chair. “Let’s cut to the chase. Tell me what this is about, and if it ain’t worth my while, I start throwin’ punches.” She seized a nearby wine bottle, popped the cork, and set it to her lips.

“Making yourself right at home, I see. Did it not occur to you that might be poisoned?”

“Ain’t met a poison I couldn’t stomach. Now, as you were sayin’?”

“Very well. I suppose I ought to get to the point. This shall go nowhere otherwise.” Narrowing her eyes like a snake, Lucia flicked her fan closed and swung it down on the table with a thunk. “You may be pleased to know that you may now return home. With the greatest regret, I have elected to retreat.”

“And here I thought you’d pounce on us first chance you got. Who plucked out your claws?”

“I might ask you the same thing. I had expected Steissen to set its sights on bigger game.”

Skadi snorted as understanding dawned. Lucia wanted to know why Steissen had chosen to ally with the empire. Perhaps she was even hoping she could convince it to change its mind. Skadi couldn’t fault the attempt, but explaining her reasons would require confessing she had lost a duel to Surtr. She would rather die than admit that, but perhaps she could mix the information she had gotten from him with a little dishonesty. With a little luck, she might learn something in the process.

“Know what this is?” She took another swig of wine and laid her Drakeblade, Tyrfing, on the table.

Lucia cocked her head, regarding it dubiously. “A Noble Blade, by the feel of it. What of it?”

“That it is. You’ve got one yourself, don’t you? A Dharmic Blade, if I remember right. Any chance you know who made ’em?”

“The Lords of Heaven, as every babe in Soleil is aware. The Dharmic Blades in particular were forged by the Faerie King. What is your point?”

“And did you ever see the Faerie King in Vanr?”

Realization filled Lucia’s face. She stared down at her fan, eyes narrowing as if interrogating it. After a moment, a shadow fell over her face.

“He is gone,” she said, gazing at it in astonishment. “Not quite dead, but...Mandala’s power has faded.”

The Dharmic Blade’s strength was dimming, even to Skadi’s eyes. Something had clearly befallen the Faerie King. The beastwoman took another swig of wine and grinned. Lucia had told her everything she needed.

“Finally noticed, eh? Took you long enough.”

Once a Noble Blade chose a master, it would never leave their side. They were as close as family—so close, in fact, that Lucia had never noticed the change in her companion. Mandala’s presence had been so constant, so expected, so unchanged for a thousand years, that her preconceptions had blinded her to the truth.

“Y’know,” Skadi continued, “a little birdie told me something. Heard of the Supreme Dawnblades? The Iron Monarch’s work? Well, he said there ain’t no such thing, not really. What d’you suppose that means?”

She gave Lucia no time to recover. If anything, now was the time to press her for answers, while her head was spinning and her guard was down.

“I might hazard a guess,” Lucia said. “I have never crossed paths with one in Soleil, ’tis true.”

“Well, out with it.” Skadi managed to resist leaning forward, but she couldn’t hide her grin. Like all beastfolk, she wore her heart on her sleeve.

If Lucia noticed, she didn’t remark on it, but she shot the beastwoman a glance and sighed. “As best I know, the Iron Monarch resides on the northern continent, where he holds back the eruption of Mount Vyse. Perhaps calming the mountain demands so much of his power that there is little left to elevate the Dawnblades beyond common steel, if they even still exist at all.”

“Huh. Interesting...”

Skadi nodded to herself, grinning broadly. Her bluff had paid off even better than she had hoped. She had not expected Lucia to be so forthcoming. The fear of losing Mandala must truly have sent her reeling.

“So with all that, I got to thinkin’.”

Lucia arched an eyebrow. “About what?”

“What d’you think?” Skadi slammed the bottle down on the table, scowling. “Don’t seem wise to stake your life on a Noble Blade nowadays. Not when it might give out any second.”

The crisis in the empire presented a tempting opportunity, but there was no guarantee that Steissen or Six Kingdoms were strong enough to exploit it. More to the point, if Skadi’s or Lucia’s Noble Blades were shattered in the battle, they would lose their best means of resisting the Demiurgos. They were both seasoned warriors even without Mandala or Tyrfing, but the loss would be devastating for morale.

“How’d you rate your odds against the Demiurgos in a world without Noble Blades?”

“Poorly, I admit.” Lucia frowned. “So this is why you have thrown your lot in with the empire? Surely their Spiritblade Sovereigns are no less of a threat?”

“Right enough. If they come out on top...well, who knows how things will shake out in the long run, but in the short term, Soleil will be Liz’s for the taking.”

The Spiritblade Sovereigns were not the Spirit King’s work. Uniquely among the Noble Blades, they had been forged by human hands. The exact process was lost to history, and the Spirit King had surely had some part in it given that they were imbued with spirits, but they were likely longer-lived and more durable than the other Lords’ handiwork.

“Still,” Skadi continued, “she can be bargained with. Which is more than I can say for the Demiurgos.”

“And would your beastfolk blood consent to an era under the empire’s thumb?”

“I ain’t gonna let Steissen burn just to keep my pride intact. The next generation can figure out what to do about the empire. Best I can do is leave ’em a strong nation to work with.”

“Indeed. Well, there goes my last hope, I suppose.”

Six Kingdoms would be powerless without Steissen’s assistance. Even Skadi couldn’t smile at that. She poured a goblet full of wine and held it out.

“Care to share a toast?”

“Why not?” Lucia took the goblet. “To a future filled with strife.”

Skadi let out a bark of laughter. “Now that’s the spirit!”

The beastwoman had regrets of her own, but she knew her strength had its limits. Her fighting style was wholly dependent on Tyrfing. She had hoped to run wild one last time against Lucia. Now that she had been denied that opportunity, there was nothing left to do but drink.

“Guess we’d all better hope Surtr pulls off his harebrained scheme,” she murmured. She took a sip of wine, snorted, and closed her eyes. “Here’s to the biggest damned fool under the sun.”

＊＊＊＊＊

The fifteenth day of the twelfth month of Imperial Year 1026

Fort Towen, in the Grantzian Empire

The sky was clear, but the morning was chilly. The air was so cold it stung. The soldiers had to force themselves from the warmth of their beds, exhaling white puffs that dissipated on the wind as it snatched them skyward. Yet their duty cared nothing for the weather. They dashed about in such a hurry that they did not feel the cold, making ready to defend their families, their friends, and their nation.

Fort Towen was in uproar. The Demiurgos’s horde had been sighted, a bristling shadow darkening the horizon. Yet no one stood and stared; no one trembled in fear; none thought to turn tail and save their own skin. The soldiers of the empire took up their positions in an orderly fashion and prepared for battle. A grand banner streamed above them, bearing the imperial lion. It made for a sight to put their hearts at ease and fill every imperial citizen’s chest with pride.

The imperial forces consisted of thirty thousand heavy cavalry, ten thousand light cavalry, twenty thousand heavy infantry, and ten thousand light infantry. All told, seventy thousand souls awaited the signal horn. There was no hesitation in their eyes. If anything, they burned with zeal, stamping their feet impatiently. The clatter of armored boots rose to the sky, piercing the clouds and resounding through the heavens.

The monsters met the empire’s fervor with howls of their own. As the two sides began their chorus, a third, smaller force surveyed the battlefield: the soldiers of Lebering, waiting on the end of the empire’s right flank. Their numbers were small—fewer than ten thousand—but they were still zlosta, and their natural strength could be a devastating force if correctly utilized. Queen Claudia, their peerless monarch, stood at their head. A faint smile hovered on her lips as she basked in the battle cries.

On the opposite side of the field, on the empire’s left flank, were the four thousand soldiers of the Crow Legion. Their uniform black armor made for an intimidating sight. Behind them flew a banner just as large as the imperial lion: the standard of Mars, a dragon clutching a silver sword on a black field. The dragon seemed to flap its wings as the cloth streamed on the wind, imbuing it with overpowering gravitas. The eerie black ranks of the Crow Legion stood stoically beneath it, the glow of the War God in their eyes. They regarded their enemies with bated breath as they waited for the slaughter to begin.

The fervor swelled. The imperial soldiers raised their voices and lifted their weapons high. The cheers rang out behind Liz like an adoring crowd as she glanced sideways at Aura.

“They might have us beaten in numbers,” she said, “but not spirit.”

Aura nodded. “We’ll put up a good fight. Enough to get you where you need to go, anyway.” She narrowed her eyes, peering at Liz accusingly.

Liz stepped back, a little intimidated. “What is it?”

“Doing what you want is going to ask a lot from the troops. You can’t let them down. Remember that.”

“I know. I won’t fail. I promise.”

The infantry, both light and heavy, stood in the center of the imperial line, with Liz and her royal guard in front of them on horseback. The light and heavy cavalry made up the flanks. They sat a short distance back from the center in the peculiar arrangement known as the dragon-wing formation.

“Good. Leave the strategizing to me. You just focus on what’s in front of you.”

With a wicked grin, Aura mounted up and rode off toward the rear. She would not accompany Liz to the final confrontation. Put bluntly, she did not have the martial ability, and besides, she needed to command the army in Liz’s absence.

Once Aura was out of sight, Liz climbed atop her faithful steed. Her eyes narrowed on the battlefield ahead.

Meteia approached. “Is everything all right, my lady?”

Liz turned, hearing the note of concern in her retainer’s voice. Meteia looked ill at ease. Liz drew her horse closer and reached out to tousle the woman’s hair. Meteia’s cheeks reddened, but she did not object to the petting, closing her eyes blissfully.

“Don’t worry about me,” Liz said. “I won’t look back anymore. If Hiro can’t keep up with me, I’ll happily leave him behind.”

“I had better go back and fetch him then,” Meteia said. “Someone ought to.”

“Good idea. Then both of you can follow my lead.” Liz took a deep breath and drew Lævateinn from her belt. “From here on out, I’ll lead the way.”

Light scattered along the Spiritblade’s length as its crimson tip took aim at the sun. It shone so brightly that Meteia had to shield her eyes. Her tail wagged with pride.

“Let your hearts blaze!”

Liz’s voice rang out, clear and true. The stamping ceased, and the soldiers snapped to attention.

“Offer up your pride! Offer up your faith! And the light of the sun shall turn our enemies to ash!”

Now, with the last battle upon them, she filled their breasts with fire.

“Victory to the Divines!”

Horns blew. Their piercing notes rode the wind, coursing across the distance, thrumming through the air, spreading over the battlefield like a signal flare.

The soldiers’ passion erupted. “Victory to the Crimson Princess!” they cried as one, loud enough to bring the sky crashing down. They beat their swords and spears against their shields, stamping their feet in place. Their latent instincts stirred awake, bursting free as a primal roar that melded their hearts into one.

“Cut them down.” Liz swung her arm down, her beauty glowing. “Every last one.”

With a smile, regal and graceful, she drove her heels into her horse’s flanks. Her faithful white wolf grinned and surged after her, letting out a battle cry. The soldiers followed, racing after them so as not to be left behind.

Aura watched fondly from afar as the pair raced toward the battle.

An aide rushed up to her. “My lady!” he cried.

“What?”

“The second cohort is anxious to join the fray.”

“Let them. Send in the flanks as well. Victory to Lady Celia Estrella.”

If the soldiers felt that inspired, Aura didn’t have the heart to deny them. She herself felt a surge of pride as she watched Liz ride away, as a mother might watch over her child. Her hands were balled into fists, she realized. Even she was not immune to the fervor that had swept the ranks. She took a deep breath to calm herself. She could not afford to let anything cloud her judgment today.

“Keep an eye on our perimeter,” she said, issuing orders to her aides as she eased her horse forward. “Remember, they have leaders now. Be ready for anything.”

Monsters did not usually have the capacity for coordination, but with the more intelligent yaldabaoth serving as commanding officers, they had been beaten into line. Even from Aura’s vantage point, none seemed to have broken formation at the sight of the imperial charge. They had discipline. Over time, their superior numbers would wear the imperial forces down. If, however, the human troops focused on targeting and killing the yaldabaoth, the rest of the horde would quickly fall apart.

Aura glanced at the imperial flanks, as well as the Lebering troops and the Crow Legion on the ends. They would have a vital part to play in the battle. She had chosen to encircle the enemy, ensuring that no escaped monsters would go on to terrorize nearby settlements. That had been one of Mars’s signature tactics, the cornerstone of his undefeated legend. Aura favored it too, especially when the stakes were high.

“Liz isn’t the only one trying to prove herself. I promised I’d surpass you.”

She would ensure no monsters left this field alive—and that would mean utterly breaking their will to fight.

＊＊＊＊＊

The monsters stood firm in the face of the imperial charge. Humans were meat to them. An army willingly leaping into their jaws was cause for celebration, not dismay, and with starvation pricking at their bellies, their hunger easily surpassed their fear. They waited in naked anticipation, shoulders heaving, drool dripping from their mouths. Several looked on the verge of breaking ranks and meeting the enemy advance, but none did. Their commanders, the yaldabaoth, kept them on a tight leash.

The yaldabaoth were naked from the waist up, revealing the intricate patterns scrawled across their chests. They wore no armor, merely scraps of cloth around their waists to protect their modesty, but that only testified to their confidence in their natural strength. They sat atop their mounts, inspecting their weapons one last time. Packs of the failed fiends known as archons clustered protectively around them, alert and watchful. They had more brawn than brains, but they still knew to follow orders—although whether that was based on instinct or some vestige of their former lives as humans, only the gods knew.

The boy who led them sat on the ground behind their lines, legs crossed, one hand resting against his cheek. On one side of him stood Ceryneia, the last of the primozlosta. On the other was the yaldabaoth chieftain, Null. Both looked down at him apprehensively.

“The enemy assault has begun, my Lord,” Ceryneia said.

“I see.” The boy gazed disinterestedly up at the sky but said no more.

Sensing nothing else forthcoming, Null turned to Ceryneia. “Are you certain it is wise to wait?”

“Your yaldabaoth might be intelligent, although it pains me to admit it, but the rest of these oafs can only follow the simplest orders. This will minimize our losses.”

“Must we be so cautious against mere humans?”

“If brute force alone could best them, the zlosta would have conquered the world a thousand years ago.”

The yaldabaoth and the archons that accompanied them were capable of understanding most commands, but the wider variety of monsters would scratch their heads at any notion of strategy. That was the biggest reason the Demiurgos’s horde had failed to defeat the Crow Legion and their allies before the main body of the imperial force arrived. Momentum would not suffice. They had no chance of victory without the flexibility to adapt to an ever-changing battlefield.

In that, however, Ceryneia saw the seed of an idea. If attacking the imperials was a hopeless strategy, why not simply wait for their foes to come to them? Even a dog could wait on command. Monsters could surely manage that. And once battle was joined, one simple order would plunge the human forces into terror: “Kill.” The more he thought about it, the more certain he became: patience was the way. The imperial forces would see a solid wall of ravening monsters with key points reinforced by yaldabaoth and archons: a quagmire they would never escape. To break through with their paltry human strength would be next to impossible.

“If all goes well,” Ceryneia said, “we will not be needed at all.”

Null shrugged. “Then I will make my own way to the front.”

At that moment, the clashing of steel echoed from the front lines. Screams filled the air. The pair turned toward the noise.

“So it begins.”

Swirling dust swept like smoke over the right flank. A cloud of blood and gore filled the air. One hunk sailed higher and higher until it splattered back down at Null’s and Ceryneia’s feet—rather impressive, considering the distance to the front line. Ceryneia looked down at the decapitated head and froze.

Null stroked his chin in amusement, pushing a scrap of flesh into his mouth. “Hah! Perhaps these humans are not so puny after all.”

Ceryneia’s cheeks burned with shame. Before them lay the head of a yaldabaoth. Its features were not twisted in agony as he might have expected; rather, they hung slack, as if the monster had never even seen the fatal blow coming. An unspoken warning hung in the air: You will get the same.

“What now, Ceryneia? It seems matters are more dire than you expected.”

Null seemed invigorated by the promise of a worthy foe. Left to his own devices, he may well have charged recklessly into the fray.

