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Sadik prowled through the darkness.

The tunnel was low and narrow. Exactly as he remembered. The chilly air, the smell of old stone, the bouncing echo of his sandals, even the wordless pressure of a palace hanging above his head. He walked the tunnels with practiced ease, like a sword sliding into its sheath. He didn’t even need the light of his tattoos to guide him—he could navigate the winding corridors in perfect darkness, as he had done many times before.

Fifty-nine steps to the end. Turn right, then left. Thirty four steps, twelve stairs up, another thirty across. Pause at the corner. Listen for the sound of kitchen staff. Continue ahead for eighty seven steps, ignoring the false passageways. After several quick turns, the path became straight. The end was almost near.

The route lead directly into Hisana’s chambers. During the night, when he was finally relieved of duty, he would run through these corridors with a sense of freedom, his chest aching with impatience. Sometimes, she would be coy, feigning surprise at his arrival. Occasionally, she would ambush him with a kiss, her modified size allowing her to pull him off his feet with ease. Often, she would already be naked on the bed, beckoning him with a curled finger and a devious smile.

A rectangular snout, pitted with whiskers. Red and grey skin. Short, round ears. Eyes filled with joy.

Sadik snarled beneath his breath.

The last corridor. Twelve steps. Nothing but solid wall ahead.

He found the hidden lever. As the wall shuddered back, Sadik threw himself into the growing crack of light, rolling through the fireplace, spraying ash and cinder across the floor, his sword braced for combat.

The bedchambers were empty. Nothing but silence.

In his mind, the blood still flowed. Splatter, racing streams, the drippings of a sword. But here, now, everything was clean. Wiped away. All traces of her death had vanished. Nothing in the cracks, no stains upon the sheets, as if she had never—

Sadik tried to breathe.

With the sole exception of the marble tiles, everything in the room was made of wood. Postered bed frames, couch legs, dining tables, storage chests, walk-in wardrobes. All the furniture had adornments—silver inlays, glittering stones, even carved friezes lining the walls—but they all paled in comparison to the simple luxury of wood. It had been sourced from the Neheamatt herself. It was still radiant, glowing with the color of sand, its wrinkles and whorls seeming to shift the longer they were held beneath the eye, like the shimmer of heat across a flat, barren ground. From a glance, it seemed like the room was melting.

Sadik checked every corner, looking behind curtains and furniture. Even the bathtub, carved from wood and inlaid with copper, was empty.

The Vizier was not in his chambers. That would’ve been too easy, Sadik supposed.

“Hoi!”

Amira emerged from the low opening of the fireplace. The Sons began to climb through the gap where the false wall had slid away, struggling to fit their weapons and modified muscle.

“Gonna fuckin’ wait for us?” the leopard asked, a shortbow held in hand.

Sadik wiped his long, black hair away. His braid had come loose, settling strands upon his eyes.

Amira stormed up to him, pressing a paw into his chest. “Stay in line. Rush into a room again, and you’ll get cut to fucking ribbons.”

He glared at her. She returned the gesture, feline eyes narrowed down to slits.

Sadik looked away. As he did, his eyes fell over the bed.

It was massive. Fit for royalty. Silk curtains, feathered pillows. The mattress was stuffed with long shucks of hair, all grown and modified for comfort, for Glimmer was a gift to every industry. Any who laid upon the bed would find it as soft as a cloud.

He heard her voice again. Whispers. Laughter. Creaking wood, light filtering from curtains.

When she told him she was pregnant, chills had raced across his skin. He had not thought of the political fallout, the scandal it would cause. He had placed a hand on her belly, hoping to feel life. He—

“Sir.”

Sadik turned. Amira slapped him across the face. Before he could recoil, she had wrapped her furry arms around his back, pulling him into a hug. Her modified strength nearly made him gasp. The limb of her greatbow, still slung across her body, pressed between their chests.

“Go to the door,” she said, whispering in his ear. “Wait there. Don’t look.”

Sadik blinked.

“Don’t look. Alright?”

He gave a single nod.

She released her hug, squeezed his arm, and went to organize the men.

Sadik forced himself to walk. His sandals slapped against the marble tiles. All around him, the wood of the Neheamatt continued to swirl and glow, like something molten still stirred inside. It always seemed like it was melting. The tables, the wardrobes, even the lining of the walls. One could lose themselves, if they stared too long.

Everything was the same. No rubble, no looters. Not a single streak of ash.

What had he expected?

There were a set of bronze doors by the entrance. Sadik leaned both hands against the metal, suddenly feeling nauseous. His loosened hair fell around his face. His skin grew slick with sweat.

The smell was gone. There had always been a scent in the air, a welcoming note of fragrance that greeted him upon return. Spices, incense. Cinnamon. When he left, he would often smell her on his clothes. Sometimes, he would continue to wear the day old fabrics throughout his shift, either as a memento of their love or as a dare for his fellow guards, as if, in some way, he wanted them to be discovered.

Faustine had given him a hug, sometime before the revolution. A quick gesture. She had