“I will attend to the front in person,” Ceryneia said, hurriedly issuing an order. “You will reinforce the left flank. It is being pushed back—Claudia, most likely. I am sure she will entertain you.”

“May I kill her?”

“If you like. It will not inhibit our plans.”

“Good. Then I shall bring back her head.” Null sprinted away for the left flank, his powerful strides carrying him faster than a horse. A handful of yaldabaoth fell in behind him.

Once he was out of sight, Ceryneia knelt once more before the black-haired boy. “Forgive my departure, my Lord. I shall soon return with word of my victory.”

“Do as you please.”

The boy sounded as indifferent as ever, but Ceryneia did not mind. If anything, he was glad not to have to waste time on formalities. He stood up and looked over the surrounding yaldabaoth.

“Keep our Lord safe until my return.”

With that, he mounted his horse and drove his heels into its flank. Unlike Null, he rode with no escort. The yaldabaoth detested him just as much as he despised them. They knew him well, and they would have nothing to offer him but jeers.

The boy showed no regard for his new protectors. His gaze remained fixed on the flames spreading across the battlefront.

＊＊＊＊＊

They were fast. Too fast to follow. The imperial vanguard surged ahead unimpeded, mowing down monsters in droves. A cold sweat broke out on Scáthach’s brow to see how swiftly they pierced the enemy lines.

“How strong you’ve grown, my lady...”

Liz and her troops sped toward the core of the Demiurgos’s army with formidable momentum, leaving corpses strewn in their wake. As they drove deeper, however, the monsters around them pressed in with greater force. Piercing the center had left them with foes on both sides.

Scáthach forced the nearby monsters back with a sweep of Gáe Bolg and turned to Aura. “Should we be concerned, my lady? Are they not moving too quickly?”

“It’s fine. We follow them.”

Aura sounded confident, and she had a better view of the battle from atop her horse, but Scáthach’s misgivings were not allayed.

“What about the flanks? They are not keeping pace either. Were we not supposed to coordinate our offensive?”

The imperial flanks had been meant to strike the enemy lines first. Only then would Liz have pierced the softened center, splitting the monsters’ forces into two halves that the empire could isolate and crush.

“That’s why I put the Lebering troops and the Crow Legion on the ends. Once Queen Claudia sees how fast Liz is going, she won’t want to be left behind. The same goes for the Crow Legion. They’ll all want to put on a good showing.”

“Lady Aura is right,” Selene said, flicking the blood from her sword. “I see no cause for concern. If we have the momentum, why waste it? The flanks are only lagging a little, not enough to pose a problem— Yah!”

She sprang forward as a monster leaped between her and Aura, crushing its face with her knee before spinning vertically and bringing her heel down on another foe’s head. With a graceful landing, she glanced back the way they had come.

“I only see corpses behind us. Either the monsters don’t have the brains to cut off our retreat or their flanks are so hard-pressed they’re unable to try. Either way...”

The imperial soldiers watched in astonishment as the trio conversed in the middle of the battle. While the ordinary troops fought for their lives, Scáthach and Selene cut down monsters like grain. A battle cry erupted from the ranks, and the men pushed back the monsters on either side with renewed fervor, striving to match their commanders’ performance.

Aura narrowed her eyes fondly as she watched. “They’re giving us their best. We have to keep going.”

Scáthach nodded. “Very well. I suppose it would do more harm than good to dampen their morale now.”

Appeased, or perhaps embarrassed to have spoken up unnecessarily, she hefted her spear behind her back and took off for the battlefront at blinding speed. Selene sprinted ahead of her. Aura knew the second prince had a score to settle. Selene had commanded the right flank prior to Aura’s arrival, and it was under her leadership that it had fatally crumbled. Aura had since looked into the situation and discovered a string of irregularities that suggested Selene was likely not to blame, but in her own eyes...

“If I’ve disgraced myself in battle,” the second prince growled, “I’d better redeem myself in battle.”

She was not fighting for revenge, or for retaliation, or for any cause with such a clearly defined enemy. Her battle was with herself, to redeem herself in her own eyes. No one could help her. This was a trial she had to face alone. All Aura could do was pray she would find the strength to overcome it.

“And I’ll do my part too.”

A steady flame lit in Aura’s steel-gray eyes. She would do all she could to the best of her ability.

＊＊＊＊＊

Garda slowed as he saw the dust cloud rising from the center. With monsters all around, he barely had space to breathe, but the sight was so astonishing that he could not help himself.

“Would you look at that. The little lady’s come far.”

He had realized the Crimson Princess was made of different stuff from the moment he first saw her. It had been as clear as day that she would eventually surpass him. Nonetheless, he had not expected her to come into her own so quickly.

“I would have given her five years at the least. It’s true, then. Humans are full of endless possibilities.”

That was a trait the powerful zlosta lacked. They were born complete, while humans were born flawed, but that gave the latter much greater aptitude for growth. Perhaps that was only natural. Humans lived fleeting lives, but they spent every moment exploring their own potential. The zlosta and the álfar had lifespans three times as long, but their intrinsic perfection made them complacent, caring little for growth or change. It was no wonder humans had always been the ones to accomplish the greatest feats.

Luka shattered a monster’s skull with her greathammer and turned to him with disdainful eyes. “Pay attention, brute. We are fighting a battle, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Her naked hostility brought Garda back to the present. “Forgive me,” he grunted. “I was marveling at the vanguard’s progress.”

“Has your brain rotted between your ears? It must have. This is no time to stand around slack-jawed. Or do you mean to let them steal the show?”

With a huff of irritation, she crushed the life from another monster. It was dead before it struck the ground, but that didn’t stop her from vengefully bludgeoning its corpse.

“Rush blindly ahead and we’ll only get ourselves killed,” Garda cautioned. “They have their pace, and we have ours— Oof!”

He broke off as Vajra’s crushing weight lifted him clean off the ground. He managed to block the blow, but it launched him past the front line and into the enemy’s midst.

“Has she lost her mind? Am I not on her side?!”

If he hadn’t readied his sword in time, the greathammer would have felled him where he stood. Luka had swung to kill. Still, she was the least of his concerns now. A cold sweat broke out on his brow as he watched monsters close in on all sides. Drool dripped from their jaws as they regarded him, overjoyed that fresh meat had fallen so obligingly into their ranks.

Garda had no intention of being easy prey. He took the initiative, swinging his greatsword with all his might. He was already turning toward his next target as blood splattered his lilac skin.

“What are you doing, Miss Luka?!”

“Forgive me, Huginn. I fear my hand slipped.”

“That wasn’t an accident! I saw how far he flew!”

“He’s hardy enough. He’ll survive.”

“That’s not the problem!”

A distinctly unhurried conversation reached Garda’s ears as he fought for his life.

“Someone’s got to help him! Just hold tight! I’m coming!”

“Not so fast, Huginn. Rush blindly ahead and you will only get yourself killed.”

Those last words sounded oddly familiar. With a surge of anger, Garda swept his sword through a monster’s torso, cleaving it in two.

“I won’t let you put yourself in harm’s way. Muninn, carve us a path.”

“What, all by myself? Not likely!”

“Perhaps I could launch you as I launched him.”

“Uh... After me, you layabouts! We’re going to save the boss!”

A rather reluctant battle cry arose from the imperial lines.

“Curse that woman,” Garda muttered. “Is she using me to gain ground?”

There was no one around to answer. The monsters only threw themselves at him with ever greater ferocity. He thrust his sword into one’s mouth as it leaped at him with jaws agape, then leaped into the air, splitting its skull apart. The momentum carried him through into another strike that lopped off another monster’s arm.

“I never should have let her watch my back. A mistake I won’t make twice.”

Luka was a menace, no matter which side she was on. A chill ran down his spine as he set about cutting down his foes. Eventually, he lost count of his kills. His newly procured armor grew dented and damaged, and blood and fat dulled his greatsword. Yet just as his plight began to look dire...

“We’re here, boss! Ready to help!”

A fresh greatsword landed on the ground beside him as Muninn and a host of riders burst through the enemy lines. He threw his old blade into the monsters’ midst, grasped the new one, and swung. Three foes fell to the ground, and he followed through into a vertical slice.

“Much appreciated. I may owe you my life.”

As the cavalry laid waste to the enemy, Garda thrust his sword into the ground, took off his helm, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He had been certain he would die. Now that he had space to breathe, it was hard not to think about the woman who had flung him into the enemy lines, and he had to remind himself not to let anger cloud his mind.

“Watch your back, brute.”

“Hm?”

Garda turned just in time to catch a spray of blood to the face. A monster thudded to the ground mid-leap. He closed his eyes to wipe the blood away. When he opened them again, Luka was there, resting Vajra atop the corpse.

“You ought to be grateful,” she said with a snort. “I do believe I just saved your life.”

She showed no remorse whatsoever. He pursed his lips, conflicted. He was tempted to give her a piece of his mind, but he had to admit, without her intervention, he might have been dead.

“Have you nothing to say?”

Her attitude rankled, but he told himself a debt was a debt. “Forgive me. You have my thanks.”

“Good. Now, don’t just stand there looking foolish. We have a battle to win.” She hefted Vajra and took off for where Huginn and Muninn were fighting.

Garda watched her go in stunned silence. Finally, he sighed and raised his eyes to the sky. “I blame you for this, One-Eyed Dragon.”

He clenched his sword tighter and sprinted back into the fray. Once this was over, he would knock Hiro senseless for saddling him with this troublesome shrike.

＊＊＊＊＊

Something black and turgid welled up inside Claudia’s chest, and it took several seconds to recognize it as jealousy. The realization came with a small sense of surprise. She had not thought herself capable of feeling something so ugly.

“My, my. How she has grown.”

As she watched, the Crimson Princess tore through the enemy vanguard, slaughtering monsters several times her size. Nothing could stand in her way. Even the troops who followed her inherited something of her strength. Common soldiers fought just as fiercely as she did, cutting down monsters that ought to have been beyond their capabilities, pushing beyond their limits to prove themselves worthy of her service.

Only she could have made this possible. No one else could have produced such a sight. It was like watching a goddess lead her faithful into battle, and it left no question that she was the only worthy heir to the throne. She was the stuff of legends, her valor inspiring all who followed—a born ruler, leading her troops onward with the prayers of her people at her back. Her growth was astonishing. Now that she had found her wings, she was steadily acquiring the presence of an empress.

“Four years,” Claudia murmured. “So much time, and yet so little. Just when did she pull so far ahead?”

Where had this gulf come from? It was not as if Claudia had spent the past four years resting on her laurels. She had accumulated plenty of experience since becoming queen, and she had taken care not to neglect her training. Perhaps the difference was one of environment. She had lived a charmed life next to the Crimson Princess, she had to admit. Her family had doted on her since birth, and her father, recognizing her potential as an auf, had educated her in secret on matters of rulership. Her brother’s rebellion had been a bump in the road, but compared to Liz, she had taken the throne with relative ease. Therein lay the difference, perhaps. She had wanted to be queen, while Liz had wanted to be empress. She had sought to accomplish her goals, while Liz sought to accomplish her dreams. She had been content to walk, while even now, Liz pushed herself to run.

“A matter of perspective, perhaps. A small distinction, and yet perhaps the most vital.”

Part of growth was cultivating a strong heart. The Crimson Princess had been shaped by the trials she had endured; by every disdainful boot, every cruel blow, every ignominy, every setback she had weathered without losing sight of her goal. Without them, she could not have reached these heights.

“One might almost suspect her misfortune was placed in her way to make her stronger.”

There seemed to have been some will at work, although Claudia could not guess whose. None of the Lords, that much was certain. Some greater being had laid the path Liz now walked. It was a path beset with obstacles, but at the end lay the highest honor of all: the throne of empress.

“Lord Surtr, perhaps? No, even he was only a pawn in this game.”

Hiro had goals of his own, and his schemes did not allow for anybody else to interfere. That was how he had gotten the better of the Lords, after all. But then, who could have used him so? It would have taken someone who knew him well...or so Claudia’s instincts insisted, but no one who fit that description came to mind.

“I always thought he was at the center of it all, but now...”

Now, she suspected she had been mistaken. It was not Hiro around whom the age revolved. And if even he had been merely one more instrument to mold the Crimson Princess into who she needed to be... The implications sent a shiver down her spine.

“If this war truly was orchestrated, I daresay not even I could say how it might end.”

Such a scheme could only be the work of a true god, an entity to transcend the Lords of Heaven. As for whether such a figure truly existed... Well, the outcome of this battle would reveal that.

“If there is such a mastermind, they will reveal themselves in due course. In the meantime, why not enjoy the melee before me?”

She dug her heels into her horse’s flank and spurred it into a gallop, lopping off head after head with deft strokes of Lox’s Fellblade. Liz might have stolen a march on her, but she would make up the difference. Her pride would not admit defeat. If fortune had decreed her to be born alongside the Crimson Princess, she would have history know her as a worthy rival. There were many years ahead of her yet. She was too young to concede. Jealousy and ambition would fuel her to heights unknown. She would not chase Liz. Indeed, she would not follow in anyone’s footsteps. Liz’s way would not be hers. She would walk a different path, honing her blade for the day they converged once more.

“Perhaps this will be enjoyable after all.”

Peace might return to Soleil once this war was over, but it would not come to her so easily. Life had ever been a series of endless trials.

She glanced at the imperial vanguard. “The stage is yours for today, would-be empress. Have your moment of glory. It would be boorish of me to take it from you.”

For the briefest moment, she smiled, and then it was as if a wave had withdrawn. She turned back to the battle with a gaze as sharp as a knife, centering herself again. There was no time for frivolous thoughts. As she watched, a great force flung several of her own dear troops back from the melee. The figure responsible grinned defiantly as blood and gore rained down around him.

“So these are the famed zlosta. No wonder such feeble creatures never cast their shadow over Soleil.”

A tall, dark-skinned man covered in intricate markings swung a Lebering soldier about like an infant. Claudia’s delicate features twisted with rage. How valiant her troops were, advancing undaunted toward a fight they could not win, and how ugly this man seemed as he crushed them like insects.

“Do excuse me.” She braced her feet against the saddle and leaped high, readying Hauteclaire in midair before falling on the yaldabaoth like a bolt of lightning.

He turned. “Hm?”

“I believe you owe my dear soldiers an apology.”

“Ghk!”

Hauteclaire bit deep into the yaldabaoth’s right shoulder, but it jammed before it swung clear. Claudia pressed down harder, but the arm would not come loose. She scowled and pulled Hauteclaire free. A gout of blood sprayed from the wound. In a silver streak, she swung once more at the yaldabaoth’s neck, but he caught the blow with an enormous axe. Sparks sprayed. She pressed the attack, turning into a piercing thrust. The yaldabaoth tried to dodge, but he was too slow.

“Good.” He spread his arms wide, grinning from ear to ear. “Very good.”

All of her strikes struck home. They shattered his bones, skewered his heart, froze his flesh. By the time she came to a stop, he looked as if he had been carved from solid ice.

A cheer erupted from behind her. Her troops rejoiced, praising her name. It was hard to blame them—the yaldabaoth had made light work of them, but she had dispatched it with ease. Yet as they moved closer, she raised an arm to ward them back.

Something was happening. Flakes of ice began to fall from the carving. A web of cracks spread across its surface. Finally, with a crash, the yaldabaoth broke free, smiling even wider as the ice burst from his skin.

“Well, now. You’re a worthy foe.” He drew a deep breath, then exhaled, lifting a hand to his neck as he turned to regard Claudia. “I am Null, chieftain of the yaldabaoth. And you are?”

He spoke confidently, arrogantly even, as if assured of his own superiority. When confronted with pride such as his, Claudia could not help but want to break it. A sadistic instinct stirred in her chest. You are not as strong as you believe, it whispered. Allow me to show you.

“I am Claudia van Lebering, queen of the Kingdom of Lebering.”

Come, then. Come and feed the frost. She plastered on a smile so her true feelings would not show. It was gentle and pure, devoid of hostility, but it did not reach her eyes.

“The woman who will cut you to ribbons.”

The smile turned lascivious as she expelled a rapturous breath.

＊＊＊＊＊

A scarlet flower burst into bloom as Lævateinn traced a spiral across the field. Blasts of heat swept the monsters’ lines, swallowing them whole like some fiery serpent. It was winter, but the battlefield was as hot as summer. The combatants sweat as they fought.

Meteia glanced back, and shock ran through her. Imperial heavy infantry were engaging the enemy almost by her side.

“They’re keeping pace...” she murmured. “Without so much as a Noble Blade between them. And at such speed too...”

The sight itself was not a surprise. Such scenes were commonplace in war. But anybody who had watched this battle from the beginning would have been just as astonished. Liz had led the cavalry of the first cohort in a thunderous charge at the heart of the monster horde, and even now, they were bearing down on their target with fearsome speed. But the second and third cohorts following them were composed of light and heavy infantry. Meteia had assumed that most would fall behind the riders, but no—they were keeping up, leaping valiantly into the fray as if their energy was limitless.

A shiver ran up her spine. What was inspiring them so? Why were they pushing themselves to such lengths? She looked around, and then she found the answer: Not far away, a lily flew high and proud on a crimson field. The standard-bearers were so grievously wounded they could barely stand. Their breastplates were dented, and blood dripped from the joints of their armor. Even so, they gritted their teeth and kept the banner aloft, standing firm as if their feet were rooted to the earth. There could only be one reason they were fighting so fiercely—they were so loyal to the Crimson Princess that they would defend her sigil with their lives.

Meteia considered ordering them to fall back, but denying them this moment would break their spirits forever. They had steeled themselves for this. It had taken true courage to choose their duty in the face of fear. Yet while that would have been commendable in a training exercise, this was war, where the weakest fell first. Even now, monsters closed in on them, sensing easy prey.

With a scowl, Meteia dropped the reins and spread her arms wide. They were foolish, but they were brave, and they needed her help. Yet she never had a chance to intervene. A tongue of fire snaked out in front of them, snatching an oncoming monster in its jaws, and plunged into a knot of foes, exploding into a pillar of flame.

Sparks swirled. Charred flesh rained down from the sky. Meteia spun around in surprise. There was the figure of her mistress, silhouetted against the fray. Liz did not look back, but the set of her shoulders spoke eloquently enough: I will leave none of my soldiers behind.

In Meteia’s mind, the past overlaid with the present. “Lady Rey...” she breathed. “Truly, you live on in her.”

Rey had fought in much the same way, refusing to let her allies come to harm. If Liz had declared that no one would be left behind, it was only right for Meteia to show the same resolve—to lighten the weight on her mistress’s shoulders so that she could face her final battle at the peak of her strength.

“Stand back,” she growled. “I’m in a fighting mood today!”

With a feral grin, she surged after Liz, slicing apart the monsters around her with invisible threads. She had failed to protect her mistress in a past life. She would not fail again.

“We’re almost there, my lady!” she cried. “Save your strength for your own battle. I’ll take care of the rabble!”

Liz lifted a fist in reply. At that moment, a hooded figure appeared in her path. His red blade looked a little like Lævateinn from a distance. Rather than searing crimson, however, it was a sinister, gory scarlet.

Meteia sensed what he was at once. “A primozlosta!” she hissed. She saw Liz ready to pull on her reins. “Ride on, my lady! This one is mine!”

She lifted her arm, and Fragarach appeared in her hand. She grasped the hilt tightly and leaped from the saddle, surging past Liz in an astonishing burst of speed.

“Your battle is with me!”

With all her momentum behind her, she unleashed a ferocious overhead slash. A metallic clang split the air, and the ground buckled beneath the primozlosta’s feet. A dust cloud flew skyward as the earth split apart.

“I know you,” the primozlosta said. “But it cannot be... Meteia?”

His surprise was clear in his voice. With their eyes plucked out by Mars long ago, the primozlosta had to rely on senses other than sight, and as far as he and the rest of the world knew, Meteia had died a thousand years ago. No one could blame him for doubting his senses. Nonetheless, his momentary confusion gave Liz the chance to slip past.

“Well guessed,” Meteia said. “Maybe I’d even congratulate you if I could tell who you were under that hood.”

“So it is you,” the figure said. “I am Ceryneia, once one of the primozlosta.”

The name plucked at Meteia’s memories, which flooded back easily once she pulled on the thread. Ceryneia had left a distinct impression on her.

“I remember you,” she said. “And how Hiro and His Majesty left you slinking away with your tail between your legs.”

Around the time Artheus had begun to expand his influence, the towns and villages near his base of operations had come under persistent attack from bandits. Recognizing the threat they posed, Artheus had assembled a task force and ridden to the settlements’ aid, only to find it was a trap laid by Ceryneia to lure them into a zlosta ambush. Hiro’s quick thinking and Artheus’s strength had turned the battle around, dealing the primozlosta a stinging defeat. Given how fiercely he was biting his lip beneath his hood, the shame was evidently still raw.

“I thought you fell by Hydra’s hand,” he spat. “Through what cowardly means did you escape?”

He lashed out with the scarlet sword, but Meteia swung Fragarach up, knocking it aside. Sparks sprayed. A charred stench seared her nostrils.

“A dishonorable attack,” Meteia said. “But that always was your specialty, wasn’t it?”

Ceryneia bridled. “I will cut off your insolent head.”

Meteia snorted. “Not if I cut off yours first, you miserable lapdog.”

There was a moment of silence, and then the two clashed. Ceryneia’s face twisted in rage. Fuelled by shame, his anger burned bright.

“I have learned much since that day!”

Spurred by his resentment, his scarlet sword swept toward Meteia. She ducked and thrust out with Fragarach, but he sprang back, just barely escaping harm. He grinned as he saw her blade fall short.

“My Lord has gifted me Ipetam! So long as I carry it, I will not fail!”

Meteia narrowed her eyes coldly. “Is my name all you remember about me?”

Fragarach’s segments detached with a metallic clatter. The blade extended, impaling Ceryneia through the chest and emerging from his back. The force lifted him off the ground, leaving him looking down at Meteia with his legs dangling in midair.

“Agh... Ghk...”

Blood spewed from his mouth as he clutched at the blade. He tried to pull it free, but his efforts were in vain. Fragarach’s arrowhead-shaped segments grew disjointed when the blade extended, and the barbs made them next to impossible to pull out.

“Keep that up and you’ll tear your innards out,” Meteia warned.

“If you wish...then very well!”

Ceryneia gritted his teeth and pulled harder. They pressed together so hard they shattered, leaving blood and shredded viscera free to spill from his mouth.

“I am my Lord’s sword and shield! I will not disgrace myself again!”

He drove Ipetam into the ground, grasped the hilt with both hands, and levered himself toward it. Fragarach did not move an inch, but although the effort was clearly agonizing, he did not release his grip.

Meteia frowned, perplexed. At last, she realized what he was doing. Her eyes widened.

Blood sprayed from his side as he dragged himself free from Fragarach. He landed on his feet, a ragged wound extending from the center of his chest to his left shoulder. His arm dangled uselessly, barely still attached. The shoulder joint looked damaged beyond repair. To be willing to mutilate himself so, even to escape Fragarach’s clutches, he could not have been of sound mind.

“You must have lost your mind,” Meteia said. “But if you hope that will scare me, think again.”

In a flash, she swung up with a twist of her wrist. Fragarach lashed out like a whip, sending Ceryneia’s injured arm spinning from his body. Ipetam’s blessing was certainly empowering him, but his own body was a weak link. He was not a full zlosta without his manastone.

“Although even at your best, you would never have stood a chance.” Meteia drove Fragarach into the ground and placed her hands on the pommel, smiling coldly. “Ipetam, the Fellblade so bloodthirsty it drinks its own wielders dry. Oh, I know it well. I faced it myself a thousand years ago. I know its range is short...and I know you couldn’t have picked a worse opponent.”

She raised a hand and swung it down, driving Fragarach fully into the earth. With her right knee and right hand on the ground, she pronounced his death sentence:

“I watched its last master bleed out before my very eyes.”

“Curse you! Curse you!”

Ceryneia raised Ipetam and lunged at her, spitting bile. To the very end, he did not give in, even as the realization sank in that he could not win. He pressed forward, quashing his despair like a true warrior.

His blade swept up from below. Meteia sprang sideways to avoid it. He read the movement and twisted after her, but Meteia slipped backward, still one step ahead. A few strands of white hair scattered on the wind as Ipetam’s lethal edge swept before her face. Again, the primozlosta swung furiously. His chest heaved, but each strike remained as potent as the last—and yet Meteia evaded them nonetheless, always keeping her distance.

Ceryneia slid to a halt as realization dawned. Where earlier he had burned with zeal, it now felt like a bucket of cold water had been upended on his head. His lips turned blue, and he began to tremble. Only now had he realized how thoroughly he was outclassed. The gulf between them was not one he could bridge.

“My turn, I think,” Meteia said.

Ceryneia heard her voice and leaped back. Not a moment later, countless blades sprang up in the space he had been occupying.

“A thousand years ago! Always a thousand years ago! Must the past still haunt me?! Must it still stand in my way?!”

He bore down on Meteia, darting between the blades sprouting from the ground. He suppressed his fear of dying to gamble his life in his master’s name. The cause he fought for gave him strength—but then, that was true of Meteia too.

“You’ll get no mercy from me.”

She glanced at his arm. It was already beginning to regenerate. The Demiurgos had endowed each of the primozlosta with supernatural fortitude; she would need to carve him into pieces so small he would not be able to come back. She narrowed her eyes as he approached through the storm of violence, confidently standing her ground like a predator waiting for her prey.

“And now you’re too close to get away.”

Ceryneia grinned as he entered striking range. Ipetam’s scarlet blade thrust forward eagerly. Meteia only closed her eyes, making no move to defend herself...but just as the Fellblade came within a hair’s breadth of her forehead, it spun away in a shower of sparks.

Ceryneia paled, arm still outstretched. As he stood, stunned, Meteia opened her eyes again and unleashed a vicious front kick, sending him flying.

“Argh!”

With his right arm extended and his left yet to heal, he had no way to defend himself from the blow. Grimacing at the organ-rupturing impact, he positioned himself to break his fall—and just before he came down, countless swords erupted from the ground, skewering him through.

“Ngh...”

He lay spread-eagle, staring up at the sky. His mouth hung open as it finally dawned that Meteia had lured him into a trap. Ipetam spun in the air above him. As he watched, it surrendered to gravity and slowly descended. With his arms held fast, he was helpless to keep the scarlet blade from piercing his chest.

“Not yet... Not...yet! I will not die here!”

He eased his torso upright through sheer force of will. Slicing his legs to ribbons, shredding his belly, peeling the skin from his own back, he forced himself from the bed of nails. His lips curved into a rictus grin as he pulled Ipetam from the red ruin of his body.

Meteia’s eyes softened with pity. “Let me put you out of your misery.”

Enormous blades sprang from the ground around him, penning him in. One by one, they clicked together, coiling around him like a serpent constricting its prey. The whirring metal formed a dome over his head. With nowhere left to run, he gradually vanished within the vortex of steel.

Meteia thrust out a hand and clenched her fist. The blades abruptly contracted. In the blink of an eye, the dome shrank to the size of a glass bead and vanished.

“He got away,” she murmured as she opened her hand again. She had not sensed his death in the spinning blades. “But he won’t last long. Ipetam will claim its due.”

Ceryneia’s regeneration had ceased to function. His wounds would not heal. He would continue to bleed until he finally expired, and he would feel death creeping closer all the while. A fitting end for the last of the primozlosta, perhaps...or so Meteia thought as she mounted up and set off after Liz.

＊＊＊＊＊

A gale raged upon the battlefield. Every swing of the colossal man’s greataxe produced a violent squall that tore the nearby monsters limb from limb. None could approach him. The tempest struck fear into every heart.

All but one, that was. A beautiful woman stood in the heart of the storm, unconcerned by winds fierce enough to flay her to the bone. With a calm smile and nimble footwork, she wove elegantly between the strikes. It was as if she was in a world of her own, far from the clamor of battle: a young girl dancing through a field of flowers rather than a warrior fighting for her life.

“You’re a feisty one. Easy on the eyes too.” Null, the chieftain of the yaldabaoth, licked his lips. “You’re too good for a zlosta. How about I make you my wife instead?”

The woman took the dubious compliment in stride. “You would not be the first gentleman to make me that offer.”

“Hah! I’m sure I’m not.” He stared down at her with undisguised lust. “Well, how about it? Be my bride and I’ll let that pretty head stay on your shoulders.”

“I’m afraid I must disappoint you.” The woman—Claudia, dubbed the Vernesse by her people—brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled. “I have no interest in marriage at present. And even if I did, you’re hardly my type.”

That was no lie. Claudia needed no husband to secure her reign. It was true that the royal line would die out without an heir, and she had some ideas on that score, but she was not inclined to share them with the man before her. For now, the future could wait.

She regarded Null anew. The hulking yaldabaoth was reddening with anger at what he perceived as a slight. He could not have been further from her preferences if he had tried.

“A shame.”

With inhuman strength, Null brought his colossal axe crashing down. Claudia spun elegantly out of its path without so much as twitching an eyebrow. Denied its target, the greataxe struck the ground, which buckled under the force. As a plume of dust flew skyward, Null’s enormous hand plunged through the haze, seeking Claudia.

“Then I’ll pluck off your limbs and take you in pieces!” Null’s arrogance took on a sadistic edge. Once his quarry had caught his eye, he would not let them escape.

“Forgive me,” Claudia said, “but I’m rather known for breaking hearts.”

Null’s hand was larger than her head, but her slender arms cut it down with ease. A grisly noise echoed across the battlefield, a clear and undeniable rejection.

Null’s eyes burned with rage as he realized he had been spurned in full view of the battlefield. “Very well. Enough of this. I’ll kill you and be done with it!”

He swung his axe with all his might. Claudia slipped behind a monster, marveling at the breeze on her skin, but her fragile shield did not last long before its skull shattered. She swept an archon’s legs and sent it tumbling toward the yaldabaoth, but it, too, was quickly smashed to pulp. The greataxe killed without regard for allegiance. Finally, as it bore down on her once more, she grasped a yaldabaoth’s head and pulled herself up into a handstand, letting the axe cleave the unfortunate monster apart in her place. As its pieces struck the ground, she landed and cast her eyes around, but there were no more shields to be found.

“I really must thank you,” she said, dipping into a noblewoman’s bow. “It was ever so kind of you to let my soldiers advance unimpeded.”

She brought a hand to her lips and laughed, as tasteful as a court lady and as arrogant as a spoiled princess. The sight was so baffling that even Null forgot his rage and looked around.

They stood amid carnage. The ground was littered with corpses as far as the eye could see. That much was common in war—every battlefield left its share of bodies—but it did not escape Null’s notice that the dead were almost exclusively archons, yaldabaoth, and other monsters.

“What in the world...?”

“Why, you had such eyes for me, you never spared a thought for your surroundings.” Claudia looked up at the bewildered yaldabaoth with a glacial smile. Her voice was smooth honey dripping into his ears.

Null gazed down, lost for words, at this woman less than half his size. Only now did he see her for what she truly was: a femme fatale whose seductive wiles led men to ruin.

“Doesn’t time just fly by in my company?”

A heated breath spilled from her throat, sickly sweet. Her lips curved into a lascivious smile that would set anyone’s blood aflame. She carried herself with the serenity of a goddess, but her eyes burned with the darkness of a deity of death.

“But I fear you have served your purpose now.” All emotion slid from her face. There was nothing there anymore—no desires, no expectations, only raw disgust. “And frankly, I find you quite repulsive.”

“How dare you—”

Null’s feet lifted off the ground. A kick from this woman less than half his size knocked him onto his back in the dirt.

“Now you shall entertain me awhile.”

That was an order, imbued with a queen’s authority—a queen without peer who looked down on him haughtily, asserting her own superiority. Her cheeks flushed with naked delight to have him at her mercy.

“Now, run. Run for your life. And I shall chase you to the ends of Soleil.”

Null gazed, slack-jawed, at the transformation that had come over her. The blood drained from his face. Claudia’s blade lashed out again, and a sudden impact snapped him from his stupor. One colossal arm sailed through the air. It tumbled end over end, streaming blood as it fell to earth.

That seemed to return Null to his senses. He rose to his feet, grimacing in pain. “You would mock me?”

Vengeance burned in his eyes, but it was quickly extinguished. Claudia’s eyes pierced him through at absolute zero.

“As I promised, you will not escape me.”

You have no right to disobey me, she said without saying. You are my plaything. Fuel for my rise.

“Raaagh!”

Null pushed back his fear of death to swing his greataxe down at Claudia’s head. Her contemptuous snort dissipated in the wind, laden with disappointment that he would defy his queen.

“How did you...? What power is this?!”

Null’s eyes widened in disbelief. He had brought his weapon down with all his might, but Claudia had stopped it dead—not with Hauteclaire, which was in her left hand, but with her bare fingers.

“I tire of this.”

Snow fell from a sky as frozen as her heart. The flakes spiraled on the wind, falling to earth and melting into the soil. Null shuddered as she fixed him with a frigid gaze.

“Now, die for me.”

She offered no mercy. She showed no compassion. He was a broken plaything for her to scorn as she pleased. The callousness she displayed was something few could imagine, but such was the nature of the zlosta, the birthright of the fiendkin who had once plunged Soleil into terror. Let others plead forgiveness. Let the weak beg for clemency. Let all creation bow before its rightful ruler, for she was Claudia van Lebering, the Queen of Snow, the tyrant who reigned at the apex of the zlosta.

“Curse you!” Null spat.

The yaldabaoth turned to run, only to fall flat on his face. He looked down in confusion. The ground beneath him was sheathed in ice. Claudia’s footsteps approached softly, and he raised his head again, compelled by the magnitude of the presence before him.

“I believe this is yours.” Claudia picked up his fallen greataxe and hurled it at him.

“No!”

The axe ignored his protestations as it spun through the air, landing on his legs. Flesh tore asunder. Null howled, but he could do nothing but roll about impotently. As he thrashed in agony, Claudia drove Hauteclaire through his arm, pinning him in place.

“How undignified.” Her voice took on a provocative edge. “You are a yaldabaoth, are you not? Show me your vaunted fortitude.”

Only then did Null notice what he had so far overlooked: His regeneration had ceased to function. He did not have to look far to see why. Ice lined his wounds, preventing them from closing.

“I... I cannot.”

Claudia giggled. “Do excuse me. I only wanted to stem your bleeding, but it seems I’ve done more harm than good.” She ground her heel gleefully into his torso, then kicked his right arm clean from his body. “How clumsy of me. But not to worry. See? I’ve staunched the wound for you.”

Her face grew more ecstatic with every mocking word. Her eyes were frosty as they regarded Null’s terror, but her body trembled as if resisting the urge to shout out with glee.

“Mercy! Mercy!” the yaldabaoth cried. “What did I do to you?!”

“Why, you looked at me with lecherous eyes, of course. That alone is worth a thousand deaths.”

She drove Hauteclaire into him over and over, each time stopping just short of a fatal wound. His blood froze as quickly as it spilled. Ragged holes opened up all over his body.

“You are disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting!”

“Ngh... Gaaahhh!”

“Ah... You remind me of my hateful brother. Such unwelcome memories. How could I show mercy to a man who looks at me the same way?”

Null’s howls echoed across the battlefield, accompanied by an undercurrent of tinkling laughter.

“I did say I would cut you to ribbons, and I intend to keep my word.”

Claudia slowly flayed him open, smiling cruelly all the while.

“But never fear. I am no monster. I will kill you eventually...once I have made good on my promise.”

She smiled with all the compassion of a goddess. Her blade caught the sunlight as she drove it down into Null’s face.

＊＊＊＊＊

Silence ruled in the monsters’ encampment. No one said a word as the enemy grew closer. From the size of the dust cloud, it was clear the imperial charge would cut through to the core. Embers swirled above the front line, and blasts of heat rolled across the field; there could be no doubt as to who was approaching. Nevertheless, the defenders were completely at ease.

There were two reasons for that. Firstly, most monsters were too dim-witted to speak a recognizable language, let alone prepare for an attack as humans would. They would continue gazing at the front line, faintly bemused, until the order came to do otherwise. Secondly, the yaldabaoth radiated confidence. They had the utmost faith in the strength bestowed on them by their master. No matter what came over the horizon, they were certain they could tear it asunder. It was hard to blame them for their arrogance; they had been born and raised in the harsh world of the Sanctuarium where they had no equals, and even after emerging into the wider world, they had rarely faced truly worthy opponents. Nonetheless, both factors combined to blunt their recognition of the impending danger.

One of the yaldabaoth approached the black-haired boy. “Null is gone, Father.”

“I see,” the boy murmured disinterestedly. As ever, his attention was fixed on the front line.

If the yaldabaoth minded the boy’s coldness, he did not show it. This was nothing new. The Demiurgos had been this way for as long as he could remember. He said no more, but lowered his head respectfully and retreated to where his comrades had congregated.

“Rejoice,” he said. “Null is dead. Once this battle is done, we will choose a new chieftain.”

Another nodded. “I did not think he would last long. He was strong, but not wise.”

Laughter rang out. None seemed to grieve the loss of their kin. Null had been far from the only yaldabaoth to fall on the front lines, but they shed no tears. If anything, they were glad to have fewer rivals for the seat of chieftain.

Yaldabaoth retained a handful of characteristics from before their turning, but their fiendish transformations and the harsh environment they had endured had left them with a twisted sense of right and wrong. They thought nothing of killing their own kind; their fellow yaldabaoth were as much rivals as brethren. Whether they were filling their bellies or pursuing their desires, their hearts ruled their heads, and what they wanted, they took by force. Life in the Sanctuarium was too cutthroat for kindness.

Recognizing that the yaldabaoth would wipe each other out if left to their own devices, the Demiurgos had created the role of chieftain. The strongest among them would lead the rest and dictate how they lived—a fitting societal structure for the Sanctuarium, where might made right. As such, every yaldabaoth nursed hopes of their chieftain’s death and could not abide any rivals stronger than themselves. It was hard to imagine them helping each other on the battlefield unless it served their own interests. They did not think twice about abandoning their own kind.

“What petty creatures,” the boy murmured.

Bored of the yaldabaoth, he returned his gaze to the blaze raging across the battlefield. The crimson flames were so entrancing he could not help but want to reach out and touch them, even though they would burn his flesh to ash. The approaching clamor heralded the end of the world.

“Louder. Louder. Let me hear every note in all its splendor.”

Once upon a time, a young girl had chased a dream. Those around her had laughed at her ambition, scoffing that her dream would never come to pass, but she had refused to bend. Her misfortune and hardship had not broken her heart but reforged it as strong as iron. She had stumbled, fallen, and collapsed in the muck, only to rise again and struggle on through ridicule, hatred, and scorn. Nobody laughed at her anymore. They saw that her resolve was very real.

Even now, she pressed on, faster and faster, as if chasing greater heights. Who could scorn her for wanting to inspire her soldiers, to lead her nation, to bring her people happiness? No one doubted her anymore. Even the gods could not deny her now.

“Come. Play me the song of the end.”

And she came, burning with the conviction of a monarch, radiating the arrogance of a deity. All who stood before her were reduced to cinders. All who barred her path were reduced to ash. No one in this world could halt her march. Lions and serpents accompanied her arrival, springing forth from a fiery abyss that swirled crimson and azure.

The monsters did not stand and fight. Their instincts recoiled against the notion. Only the yaldabaoth charged forth recklessly, and the inferno swallowed them whole. Screams rent the air, howls shook the sky, roars shuddered across the earth. A worthy stage was taking shape for the coming end.

The sky blackened. The land smoldered. All that lived burned in ghostly fire. And in the center of it all stood a crimson-haired woman, wreathed in flames of resolute azure. By Surtr’s guidance, Lævateinn had come to set the world of the gods alight.

“How I’ve waited for this day.” The black-haired boy rose silently to his feet. “Welcome, Crimson Princess, to the highest of heights. To the halls of the gods.”

Where before he had shown no emotion, he now smiled in genuine satisfaction.

“Or perhaps I should call you the Crimson Empress.”

He spread his arms wide, a dreadful grin upon his face.

“Let us sound the horns of Ragnarök.”

＊＊＊＊＊

The twinblack boy showed no hesitation as he drew Dáinsleif and eased into a fighting stance. Liz recognized him—all too well, in fact. She had never forgotten him for a moment. Her chest filled with warmth at the sight of his silken hair, obsidian eyes, and soft features. He was Hiro. There could be no mistake.

And so, to be certain, she used the Far Sight. His true nature would be revealed in the color of his soul.

She looked him over, every inch. The results were unclear—several hues swirled within him, blended so closely that it was impossible to discern exactly what he was. Her heart insisted he was the boy she knew, but her body was on guard, instinctively regarding him as a threat. A wary ripple ran through the flames coiling around her protectively. They, too, seemed to think he was a foe.

“Are you really Hiro?”

In the end, all she could do was ask. Internally, she had to smile ruefully at how ridiculous she must have looked, hoping for honesty she would surely not receive.

“I am Surtr, and I am the Spirit King, and I am the Demiurgos too.” The boy’s every motion seemed intended to provoke her. “The Five Lords. That is my name.”

“Is that so.”

Liz clenched her fist so hard her nails pierced the skin. Blood oozed from between her fingers and dripped to the ground. With her eyes downcast and her shoulders trembling, she almost looked like she was crying. Yet her resolve had not wavered. Her flames flared to mirror her heart, raging and roiling not with sorrow, but with tremendous anger.

“Then I’ll tear the rest of you off him and drag him out of there myself.”

She braced her foot against the earth and bounded forward, closing the distance to the Five Lords in a blink. Surprise filled his face. The spinning shape of his own severed arm glimmered in his jet-black eyes. The limb regrew in a heartbeat, however, and he met her offensive with his own.

Their battle belonged to them alone. Their blades traced countless glowing trails through the air, and sparks showered where they intersected. Every clash produced a shuddering clang like an ear-piercing scream. The storm raged wilder, but neither combatant would yield an inch, and space itself tore as their power collided.

Liz danced with her blade in hand, elegant but fierce, wielding fire and stoking flame. By contrast, the Five Lords hardly moved, twisting on one leg and leaning back from a slash, then shifting forward and stepping through into a thrust. He deflected strikes from the most oblique blind spots as he brought his black blade down in a ferocious swing.

Their exchange was breathtaking. Fire and darkness devoured each other whole, only to be revived again with the next clash. Heat swelled, darkness cooled, stillness descended, and then the combatants’ own battle shattered the tranquility anew. Countless wounds opened up across their bodies, only to instantly heal again by the power of their Noble Blades. In a sense, it was a stalemate—neither Liz nor the Five Lords was able to strike a decisive blow—but neither dared slow their momentum. This was a contest of strength, not strategy. Both understood that if they paused to exploit some weakness, they would be overwhelmed.

In the end, Liz was the one to take the initiative. She swung down fiercely, a crude attack born of pure brute strength. The Five Lords caught the blow with ease, but she leaned in and sailed over his head. She landed behind him, slid her front foot forward, and stepped in, thrusting Lævateinn forward. Even then, the Five Lords remained untouchable. He spun his sword behind him, blocking her attack without so much as looking back. As if venting its fury at being denied blood, Lævateinn expelled a jet of flame, engulfing him in a swirling firestorm.

Liz did not wait for the flames to die down. It would take more than that to finish him off, she knew. She fixed her foremost leg, twisted her hips, and drove a fist into the heart of the blaze. There was an unpleasant crunch, like breaking bone, and the Five Lords flew clear from the flames. He landed hard on his back, moved for the first time by a will other than his own.

As he struggled to rise, a shadow blocked out the sun. The lion queen stood over him with fangs bared, valiant and mighty. He lifted his head just in time to see a kick come directly at him. He crossed his arms between his face and her boot, but the impact still launched him high with a sickening crunch.

“I’m not done!”

Liz struck the ground hard. Cracks radiated out from her fist and erupted with crimson flame, sending plumes of fire skyward with an explosive roar. Caught in midair, the Five Lords had no way to escape. The fire swallowed him whole.

Liz watched the sky blacken for a long moment. At last, she lowered her gaze. A puff of dust flew skyward a short distance away as something struck the ground. The Five Lords had fallen from the heavens.

She approached at a leisurely pace, crimson eyes gleaming like a lion about to finish off its prey. Halfway there, however, she stopped. The Five Lords had emerged from the smoke, covered in blood. He raised a hand. The air snapped, and lightning crackled about him. Liz brought Lævateinn to her chest and assumed a defensive stance, but the Thunder Sovereign’s fury never came.

“Hm?”

She sensed something above her and looked up. Mjölnir floated on high, wreathed in warding lightning. It slowly descended until it hung level with her head. The Five Lords watched impassively as she seized the handle.

“It seems Mjölnir likes me better than you.” Her lips curled into a smile. She had shown the Thunder Sovereign the strength it sought. “Now, how about this?!”

She thrust a hand toward the Five Lords, fingers spread, and unleashed Mjölnir’s fury. Raw lightning lanced unerringly toward him, tearing the air asunder as it came. Yet just before it struck true, it shattered upon a wall of ice. Gáe Bolg’s power protected the Five Lords from harm.

Liz took off at a sprint. “I’ll show you my conviction!”

At night in Aura’s room, Scáthach had taught her what each of the Spiritblades sought, what qualities she had to display to earn their allegiance. Lævateinn sought passion; Mjölnir, power; Gáe Bolg, conviction; Gandiva, strength of heart; and Excalibur, a vision for the future. And if that was so, the Five Lords was no longer worthy to wield them.

“Gáe Bolg belongs to Scáthach! And you’re going to give it back!”

As her foot crashed through the wall of ice, she grasped the Five Lords by the chest, pulled him close, and drove her fist into his face. The impact almost knocked him flying, but she pulled him back and hit him again, and again, and again. Finally, she slammed him to the ground.

“I’ll beat Hiro out of you if I have to!”

She would turn him back. She would restore him, no matter the cost. If it took years to find a way, so be it. She would rescue him from the depths of darkness and lift him back into the light.

“Clearly, I gave you too long a leash,” she said. “I won’t hold back anymore.”

“Terrifying indeed.” The Five Lords stood up, brushing the dirt from his black mantle. He smiled, suddenly more like Hiro than he had ever been. “Then neither will I.”

＊＊＊＊＊

Meteia watched in awe as her mistress overpowered the Five Lords. Liz had grown strong, she thought. Strong in both mind and body. It was hard to believe that young girl with tearstained cheeks had come so completely into her own.

Liz had never let herself cry in public, but her faithful white wolf had witnessed more than a few private moments of vulnerability. Losing her mother to the massacre at the inner palace had left her isolated at court, and though she had held her head high and tried to look to the future, many of the adults around her had resented her determination. The supposedly genteel nobility had preyed on her relentlessly, mocking and scorning her in an attempt to break her spirit. That had been a heavy burden for someone so young. She had never let them see her cry, but behind closed doors, she had not been so resilient. Many times, she had curled up in a corner of her room and wept into her knees, doing her best to stifle her sobs.

Meteia had been powerless to ease her suffering. Trapped in the body of a wolf, she was unable to console her, aid her, or even simply hold her. She could only watch as Liz struggled to find the strength to carry on. The sixth princess never let hatred twist her. She had grown to engage with others openly and amiably, holding no grudges against her tormentors. Yet Meteia had recognized that for what it was: a defense mechanism. Her smiles and good cheer had been all that kept her heart from falling apart.

“But meeting Hiro changed you.”

Mars might have been her inspiration, but it had been Hiro’s presence, Hiro’s guidance, that had truly stirred a change in her. He had been the first male figure in her life to speak to her as an equal, without ulterior motives, and the first to risk his life for her. It was no surprise he would find a place in her heart. After all the times he had come to her rescue, all the support he had given her, all the joys they had shared, how could she not have fallen in love?

“I’ll never forgive you for what you did.”

One day, without warning, he had vanished from her life. Without so much as a farewell, he had taken on a new identity and retreated to the shadows to spin his schemes. And once more, she had become that young girl crying in the corner of her room. She might have grown since those days, but the memories had never faded. If anything, the intervening years had only made the wound deeper when it came.

“I’ll never forgive you for making her cry.”

No sight was quite so sweet as the Five Lords sailing through the air. Let Liz hit him harder, Meteia thought. She had every right. Let him know just how cruelly he had hurt her, just how many tears she had shed over him. Hiro bore scars of his own, and he had closed his heart to kindness. No words would reach him. No plea would turn his head. So let her hit him harder—hard enough to make him taste the guilt of what he had done. Perhaps then he would understand. Waiting for him, trying to reason with him, was no use when his back was turned. If she wanted to get through to him, she had to grasp him by the shoulder and force him to look her in the eye.

“Show him no quarter, my lady,” Meteia whispered.

In the meantime, she would let nobody interfere. She set about cutting down all the monsters she could.

“Soldiers of the empire! Defend your Crimson Princess! Don’t let a single monster pass!”

The white wolf became a blur. She ran ever faster, cut ever keener, straining against her own limits as she bounded across the battlefield. A howl tore from her throat, a prayer that her mistress’s feelings would be answered.

＊＊＊＊＊

“You lack conviction.” The black-haired boy—Hiro Oguro, now—spoke coldly, his words a sharp-edged refutation. “You aren’t ready to cut me down.”

Liz flinched. Her face twisted bitterly. She had been caught dead to rights.

Her intentions had been so plain that even Hiro could see them. In a sense, he was grateful. It warmed his heart that she thought of him so dearly. Yet those feelings were futile, doomed never to be answered. After all, if he did not die, she would not survive.

That, he would not allow. He would not let it come to pass, no matter the cost. That was what had brought him here. To avert that fate, he had betrayed his friends, deceived the gods, and taken countless lives. His hands were dyed redder than he could ever scrub clean.

“But then, I suppose I’ve been a little too lenient on you too.”

He turned his gaze to the sky, and every trace of emotion slid from his face. When he looked back down at her, his eyes were an empty void.

“What do you know of despair?”

The words were soft as they left his lips, but they were enough. The clouds above him tore apart, converging into a swirling vortex. The sky darkened. Night fell upon the world. The land began to tremble in terror, escalating into a great quake like a scream from the lungs of the world. A surge of power burst forth from him, an aura of authority driving friend and foe alike to their knees.

“Weep for spirits broken. Shed tears for hope lost. Wear with pride futures undone.”

Cracks spread across the earth as far as the eye could see. Dust spewed from the fissures. The air shattered beneath a great weight, and darkness wept forth like stagnant mud. Despair rained from on high, splattering like rain as it struck the earth and scattering across the battlefield.

“Dáinsleif, their dismay is yours to devour.”

All sound vanished from the world, snatched away into the darkness as if the very notion of it had never existed at all. Every tongue was silenced in this place. Courage, valor, strength of heart—all succumbed to unrelenting awe, until all that was left was despair.

“I am Surtr, the Black-Winged Lord.”

His presence burgeoned. All those around him fell to their knees, lowering their heads. There was no escaping the tyranny of the despair he brought. As all who watched began to quake in fear, he raised Dáinsleif and held it flat.

“He who beckons all lives equally to nothingness.”

And he unleashed Muspell—Mortal Terror.

Time stood still. Only the combatants’ hearts still moved, kept beating by the hope within. All who lived relinquished their place in time’s flow. Friends, foes, beasts, insects, flora—all froze where they stood. They held their breath as one, praying the hunter’s gaze would pass them by, praying they would not fall victim to the reaper’s scythe.

“Let Ragnarök begin.”

Like a god descended from on high, Hiro pronounced the death of all before him.

Schwartzwald—Deathly Stillness.

Darkness deeper than midnight clouded the heavens. A pitch-black maw descended from above, falling shut upon the world like a deluge of curses.

＊＊＊＊＊

Despair descended from the sky. For a moment, Liz could only stand and stare at the sinister dragon, but she quickly remembered herself and looked around.

“Run! Get as far away as you can!”

Her soldiers had fallen to their knees in stunned silence, but her voice brought them back to their senses.

“Don’t give up hope! You still have time!”

They still looked a little shaken, but they did as she commanded. She turned her attention back to Meteia, who was still engaging the monsters.

“Meteia! Hold them off as long as you can! Make sure the soldiers can get away!”

“What about you, my lady?!”

“I’ll...” Liz looked up at the sky once more and raised Lævateinn. “I’ll see what I can do about that.”

“You’re going to try and stop it?! But—!”

Meteia reached out after Liz, but she could not bring herself to grasp her shoulder. Her mouth opened and closed uselessly. At last, she turned away.

“If you must. I’ll see you once the battle’s done.”

She backed down and gave her assent. The flame in Liz’s breast would not be denied, and if her mistress would not be stopped, the next best thing was to not get in her way. She set about leading the troops to safety, cutting down monsters as she went.

“Thank you,” Liz murmured. The scorching wind snatched her words away.

She drew a deep breath and let it out, calming her hammering heart. The crimson flames circling her intensified to azure.

“Tell me...what do you know of fate?”

Her voice was soft, but her words were resolute. A spring breeze brushed the earth as they left her lips. A shaft of light rose skyward to pierce through the darkness. The ground shuddered as more and more joined it, columns of light ascending from the broken land. An immense surge of power soared up through the heavens and out across the earth.

“Weep for love discovered. Shed tears for hope found. Take pride in joy fulfilled.”

Grass and flowers spilled out across the soil as the gentle glow shone down. A floral scent filled the air, so clear and sweet that every breath seemed to purify the lungs. Small animals ventured forth from their burrows. Withered grass turned green once more. All across the field, new life took root. An unseasonable spring had come.

There was no conflict here, no strife, no discord—only the miracle of creation. From the clash of light and dark, a new world took shape.

“I’ll wipe you away.”

A voice left her lips, solemn but fierce. It rippled forth, so weighty that the air groaned, its regal tones laced with wild authority. Yet while her voice rang as clear as a bell, her bewitching visage was infused with terrible might.

“Bloom in splendor, Lævateinn.”

The Flame Sovereign vanished from her hand. The world burned crimson and azure. The sun hung low in the sky, engulfing the earth in waves of hellfire. The beauty of nature burned away without a trace as the world succumbed to scorching tyranny.

Ragnarök—Thousand Blossoms.

A transformation swept the earth, all but for the one woman granted the right to rule it. The Flame Empress enthralled the hearts of any who gazed upon her solar beauty. Friends, foes, beasts, insects, flora—all who lived looked on in awe.

The sun was rising.

Once the land was scoured clean, the implacable wheel of fire turned its attention to the darkness that had usurped its rightful place. A fiery torrent pierced the heavens, roaring like a lion as it streaked toward the black dragon. Dark swallowed light. Light clove through dark. Black and crimson crashed together, and neither would yield. The earth shuddered with the impact. A shock wave swept outward, flattening trees and ravaging the ground...

And the world faded away.

＊＊＊＊＊

When Hiro came to, he was staring up at the sky. A blue expanse stretched away above him, as if the rule of darkness had been nothing but a distant memory.

A searing pain seized his chest, and he rolled over, hacking. Eventually, he recovered enough to try to push himself upright, but his body didn’t seem capable of standing. He looked down. His right leg was missing below the knee.

The stench of burning flesh pricked at his nostrils. He guessed the cause of the wound at once. Still, a missing limb was nothing to him. Thanks to his superhuman regeneration, it soon regrew. As he stood up at last, however, a bout of lightheadedness struck him, and he fell back onto one knee. His physical injuries might have healed, but his body was evidently still recovering from the shock.

“Would you look at that?” he murmured. “She canceled me out. Or no...perhaps she even pushed me back.”

If his own battered body wasn’t evidence enough, his surroundings left no room for doubt. The scorched corpses littering the blasted landscape were almost entirely monsters. The imperial troops watched from a distance, stunned but mostly unharmed. A line of blue flames divided them from the destruction. Liz had kept them safe from harm.

Hiro sighed, impressed. Even in that climactic moment, she had maintained the presence of mind to protect her troops. Then again, that was little surprise. After all...

“Artheus did the same thing.”

If Lævateinn’s original wielder could shield his allies so, there was no reason Liz couldn’t pull off the same trick. Of course she could. She was supposed to be his equal now.

As Hiro stood, lost in thought, he heard footsteps approaching. He turned to see Liz walking toward him, unscathed. She looked fully self-assured—confident, even. A sight to strike fear into the hearts of her quarry.

Hiro smiled, readying Dáinsleif expectantly. A crimson trail wove through the air toward him, skimming over the earth. He knocked the Spiritblade aside as it descended, spun, and lashed out with his elbow. Liz caught the blow one-handed. He went to sweep her legs from under her, but she leaped over his foot. A shock wave blasted through his organs as her kick caught him full in the chest.

“Let’s go home.”

As Hiro crumpled forward, Liz squeezed her fist tight and brought it down on his face with tremendous force. He hit the ground hard, but she grasped him by the lapels and hoisted him up with inhuman strength, her crimson eyes regarding him coolly.

“Hasn’t this gone on for long enough?”

“Maybe you think so.” Hiro knocked her hand aside and leaped back, putting some distance between them.

Liz was trying to save him. Even now, she was doubtlessly trying to find a way to strip the Lords of Heaven from his body. That, however, would mean her death. There was little question that the newly freed Lords would resume their old reign of tyranny. Not only would that cast the people of Aletia back into despair, but it would mean Liz would never be free of her curse. Like Rey, she would fall ill and die young, and her soulless body would be reanimated by the Spirit King to wreak havoc and destroy all she held dear.

“I never wanted to be a hero a thousand years ago.”

All he had ever wanted was to save Rey. He had never sought glory, only power. But great power had a way of breeding fame, and at last, he had looked around to find himself surrounded by cheering crowds.

“I never asked anyone to worship me.”

The more battles he won, the more wildly they cheered. They showered him in praise and imposed their own selfish expectations. No matter how loudly he protested that he was no hero, he was powerless to stop his renown from spreading.

“All I ever wanted was to make her well.”

Greater fame brought greater foes. Nonetheless, he stood firm, facing his rivals down as they appeared. The awe he inspired invited more enemies yet—new foes who understood they could not defeat him in a fair fight. Instead, they resorted to more underhanded means, and their hatred, malice, and resentment fell upon those he held dear.

“I failed to save her once. I won’t fail again.”

The power he sought had not been enough. Even so, the people had called him “hero.” It’s not your fault, they reassured him. Don’t blame yourself. And they had brought him his sword again and sent him back to the battlefield—a hero who could only take lives, never save them.

“I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

He had broken every promise he’d made. The woman he had most wanted to protect had died in his arms. He had even betrayed the one man who had stood unfailingly by his side, repaying loyalty with treachery by stealing Excalibur. This war should have ended a thousand years ago. If he had only left everything to the blessed talent that was Artheus, Aletia would have been spared centuries of stagnation—and most of all, in the modern day, a girl with crimson hair would have lived a kinder life.

Had the future not been warped by Hiro’s actions, Liz would still have her mother. She would have found a fitting partner, had children, built a happy family, and lived out her natural life in peace. He had done this for her—for the heir to Artheus’s blood and Rey’s soul. He needed to protect her, to fix what he had broken, to keep the promise he had made. And so he had resolved to make all one: to gather the cores of the Five Lords of Heaven within his body, render the Noble Blades powerless, and finally break her curse.

“So end this. Please. With your own hands.”

Smiling broadly, he voiced his final request:

“Please. Kill me.”

＊＊＊＊＊

Liz thought her head might explode with anger. Even so, she could tell he meant every word. The Far Sight saw his heart plainly for the first time—saw how he was suffering, saw how his guilt pressed down on him. She racked her brains. What could she do? Was there any way to save him?

“Come on,” he said. “We have a battle to finish.”

All at once, he was attacking again, and she had no more time to think. She ducked low and forward, letting the black blade pass over her head, and swung a fist up into his chin. Yet no matter what she did, he kept coming. With deft strokes of her crimson blade, she lopped off his arm, skewered his leg, brushed open his abdomen in a spray of blood, but none of it seemed to hurt him. Within moments, his injuries regenerated, and all her progress was undone. Their battle would never end—at least, not until Liz decided to let it.

“What am I supposed to do?”

She did not want to kill him. She did not want to hurt him. She did not want to fight him anymore. She looked down at the blood—his blood—encrusting her fist, and her face twisted in pain.

Hiro saw her hesitation, and he began to radiate even greater power.

“Tell me...” he intoned. “What do you know of despair?”

He drove Dáinsleif into the ground, and raw hostility flowed forth. The sky once more turned black as pitch. Darkness welled up from cracks in the earth, ingesting the corpses littering the battlefield like a consuming maw.

Liz’s eyes widened. “No way...”

She could see her options narrowing before her, forcing her to a decision she did not want to make. The ground lurched violently. Soldiers lost their balance and tumbled over. The air shuddered as some great bell tolled the end. Was this the same attack as before, or something else? She couldn’t tell, but her heart screamed that she could not let him unleash it. There was no guarantee she would be able to protect her troops a second time.

That was easier said than done, however; the power issuing from him was immense. Holding back in the hope of sparing him could cost her her own life. She had to choose: Would she kill him, or would she leave innocent people to their fate?

She bit her lip, her face filling with anguish. A drop of blood trickled down her chin and fell to the ground. It seemed an impossible decision, but in the end, she could not abandon lives that it was within her power to save.

Walk without doubt.

At that moment, Artheus’s words flashed into her mind. Cast down all who oppose you, he had said. That way lies the throne. If that was true, Hiro was her enemy, an obstacle to be destroyed. And there were so many different emotions swirling in her heart that it could no longer behave rationally. She could no longer tell what mattered most.

So she crushed it all underfoot.

Every superfluous emotion, every competing priority, killed stone dead.

“Fine. I’ll kill you if I have to.”

She could have sworn she saw Hiro smile then, as if he welcomed those words. How could he look so resigned? It was like he didn’t even realize how much he would hurt her. Then again, perhaps that was all just her imagination. It was hard to know for certain when the world was blurred with tears.

She steeled herself, braced her foot against the ground, and surged forward. Mjölnir cracked with lightning. A bolt pierced the darkness, arcing straight toward Hiro. He snuffed it out beneath his heel. Liz’s gaze shifted to a fire burning nearby. The flames came alive with a will of their own and bore down on him, coiling like a snake. Their fangs missed their mark—he crushed them in his fist moments before they bit down. Yet as the flames dispersed, Liz waved a hand. A breeze blew, fanning them back to life, and they exploded directly above Hiro’s head.

“Well.” A weapon appeared in Liz’s hand, and she frowned down at it. “That’s ironic.”

Gáe Bolg now lay in her grip. The will to fight, the will to protect, the will to save a life—none had been sufficient to show her conviction. Only now had the Boreal Sovereign lent her its power. The conviction she had lacked was the willingness to kill.

“But don’t get excited.” She faced Hiro once more. In her eyes burned a new conviction. “I haven’t given up on you yet.”

If others called her foolish or naive, let them. She would not abandon the path she had chosen. Arrogance was her privilege. Conceit was her right. Like the first emperor before her, she would be as prideful as she pleased. She would forge ahead, letting none stand in her way. Her goal had been written from the start: With the strength of Mars, the courage of Zertheus, and the grace of the Valditte, she would salve Hiro’s wounds, share her feelings, and heal his heart.

“I am your empress.” She slowed to a stop and raised a hand high. “Come to me, Excalibur!”

Her order allowed no refusal. Obedience was right, was true, was natural law. It was breathtaking arrogance—and yet, with a joyful cry, space split apart, and a gleaming blade came tumbling from the rift. It sped to her like a knight in shining armor, trailing silver light like powder snow. Liz grasped its hilt and leveled her eyes on the raging dark. A single slash clove it apart, roiling darkness scoured clean by overflowing light.

She drove Excalibur into the ground. Countless rents appeared in the air, and spirit weapons came forth from the cracks, each imbued with the remnants of spirits and filled with great power. A forest of blades clouded the sky. She flung down her hand, and the ethereal weapons answered her order, raining down upon the earth. The torrent of light drove back the mire of darkness. It cut loose soldiers whose legs had been snared, freed men who had sunk up to their waists, and flew to the aid of the white wolf fighting desperately to protect her troops.

Liz’s boot dug into the earth, and she rocketed forward. Trailing crimson and azure, she left the world behind. At the same moment, there was a resounding crackle, and immense power began to concentrate in the spirit weapons hanging in the air. Several shattered under the strain. Liz thrust out a hand at Hiro, and the lightning-wreathed spirit weapons obediently followed. A gale of blades bore down on him, spurred by wind and spitting thunderbolts.

The spirit weapons descended on Hiro from all angles. His arm left his shoulder. His leg spun away. Countless slashes opened up across his body as he tried to defend his vital points. Even his accelerated regeneration could not keep pace with the storm of steel. For every sword he shattered, two appeared to take its place. The weight of their numbers gradually wore him down, but even so, the merciless tempest did not abate. There was no compassion in the blades’ wild dance, only the single-minded drive to snuff out his life.

As he dodged the brutal assault to the best of his ability, spirit weapons that missed their mark plunged into the ground at his feet. Seeing them protruding from the earth like gravestones, Liz called Gáe Bolg to her hand. Freezing mist poured forth from them. In moments, the ground was sheathed in ice. Hiro tried to leap away from the threat, but everywhere the blades landed was Liz’s domain; she could cut off his retreat with a wave of her hand. So long as the spirit weapons’ quarry was within their reach, they would pursue it with single-minded determination. Hiro dodged and ran for as long as he could manage, but at last, he gave up and turned to face them.

Liz grasped Gáe Bolg’s haft tight and hurled it. It shot through the air and landed amid the graveyard of blades. The freezing mist swelled, swirling around Hiro and momentarily obscuring him from sight. Liz swept out her hand. A gust of wind blew the mist away, revealing him once again. From the waist down, he was encased in ice.

“Well done,” he said as she approached. “You’re a quick learner.”

There was no fear in his eyes. He accepted everything that was to come, perhaps even with some amount of joy.

It had been Hiro himself who had taught Liz to wield the Spiritblade Sovereigns. She had used them as she had seen him do against the primozlosta at the High King’s keep in Fierte. Had he been working toward this moment even then? Or had he been resolved to die long before that? Had everything he had done been intended to hasten his end at Liz’s hands?

His words on that day echoed in her mind: And Lævateinn, the Blade of the End, lays all to waste.

The Spiritblade burned with azure fire. Crimson flames coiled along its length. Lightning lent its strength in a shower of sparks, wind’s urging stoked the blaze, ice sealed off its target’s escape, and gleaming light endowed it with blinding speed. All was one, united in a thrust of immense power.

Hiro’s black mantle flung itself in the way, but the blow tore it to shreds. The crimson blade broke his skin, pierced his flesh, and scorched his innards, raging inside his body like a storm...

And something inside him shattered.

A gout of blood burst from his mouth, splattering across Liz’s face. Her tears mingled with the crimson droplets as they trickled down her cheeks. He sagged forward as his strength left him, his head lolling onto her shoulder.

“This is for the best,” he murmured.

Liz’s shoulder twitched, but she only stepped away. Hiro fell to his knees, Lævateinn still protruding from his chest. He smiled faintly. His face was bloodless, his lips were tinged purple, and his breathing was vanishingly shallow. Fire steadily consumed him, a pure, azure flame that spread in utter silence. Burning embers began to flake from him, the remnants of something that had once existed within him. The power of the Lords had dissipated as the blood burst from his mouth.

Liz narrowed her eyes fondly. She crouched down and laid a hand against his cheek.

“Just hold on.”

How long ago was it now when Hiro had confronted Stovell as she lay half dead on the ground? As they fought, she had heard him claim that Lævateinn had a second Graal: Mikhael, Purification. She had dared to hope it could burn away the malevolence within him and leave the rest unharmed. Fortunately, it seemed she had been right.

Over time, she had begun to suspect that Lævateinn’s crimson and azure flames played different roles. Fire burned all it touched, but it could also be the seed of new life. However, it had been Artheus who provided the key—he had bidden her to walk her own path, to cast down all in her way, but also to see Hiro safe. He would never have desired his blood-brother’s death. If not for those words, Liz might never have found the courage to push forward. If not for her promise to Rey, her heart might have faltered before she came this far. Because they had wished for Hiro to be saved, she had found the resolve to pursue this slim hope.

But her relief distracted her for a fatal moment.

“What has become of you, my Lord? Why do you not strike down your foe?”

Behind her stood Ceryneia of the primozlosta. She spun to see two hollow sockets staring back, the mutilated face in which they sat twisted in revulsion. Ipetam’s bloodred blade thrust out toward her. Belatedly, she realized he must have been waiting for her to let her guard down.

Faced with imminent death, she raised a hand in the path of the blade. The world rocked as something shoved her aside. She lost her balance and fell onto her side, but curiously, she felt no pain. Still a little shell-shocked, she checked herself for injuries, but she was unhurt.

She looked back up and her eyes widened. Hiro stood before her, run clean through. The scarlet blade had passed into his chest and out through his back. Freshly drawn blood flowed from the tip.

“Ah...”

A cry hovered on her lips, but another voice immediately drowned it out.

“Bastard!”

She turned, eyes still wide, to see Meteia, her face twisted in fury.

“At last, it’s over, my Lord! Our battle is won! Our ancient foe, vanquished at last!” Ceryneia raised his arms to the heavens like a holy man praying to his god. “The primozlosta have been avenged! The War God is slain—”

His head sprang from his shoulders in a spray of blood. His body collapsed in the dirt. Meteia planted a foot on top of the corpse, shoulders heaving with rage.

Hiro staggered as his strength began to fail. Liz caught him in her arms. Her lungs cried for air. Her vision flickered. She struck herself hard in the thigh, ordering her body to stay conscious.

She withdrew Ipetam and tried to staunch the bleeding, but the hole in his chest continued to weep. At any other time, Hiro’s regeneration might have preserved him, but with Lævateinn’s purifying flames still burning in his chest, he was not as immortal as he had once been.

“Gandiva! Heal him!”

A gentle wind enveloped Hiro’s body, but it had no visible effect. There was no time to waste. Liz reached for Lævateinn. Before she could yank it out, however, Hiro’s hand closed around her wrist.

“It’s okay.” He smiled up at her, his eyes glassy.

“It’s not okay!”

“It’s over now. Your curse is broken.”

“Stop talking and let me concentrate.”

She invoked Gandiva’s power again and again, trying to heal him, but in vain. The blood would not stop. If anything, it flowed faster than ever, as if it was being actively sucked from the wound.

As she stared down, wild-eyed, Hiro reached up to cup her cheek. “I’m sorry for everything.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

He smiled, raising his hand to the sky. “But I think I might have finally earned a little forgiveness.”

“Shut up!”

There was nothing she could do. His life was slipping away right before her eyes, and she was powerless to stop it. Saving him should have been so easy. After so long, she finally had the power to do just that. And yet the miracle she sought stubbornly eluded her.

“Your life is your own now.”

“Shut up! Just let me...”

His body began to fall apart, cracking and crumbling like it was made of sand.

“Thank you.”

He smiled one last time, broad and full, and his face turned to particles of light that scattered on the wind. His end came almost too easily. It left nothing of him behind, as if he had never existed at all.

“Aaah... Aaah!”

Liz reached out, trying to gather the motes of light back together, but they slipped through her fingers. Her curse took from her those she held dear. While it haunted her no longer, there was no restoring the lives it had claimed.

Rain began to fall from the last of the darkness in the sky—a veil to hide her tears, one last gift for the girl who had so often wept unseen. Yet she only allowed herself a wordless howl, unwilling to the last to let anyone see her cry.

＊＊＊＊＊

A battlefield stretched all the way to the horizon. Broken swords protruded from the ground. Shattered spears rolled in the wind. Empty suits of armor lay in toppled piles. There were no corpses, nor was there a stench of blood. Swords hung in the sky above just as they littered the earth. This place was a graveyard—not of people but of instruments of war.

Hiro wandered through the eerie landscape in silence. “Is the afterlife?”

“Close, but not quite,” said a voice behind him. “This is the final stop before Valhalla.”

He spun around in alarm but then lowered his guard as he saw who it was. A fair-haired, golden-eyed youth stood before him.

“It has been far too long, my brother.”

The man broke into a smile as he flung an arm around Hiro’s shoulders. It was none other than Artheus, the first emperor of the Grantzian Empire—Hiro’s brother by oath and onetime comrade in the turbulent world of a thousand years prior. Hiro wanted to ask him what he was doing here, but Artheus spoke first.

“Are you satisfied?”

Hiro did not ask for clarification. There were many things Artheus could have meant. He only nodded.

“Then you are ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be. I’ve kept you waiting long enough. And I have no more regrets.”

“Are you certain about that?”

Hiro nodded. “And besides, it’s about time the past was laid to rest.”

Even if Lævateinn’s purifying flames had managed to prolong his life, nothing good would have come of him remaining in the modern world. An entire battlefield’s worth of soldiers had witnessed him leading the Demiurgos’s armies. They might not have registered as much in the chaos, but now that the fighting was done, they would realize it was Surtr they had fought and demand he face justice. Liz and his other allies would undoubtedly argue in his defense, but that would risk sparking a whole new conflict. It would be better for everyone if he simply faded away.

“Again, my brother, you suppose you will fail before you have even begun. You cannot resist assuming the worst of your own actions.” Artheus struck him on the back of the head with a heavy hand, knocking him to the ground.

Hiro looked back up at Artheus reproachfully. “What was that for?”

Artheus only crossed his arms, staring down with characteristic arrogance. “You were ever thus. You insist yours is the best and only way, oblivious to the feelings of others. That is foolishness, nothing more.”

“But it’s always been the best—”

“Silence, brother. I will say my piece.”

Artheus’s eyes permitted no refusal. Hiro’s jaw clamped shut.

“I shall never know what my sister saw in you.” Artheus crouched down and looked into Hiro’s eyes, cocking his head. “Through the reshaping of her form, through the transformation of her very soul, she sought to be with the man she loved. She turned down Valhalla for the dream of a future that she did not know would come.”

He sighed and reached out to tousle Hiro’s hair, looking at once angry and sorrowful.

“You are a child. A petulant child stomping his feet when he does not get his way. But it is said that the most demanding children are the most endearing. I have never loved your pessimism, but you are still my one and only brother.”

Hiro could only stare back. Every word struck home. He could refute nothing.

Artheus reached into his pocket and pulled something out. Hiro frowned. In Artheus’s hand was the familiar slip of card that had once sealed away his memories. Originally, it had been white, but it had darkened as he’d regained his power until it had eventually turned black. Alongside it was a slip of white card, pure and unstained.

Hiro couldn’t help his curiosity. “What are those?”

Artheus grinned like a mischievous child, swelling with triumph. “Insurance, one might say, in anticipation of your habit of sacrificing yourself. You ought to be thankful, my brother. Crafting them left my body hardly fit for purpose.”

Hiro’s face filled with surprise as he realized what Artheus was implying. “You foresaw what would happen a thousand years in the future?”

“You give me too much credit. I did not know exactly how this would happen, only that it would if you remained the person I knew.”

Hiro still looked faintly shocked. “So all this time, I was dancing in the palm of your hand.”

Artheus tossed the spirit seals toward him. They lodged in the ground at his feet.

Hiro looked from the seals to Artheus and back again, cocking his head. “I’m guessing there’s more to this than just surprising me.”

“I siphoned off a portion of the fiendish power within you into the black seal.”

“You what?”

“A precautionary measure, my brother. So that when you returned at last, you might live once more as an ordinary man.” Artheus grinned, proud of his handiwork. A thought seemed to strike him. “Come to think of it, it seemed the Spirit King had her own designs. Did she speak of them at all?”

Hiro shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Indeed. I had hoped she might at least lament her defeat, but I suppose she never would have given me the satisfaction.”

At that moment, Hiro remembered—the Spirit King had indeed admitted defeat when she had appeared before him in his cell. He had assumed those words were meant for him, but evidently he had been wrong.

“Well, regardless,” Artheus continued blithely, “I am victorious. That you are here at all is proof of that.”

“Hold on,” Hiro interrupted. “Just...slow down. What are you doing, exactly?”

Artheus’s eyes narrowed, sharp as any blade. “Surely I have given you enough clues already. I will return you to life, my brother. Your time has not yet come.”

“But...how?”

Hiro had been run through with Ipetam, and his body had disintegrated. There was nothing for him to return to.

“You have lost your vessel, that is all. One that was cursed and twisted from the outset.” Artheus stepped closer and picked up the two spirit seals. “Even Mikhael could not have saved it. You would have crumbled to dust the moment Lævateinn’s work was done. So instead, you shall use this.”

He held out the black card, his voice taking on an edge of amusement.

“The power I siphoned from you should suffice to re-create your body.”

The black card shifted, revealing the white beneath it.

“And this, I left within Lævateinn. It shall recall your soul to the world of the living.”

He extended his other hand. There was nothing in it. Hiro looked up at him curiously, and he gave a sheepish smile.

“Unless, of course, you would rather accompany me to Valhalla.”

Once, a thousand years ago, Hiro had taken that hand and raced with Artheus across a world of war and strife. Now, however, he hesitated.

Artheus looked on, smiling fondly, as he made his choice.

Epilogue

The capital cheered for her alone.

Their voices rang with joy as they blessed her name. Beneath the balcony from which she waved, a great crowd thronged the palace courtyard. Every face beamed with unreserved happiness. Every eye was bright with optimism. Every gaze was fixed on her.

Not so long ago, their nation had teetered on the brink of destruction. They had spent their days consumed by fear about what the future held. Now, however, the threat had passed, and the world knew them once again as the conquerors of Soleil. It was all thanks to her—she who had stood firm in times of doubt and despair, who had guided her armies to victory in countless battles—and for it, they showered her with praise. She was their proud ruler. The defender of their homes. Their Crimson Empress.

Countless voices roared her name aloud—not merely a handful, but many as one. She raised one hand in acknowledgment and retreated from the balcony. Behind her, the roar of the crowd continued unabated.

The city would not sleep tonight, nor in the nights to come. Drunkards would swap anecdotes about the Crimson Empress across tavern tables. Bards would sing songs of her valor. The commonfolk would tell tales of her deeds. In time, she would become a figure of legend, and then, at last, pass into myth. After accomplishing the unprecedented, she had earned that much.

She made her way back inside the palace, along the passage linking the balcony and throne room. A springy carpet of deep-red fabric ran the length of the corridor, hemmed in on either side by spotless walls of white stone. As she walked on in silence, a black-haired boy appeared to block her path.

“Congratulations.”

She hesitated a moment but finally nodded. “To be honest, it still doesn’t feel quite real...but thank you.”

“The empire’s troubles are far from over. But I’m sure you’ll be ready, whatever the future holds.”

Of all the people of Soleil, he was the first and last to address her so casually. Anyone else would have been harshly punished for their impertinence, if not executed outright. But they had shared much pain and joy, and they trusted each other implicitly. Indeed, from the glance and the smile they exchanged, anyone could see how deeply they cared for each other.

“Now you’ll be the one to lead the people,” the boy said. “You’ll have to be the sun that lights their way.”

She grinned impishly. “You say that like you won’t be right there beside me.”

He looked down bashfully as her eyes bored into him. “Don’t I get a choice in the matter?”

“You’re the one who brought me this far. The least you can do is stay.”

“That’s not how I remember it.”

He smiled ruefully as he cast his mind back over the past few years. He had saddled her with many burdens and caused her no small number of tears. Yet she had stubbornly chased after him even so. Right to the bitter end, she had never given up hope. She was his comrade-in-arms, his friend, his family—and the person he held most dear.

“Come on,” she said. “We have our whole lives ahead of us.”

She held out a hand. A fierce will burned in her eyes. No matter how many years passed, no matter what hardships lay ahead, that flame would never fade. She smiled like the sun, and with a smile of his own, he took her hand.

Afterword

Thank you for picking up this copy of volume 13 of The Mythical Hero’s Otherworld Chronicles. For those of you returning from the previous volume, welcome back. As Mythical Hero has concluded with volume 13, this afterword will be my last.

Four years have passed in the real world since I started this series, and four years have passed in Aletia since the story began. As for whether that was planned or just a lucky coincidence...well, I’ll let you decide. More to the point, in the last volume, I mentioned a secret hidden in the volume numbers, didn’t I? To give you a hint—okay, the answer—think about the twelve gods of a certain empire, as well as their new thirteenth addition, the Last God. Volume 1 is the Beginning, volume 2 is War, volume 3 is Beauty, and the other volumes either begin with hints at certain gods’ domains or otherwise allude to them in some way. If you can spare the time, I’d be pleased if you could read back and look for them!

I poured all the chuunibyou I could into this series over the past four years, and I would like to think I’ve managed to end it the same way. That said, I never would have gotten this far without all of your support. I can never thank you enough, but if you’re interested in how things turned out in the Grantzian Empire, I’ve included a little “After the Afterword” as a small show of gratitude. If you’re interested, please take a look. You’d make this author dance for joy.

In regard to what the future holds—well, I’ll leave that up to your imagination. For now, however, I’m going to set down my pen.

I’m running down my line count now, so I’d better get to the thank-yous.

To Ruria Miyuki-sama, I will treasure all the gorgeous artwork you’ve provided for this series, rough sketches and all. Thank you for accompanying me all the way to the end.

To my editor, I-sama, you becoming my editor was a saga in and of itself, and I’m sure I’ll cause you no end of trouble in the future, but I hope you’ll continue to lend me your support.

To everyone in the editing department, the proofreaders, the designers, and everyone else who helped to make this book a reality, thank you.

And last but not least, thanks again to you, my readers. It’s only because of you that I’ve been able to see Mythical Hero through to its end, and I’m more grateful than words can express. Mythical Hero might be over, but I’ll keep the chuuni rays on full blast over here, so I hope you’ll continue to support me.

May we meet again in some other chuuni world line.

Thank you very much.

奉 (Tatematsuri)

After the Afterword

The Grantzian Empire had flourished in the ten years since the defeat of the Demiurgos. Some of the commonfolk had regarded the ascent of its first empress with apprehension, but most of those voices had faded with time. Her reign now enjoyed widespread support.

The great city of Cladius, more often simply called the imperial capital, was the pinnacle of human prosperity and one of the oldest cities in Soleil. Its historical buildings were picturesque enough, but the clearest symbol of its prosperity was its central boulevard, the gateway to the empire. Roadside storefronts advertised rare delicacies from all across Aletia, and customers filled the interiors, eager to spend their coin. Out on the street, merchants from across the land hawked their wares from roadside stalls. Mouth-watering aromas filled the air. The city rang with joyous voices. A pair of children hurtled around the plaza, toys in hands, as their mother looked on, smiling.

Above it all, as if to impress the empire’s magnificence upon a thoroughfare grown busier than ever, towered the great bronze statues of the Twelve Grantzian Divines.

Zertheus, the First God.

Mars, the War God.

The Valditte, the God of Beauty.

Corpal, the God of the Forge.

Belvard, the Protector God.

Carall, the Sage.

Orlaga, the God of the Harvest.

Banietta, the God of Commerce.

Vulcan, the God of Arms.

Parla, the God of Medicine.

Urall, the God of Music.

Seldra, the God of Water.

Ten of their number had once been emperors who had made great contributions to the empire’s development and prosperity. The remaining two, both female, had never sat the throne but had nonetheless performed great enough feats to earn a place in the pantheon. Small blemishes marred their carefully sculpted visages, evidence of the years they had weathered. Still, their glory shone through undimmed. From the past to the present, they had watched over their people, filled visitors from foreign lands with awe, and stricken the hearts of other rulers with fear.

One hardly had time to recover before they were greeted by the sight of the imperial palace of Venezyne. A thousand years of history had done nothing to dull its magnificence. The keep hardly seemed to have aged a day. If anything, the centuries had only granted it a timeless quality, inspiring reverence even as it impressed the empire’s strength upon outsiders.

The western quarter of the palace grounds was filled with noble manors. The eastern quarter housed the barracks and training grounds for the capital’s protectors, the Knights of the Golden Lion. On most days, the latter would have resounded with the clashing of steel. Today, however, the training grounds were empty but for two boys. The soldiers stood aside to watch them fight.

“What are you louts up to?” a newly arrived soldier hailed his comrades. “Slacking off?”

Another soldier—a man with a scar on his cheek—waved a hand defensively and gestured to the ongoing duel. “No, no. Nothin’ like that. Prince Leon’s come to train.”

“So I see. Comin’ round a lot recently, ain’t he?”

“Seems like only yesterday he barely came up to my knee, and now he’s swinging a sword about. Makes a man feel old, it does.” The scarred man sighed, muttering something about retirement.

The newcomer shot his comrade a glance. “Shouldn’t the rest of you be up there with him?”

“If Prince Leon’s here, you know who’s on their way. Figured we’d take our lunch while we can.”

“Aye, can’t fault you there.” Grimacing at the thought of what was surely coming, the newcomer sat down with the rest to watch the two boys fight.

“You’re swinging too hard, my lord,” the silver-haired boy said calmly as he fended off his opponent’s assault. “You’ll only tire yourself out. And you move too predictably. You must learn when to back away.”

The fair-haired boy, Leon, only swung his wooden sword harder. Sweat poured from his brow. At last, the silver-haired boy stepped back, letting Leon pitch forward, then brought his own sword down hard. There was a harsh thwack, and Leon’s weapon flew from his hand, spinning end over end until it landed on the ground.

Leon fell to his knees and tipped his head back, gulping in air. With a rueful smile, the silver-haired boy knelt down and held out a waterskin. Leon took it with a grateful nod and tipped the contents into his mouth.

The silver-haired boy looked on affectionately as Leon gulped the water down. “You attack too recklessly, my lord, with no regard for your own stamina. We must work on that. Nonetheless, I commend your focus.”

“It’s not fair, Schwartz. You’re just better than me.” Leon set the waterskin down and pouted. “And why are you talking like that? Can’t you speak like normal?”

Schwartz sighed. “I fear I cannot, my lord.”

“Why not?”

“We have very different stations. However we might talk in private, when we are in front of others, I must use the proper courtesies. Otherwise, they may not respect you.”

“You’re still the chancellor’s son,” Leon protested. “That’s close enough.”

“You have royal blood. The difference remains.”

“Why does that matter? Mother doesn’t care.”

“Only when there is no one looking. She might avoid formalities among family, but in public, you will find that she conducts herself very much like me.”

Schwartz decided to make that his last word on the matter. Leon was stubborn, and once he dug his heels in, he would go no further. He would argue a point forever if need be. It was better to change the topic.

“More to the point,” he said, “you were fighting as though you had something to prove. May I ask why?”

Leon was not usually so aggressive. By all rights, he should have lasted a little longer. Today, however, he had brought his full strength to bear from the outset instead of trying to pace himself. Schwartz pondered for a moment. What had happened in recent days that could have changed him so?

“Is this about your sister?” he said finally.

Leon’s sister had been born not so long ago. His half sister, technically—they shared a father but had different mothers. She was the same to Schwartz, for that matter, who thought she was the sweetest child there had ever been. The first time he laid eyes on her, the day had melted away until all of a sudden, it was night. He could have spent forever watching her, playing with her. He loved her with all his heart—and surely Leon felt the same.

Leon nodded, flashing a grin. “I want to be stronger. Strong enough to keep her safe.”

Schwartz couldn’t help but smile back. “As do I.”

Their new sibling had come into the world with the weight of an empire on her shoulders. For years, the nation had awaited her coming. She was, after all, the firstborn child of the Crimson Empress, making her the heir to the throne. The two boys had trained with renewed determination ever since her birth. The empire was at peace now, but there were no end of schemers and malcontents in the world, and no one could say what ne’er-do-wells might wish her ill. They strove in the hope of keeping her a little safer from harm.

“Then we shall both do our part. There is no need to rush. We shall both be there for her in her hour of need.”

Schwartz extended a hand, and Leon grasped it, pulling himself to his feet. As they looked around, they realized the soldiers around the training grounds had sunk into retainers’ bows. They turned. There stood the Crimson Empress, the chancellor of the empire, and the empress’s elder sister. The boys had only just risen, but they hurriedly knelt.

The crunch of approaching footsteps rang loud in the silence. “Leon. Schwartz. Raise your heads.”

“Your Majesty.”

The pair looked up to see the empress in all her glory looking down at them imposingly. Sweat broke out on both of their brows.

“You have both been training hard of late. You still have much to learn, but your efforts are commendable. I hope to see them continue.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty!” They bowed their heads as one.

The empress knelt down and leaned in closer. “I’m going back to my chambers before all these formalities tire me out entirely. I’ll see you both at dinner.”

She smiled, far warmer and more conspiratorially than before. Leon and Schwartz turned to each other, sharing a knowing smile.

The Crimson Empress was nothing if not willful. She had never shown much respect for the rules of high society, and that had not changed after her coronation. She often went hunting without an escort or snuck away to visit to foreign nations and, on more than a few occasions, had even embarked on bandit exterminations. Her impulsiveness and disregard for her station earned her no end of reprimands from her retainers, her long-suffering chancellor most of all. Between the ordeal of childbirth and tending to her newborn daughter, she had been subdued in recent weeks, but those close to her sensed it was only a matter of time before her next daring escape.

“Aura. Rosa. It has been a while since you last saw your sons, has it not? Take this chance to speak with them.”

“What about you, Your Majesty?” the chancellor asked.

The empress smiled. “I think I’ll retire early today.”

“Very well,” the chancellor said. “Please be certain to return to your chambers.”

“Swiftly and directly,” the other woman added.

Duly warned and a little cowed, the empress returned to the keep. Leon’s and Schwartz’s mothers shared a glance as they watched her go.

“Chancellor Aura, dare I ask if you noticed anything amiss?”

“What a coincidence. I was thinking the same.”

“She never passes up the chance to train with the boys. She’s planning something, I’m sure of it.”

“Mother?” Leon asked. “Is something wrong?”

Leon’s mother—Rosa—turned to face him, her doubt written on her face. “Nothing for you to worry about. More importantly... Well, I won’t ask you to stop training, but do try not to get yourself hurt. You have too lovely a face to ruin with bumps and bruises.”

Leon could only smile awkwardly at his mother’s demands. Rosa reached out to stroke his cheek. She narrowed her eyes as she looked at him.

“Mother?” he asked warily.

“Never mind me. I was just thinking, you’re starting to look a lot like your father...” She cut herself off and turned to Aura, who was handing Schwartz a copy of the Black Chronicle. “Remind me, is he not presently in Baum?”

Aura nodded, comprehension dawning. “For their daughter’s baptism.”

All at once, they took off running. “After her!” Rosa shouted to the soldiers as they passed. “Her Majesty is—”

At that moment, a horse thundered past, heading for the gate. The rider’s crimson hair streamed behind her.

“Blast it, we were too slow! Catch that horse!”

The two women and the soldiers scrambled to follow. The two boys shrugged and sighed deeply.

“Schwartz,” said Leon, eyeing the Black Chronicle, “why do you have that?”

“It is almost time for lessons. Mother lent it to me for you to read. I shall have you write a report afterward, naturally.”

Thoroughly brainwashed by his mother, Aura, Schwartz was already too far gone. Leon bolted like a startled rabbit.

＊＊＊＊＊

On the eastern shore of Soleil lay the small nation of Baum. It no longer had a king. Its second and last had been King Surtr, the self-proclaimed Black-Winged Lord, who had been crowned several years prior. He had now stepped aside, citing illness. Yet while the throne sat empty, Baum remained stable, its peace preserved by the archpriestess.

There was only one town in Baum: a medium-sized settlement called Natur. In the center stood the temple complex of Frieden, within which was said to dwell the Spirit King, one of the Five Lords of Heaven whom Soleil’s people revered as divine. Baum was sacred ground for the spirit faith, and spirit worshippers from all across Aletia traveled there to pay homage.

Officially, the interior of Frieden was divided into four quarters, although there was a secret fifth forbidden to all but the archpriestess. The central quarter was known as the Baptismal Font, a place for newborn children and newcomers to Frieden. The eastern quarter served as the training grounds for the priestesses-in-training, barred to outsiders and forbidden to men. The western quarter was also barred to outsiders and housed the quarters of the knight-priestesses and their squires. Finally, the southern quarter was a place of respite, open to all. Here could be found food and lodgings catering to travelers and pilgrims, as well as rooms to receive visiting dignitaries.

The fifth archpriestess was in the western quarter. She was half álfen and half beastfolk, with distinctive furred ears. Prejudice against such half-bloods was still rife, and the world at large was not welcoming of her kind. Baum, however, had been founded by half-bloods, so it was an exception.

“Another audience? Haven’t I attended enough? I, too, would like to play with my daughter.”

“Please, Your Grace. Queen Claudia is waiting.”

Meteia protested as one of her knight-priestesses led her away by the hand, showing not a shred of an archpriestess’s dignity. Her tail drooped as she vanished through the door.

Huginn smiled wryly, watching from the garden. She turned to the child crawling by her feet and scooped them up in her arms.

“Look at that pretty violet hair, eh? Just like your mother’s.”

She looked behind her, stroking Claudia’s baby’s head. Behind her sat Muninn, now a plaything for two more children.

“Leave me, sister,” he groaned. “I wasn’t built for this...”

He sat in numb acceptance as they pulled his hair and pinched his cheeks. Huginn sympathized, but there was more than his dignity at stake.

“Just grin and bear it, would you? If you make ’em cry, we’ll have their mothers to answer to... Oh?”

Belatedly, she realized one child was missing. She looked around. Fortunately, it did not take long to find them. At the foot of the great tree in the center of the grove, a one-armed woman sat with a black-haired baby held against her chest. Both of them slept peacefully in the dappled sunlight.

“Miss Luka must be having a hard time of it,” Huginn said. “She did say all the crying’s been keeping her awake.”

“Her of all people winding up a doting mother... Who’d have thought?”

“I’ll tell her you said that.”

Muninn paled. “Don’t you dare!”

Huginn ignored him as she studied Luka’s face. It would have been impossible to imagine her looking so at peace ten years ago. Times truly did change. Huginn couldn’t help but feel a little old.

“Oh, right,” she said. “A letter came from Garda.”

Muninn perked up. “From the boss? Is he doing well? What did he say?”

“Says he’s grown a fine crop of eggplants. He’ll send us some when he gets the chance.”

“Right.” Muninn looked nonplussed. “Glad to hear he’s keeping busy, I s’pose.”

Several years prior, Garda had left the Crow Legion and traveled to Mille’s village in Lichtein. The villagers had kept a wary distance from him at first, but now he was their mayor and the proud owner of his own farmland. In the ten years since the war, he and Luka had perhaps changed the most.

“Say,” Muninn said, “where’s the chief?”

“Gone to the usual spot.”

“What, by himself?”

“With the little lady. And Miss Scáthach for protection, of course.”

Huginn turned to the eastern horizon. The sun hung high in the bright blue sky, and she narrowed her eyes against the glare. Above her, a bird wheeled gracefully, and she followed it. Where might it be bound, she wondered. The bird slipped between the clouds and disappeared. It had a long journey ahead of it—a journey to a place once promised, which had lain waiting through centuries of war and strife.

Beside the vast ocean on Baum’s eastern shore lay a meadow that a golden-haired álf had once loved. A carpet of vibrant flowers covered the ground. A gentle breeze stirred the blossoms, carrying their petals skyward in grateful tribute. A young man with black hair and black eyes stood amid their beauty, cradling a crimson-haired baby in his arms.

Bonus Stories

The Royal Blade and His Bane

“Two dumplings, please, mister,” the girl said with a cheerful smile.

The dumpling seller nodded. He knew the girl well. She was a frequent patron at his stall on the capital’s central boulevard. He placed two freshly baked dumplings in a box, which he passed over the counter. “Are you headed somewhere, Your Highness?”

His customer was none other than the first in the line of succession and the presumptive heir to the throne. Her mother, the empress, had raised her with a light touch, and she was enjoying a carefree adolescence. This was far from the first time she had snuck out of the palace for a box of dumplings. Her escapades seemed to cause her loyal retainers no end of grief, but the dumpling seller had grown fond of her visits. Something seemed different today, however. Her ever-present attendants were nowhere to be seen.

She answered him with a nod. “To see my father.”

“Is that so? Bound for Baum, are we?”

Baum was a long way from the capital, beyond a mountain range, and the road was plagued with monsters. Nonetheless, the dumpling seller felt strangely certain the girl would face little trouble. Despite her youth, she had often proven capable of things normal humans were not.

“I wanted to pay him a visit, so that’s what I’m going to do.”

“You’ve got a long road ahead, Your Highness. Your dumplings will get cold.”

“That’s all right. Leo will take care of them.”

She held out her arm, dumpling box still in hand. The burning lion waiting patiently behind her opened its mouth wide and swallowed her arm whole. Most people would have screamed at the sight, but the dumpling seller was used to it. Sure enough, when the lion released its grip, her arm was unharmed.

“He’ll keep them warm all the way to Baum. I’ll give them to my father piping hot.”

“I see.” The dumpling-seller found himself nodding. A small part of him wondered whether it was right to use a Spiritblade so frivolously. Then again, now that the world was at peace, perhaps this was the best way of all.

“Goodbye, mister!”

The girl gave a wave as she turned away. Without thinking, the dumpling seller waved back. She climbed back on top of her lion and bounded away over the crowd. Soon, she was out of sight.

“Well,” he murmured, “that’s bad news and no mistake.”

This was clearly something beyond the princess’s previous excursions. She was bound outside the capital, and without her guards to boot. As common sense returned, he decided to make for the palace.

“Shopkeeper! Shopkeeper!” a panicked voice cried out. “Have you seen Her Highness?”

A golden-haired youth grasped the dumpling seller by the shoulders. The merchant trembled at being accosted by another member of the royal family, but the youth only leaned in closer, too flustered to notice.

“Sh-She was just here,” he stammered. “Bought two dumplings and left.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“To Baum, if I remember right.”

“Baum? To see her father, I’ll wager. Was she alone?”

“As best I saw.”

“Divines help us...” The youth sank to the ground, clutching his head. “Ever since Lævateinn chose her, she’s been uncontrollable.”

“Are you all right, Lord Leon?” The dumpling seller was at a loss for what to do. Sweat broke out on his brow. The street was busy, and people were beginning to stare.

The harried young man was none other than the Royal Blade. Between his skill with a sword and his dashing good looks, his popularity with the commonfolk was second to none. Every imperial citizen knew how he had abandoned his claim to the throne to serve as his sister’s retainer, as well as how he had bested renowned warriors to win his title in the arena. He was often likened to heroes past, and many privately thought he should have stayed on to take the throne, although the suggestion was known to drive him into a rage. When an especially foolish noble had intimated that he should attempt a coup, he had destroyed their entire house. Both loyal and handsome, he attracted more devotees by the day.

“Curses! I’m already too late. I must catch up to her!”

The youth sprang to his feet and took off toward the city gate.

“Your Highness! Can you hear me?! Your Highness!”

Leon had abandoned his claim to the throne rather than risk a succession conflict. His integrity was beyond dispute. The title of Royal Blade proved he was fit to serve the next empress, and he was blessed with good looks to boot. In many ways, he was the perfect knight. Yet the dumpling seller could not help but notice that his dignity never seemed to survive contact with his younger sister.

“Your Highness! Your Highness! Answer meeeeeeeee!!!”

The dumpling seller had to smile. Perhaps there was such a thing as caring for one’s family too much.

Rebuilding

“Now, if we would turn our attention to the future...”

Chancellor Rosa broke off and looked around the chamber. The key figures of the empire—Liz, Aura, Scáthach, Second Prince Selene, Margrave von Gurinda—had gathered to hold a council. Every one of them looked exhausted. The war was over now, but vestiges of the monster horde remained throughout the empire, and they demanded a response. Still, not every pressing matter was so dark. Liz’s impending coronation was weighing just as heavily on those present as monsters in need of extermination.

Aura raised her hand. “I have a question.”

Rosa nodded, granting her permission to speak.

“People are saying you’re going to step down. Not just as chancellor but as the head of House Kelheit. Is that true?”

“It’s true. Not immediately—this will be a matter of weeks and months, not days—but I think it’s about time I returned to the palace. I will see to passing on the chancellorship first. Finding a suitable successor for House Kelheit will take more time.”

The battle with the monsters had allowed plenty of promising talent to make itself known. If Rosa were to step aside, now seemed the time.

“How fares Lord Hiro?” Scáthach added. “I am told he is now in Baum?”

Rosa was not quite certain she had the full story, but she was broadly aware of the facts. To the best of her knowledge, Hiro had sustained a mortal wound in the battle and fallen comatose, during which time he had been detained in the capital. As soon as he awoke, Meteia—notably absent from the table—had sent him to Baum, insisting he would recover better in more peaceful environs. Many had objected, but she would not be denied. Rosa could hardly blame her. When she called on Hiro herself, she had found a worrying sight—he had lain in bed like an empty husk, oblivious to the sound of her voice. It must have caused Meteia great pain to see him in such a state. With tears flowing down her cheeks, she had taken him in her arms and set off for Baum with the Crow Legion.

“Meteia’s last letter indicated he can now feed himself unaided,” Rosa said. “I am confident he will make a full recovery in time.”

“Then I would like to visit him,” Scáthach said. “Would you object?”

Rosa thought for a moment, but nothing presently demanded Scáthach’s attention. “I’ll allow it.”

She glanced at Liz and found her looking at Scáthach enviously. Rosa sighed. At that moment, Liz sensed her staring and turned. As their gazes met, Rosa saw the depth of longing in Liz’s eyes, but there was no helping it—Liz’s duties tied her to the capital for the immediate future. All Rosa could do was pretend she hadn’t seen. Liz flared with anger, but she soon gave up and slumped over the table.

“Second Prince Selene,” Rosa said, “how fares the Spirit Wall?”

“It is not without its troubles, but the armies of the north are holding fast. The coronation is the more pressing matter, I think.”

“I have reinforcements stationed in any case. They are yours to send for at the first sign of danger.”

Rosa looked down, flipping through her papers as she prepared to move on. As she did, Margrave von Gurinda finally raised his hand.

“May I ask how Lady von Loeing’s appointment is progressing?”

“You have no worries on that score. I understand she wants to serve as Liz’s aide, so I have directed my subordinates to reassign her forthwith.”

“That is a relief to hear. She will be delighted.”

Rosa only nodded, although privately she wondered if Lady von Loeing’s feats did not merit a greater reward. “Oh, that’s right. And I shall accompany Scáthach to Baum.”

A clatter shook the chamber. Rosa turned to see Liz quivering with shock.

“But...” Liz stammered. “But what about your duties?”

Her voice shook almost as violently as her shoulders. Beside her, Aura narrowed her eyes.

Rosa smiled triumphantly, as if she had succeeded in some mischief. “Worry not. Aura will take care of them.”

“Me?”

“If you’re to be the next chancellor, you had better get used to the work. I have asked my subordinates to bring you up to speed. Not to worry. I have arranged for the coronation to proceed with no further involvement from me.” She spoke fluidly and imposingly, leaving Liz and Aura no room to interject. At last, she grinned. “Don’t fret about Hiro. I will write to you with every detail.”

“This isn’t fair,” Liz said. “I want to see him too!”

“We all have our roles. Now, you must play yours.”

“And you’re meant to be the chancellor, but you’re leaving that to Aura!”

“I am simply making way for the next generation. Now, Scáthach, I believe we have a journey to prepare for.”

Rosa walked away with a spring in her step, Liz’s protests ringing in her ears.

The Dumpling Seller and the Wunderkind

“Shopkeeper, have you seen Her Highness?”

On the central boulevard of the imperial capital, a dumpling seller looked up in alarm as a sharp-eyed youth approached his stall. The sauce-drenched dumplings in his hands began to burn. Smoke pricked at his nostrils, and he hurriedly pulled them from the fire before returning his attention to the youth. Two soldiers clad in heavy armor stood behind the boy. The other customers drew back from the intimidating sight.

“Lord Schwartz. It’s an honor,” the dumpling seller said. “I saw Her Highness making for the city gate.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“To see her father in Baum, if I remember right.”

“Is she indeed?” With an exhausted sigh, the bespectacled youth turned back to his guards. Whispers were exchanged. One of them nodded and vanished swiftly into the crowd.

“One last question, shopkeeper. Has Lord Leon passed this way?”

“He has. He was chasing after Her Highness.”

Leon was Schwartz’s half brother. Together, the pair were known as the Wings of the Empire. Despite their youth, their abilities were beyond dispute—Leon, the younger, had won the title of Royal Blade with three consecutive victories in the grand tournament in the arena, while Schwartz, the older, had laid waste to bandit gang after bandit gang with tactics that recalled the War God’s most daring ploys. That was not what had earned Schwartz the name of Wunderkind, however. It was his much greater achievements in the conquest of the Sanctuarium several years prior.

After the war, the three great houses of the north had successfully recaptured Friedhof, but the repairs had taken time, leaving the region vulnerable to periodic attacks by the archons. Schwartz’s answer had been to lead an expedition north into the Sanctuarium. His success had bought the construction the time it needed, and Friedhof now stood proud once more. What was more, he had exterminated most of the wild races beyond the wall, turning the Sanctuarium from a deadly wilderness to a treasure trove of unclaimed land and undiscovered riches. No end of so-called adventurers now ventured forth to brave its dangers.

“So long as Lord Leon is with her,” Schwartz murmured, “I suppose she cannot get herself into too much trouble.”

He cupped his chin with a noise of consternation. He was no less handsome than his brother, and every well-to-do lady in sight sighed to see his brow crease with worry. Conscious that he was attracting attention, he raised his head.

“My thanks for your assistance, shopkeeper. May I trouble you for ten portions of dumplings? Our mothers have taken a liking to them.”

“It’s an honor to have your patronage, my lord.” With a practiced hand, the dumpling seller filled a bag with dumplings and handed it over.

As Schwartz counted out his coins, he shot a meaningful glance at the remaining soldier. “Take these to the castle. We will need them to buy our mothers’ goodwill.”

“At once, my lord. What will you do in the meantime?”

“I have already left my vice captain in command of the royal guard. I will ride ahead to catch up with Her Highness, and we will make for Baum together.”

“Understood, my lord. We will follow you as soon as we are able.”

Curiously, the soldier did not object to Schwartz’s proposal. The road to Baum was far too dangerous for most people to travel alone. Anyone who knew Schwartz, however, knew that such cautions did not apply to him. He was as exceptional a swordsman as he was a tactician, as well as perhaps the only man in the empire capable of rivaling the Royal Blade—rumor held that he had been the one to train Leon, so he surely knew his brother’s weaknesses. With both brothers at her side, the princess would be as safe as could be.

“I only worry we may be more hindrance than help,” Schwartz muttered. “Seeing as she has Lævateinn...”

“Pardon my asking, my lord,” the dumpling seller said, “but is Lævateinn really all that?” He had heard it was capable of summoning lions and snakes—a funny kind of sword, he thought—but it hardly seemed stronger than the Royal Blade and the Wunderkind combined.

“Her Majesty says Her Highness is more talented than she ever was. To hear her tell it, she could barely even produce a flame when Lævateinn first chose her. When I consider what Her Highness can already do... Well, one shudders to think what the future might hold.”

The dumpling seller nodded blankly. He did not know what to make of that, but it certainly sounded impressive.

“Forgive me,” Schwarz said, “but Her Highness gets farther away by the second.”

He raised a hand in farewell and left with some haste, but the dumpling seller did not miss the lightness in his step. Truth be told, he could not blame the man. This was Schwartz’s first chance in a long while to spend some time alone with his brother and sister. He had maintained a stern expression throughout their conversation, but he must have been fighting back a smile all the while.

“It’s a fine thing, peace,” the dumpling seller murmured.

Not so long ago, he had lain awake at night worrying what the future held, but now, he no longer feared tomorrow. He had the empress to thank for that. The security he now enjoyed was built on the bedrock of her reign.

“All right, back to work. Dumplings! Get your dumplings! Served to the palace, don’tcha know!”

He raised his voice and began attracting customers. This was not an opportunity to waste.

A Field of Flowers

Flowers carpeted the ground as far as the eye could see. Petals in every hue danced pleasingly on the wind. Every breath tasted of nectar, soothing the mind and calming the heart. This meadow to the east of Baum had no name. The first archpriestess had discovered it herself, and she guarded its existence jealously.

“For a long time, I hoped never to tell anyone about this place.”

Rey gave a thin smile. Her face was dreadfully pale. The Spirit King’s curse weighed more heavily on her by the day, and she was now too weak to stand unaided.

“Forgive us,” Meteia said. “You do us too much honor!”

She bowed her head with all her might, grasping Hiro’s head in the process and forcing that down too. The pair of them were the extent of the carriage’s guard by Rey’s request. She had only been willing to show this place to people she truly trusted.

Rey shook her head weakly and smiled again. “Not at all. It is too beautiful to rot unknown and unshared.”

She would soon retire to spend her remaining days in convalescence. She currently resided in Baum, but with the war against the zlosta growing fiercer, the decision had been made to relocate her to somewhere safer. She had requested to see this meadow one last time before the move. Hiro and Meteia had accompanied her to ensure her wish was granted.

“I’m glad I was able to show it to you both before the end.”

“What are you saying, my lady?” Meteia looked perplexed. “We can return as often as you like once you are well again.” She jabbed Hiro in the ribs with her elbow, prompting him to back her up.

“She’s right,” he said. “This isn’t the end. I’ll find a way, I promise.”

“You are very kind. But you must remember where your priorities lie.”

Rey had always insisted her own well-being came second to freeing humanity from zlosta oppression and bringing peace to Soleil. In Hiro’s eyes, however, saving her was paramount. He would find a way to break her curse and bring her to this place once more.

“There’s only one thing I’m good for,” he said to himself.

The Demiurgos had granted him a fiend’s strength. Supposedly, that had made him immortal. He had never verified whether that was true, but saving Rey was a good enough reason to try. Immortality by itself, however, would not be sufficient. It was merely a tool to test the limits of a Lord’s strength, and he would conduct the experiments on his own flesh.

“You should rest, my lady. You will harm your health.” Meteia slid the carriage window shut and turned to Hiro with a stern glare. “And what’s with that look on your face? You’d better not be getting any funny ideas.”

He smiled. “I was just thinking, that’s all.”

He would have to be more careful in the future. No one else could know about his efforts to save Rey. He was not the only one searching for a cure—Artheus and Meteia were all doing what they could—but conventional solutions would not suffice. He would go his own way, even if that meant resorting to forbidden means.

A cool breeze rustled the flowers, brushing his cheek as it rose skyward. He narrowed his eyes, reaching out for the blossoms as they swayed. Their petals scattered with the slightest touch. He would have stayed here forever if he could. He prayed that time would stop. But reality was cruel, and Rey’s coughing called him back from his reverie.

“You are not well, my lady. Perhaps it is time to return home.”

“I will be all right. Let me stay with this sight just a little longer.”

Meteia opened the window again, and Rey smiled thinly as her eyes met Hiro’s. She had always valued others above herself, neglecting her own needs to rescue those in peril. He would have to show her that salvation went both ways.

“I swear.”

There would be no going back now. If anyone stood in his way, he would show them no mercy. He would save her no matter the cost—and if his hands ran red with blood, if his body broke under the strain, so be it.

“I swear you will see this place again.”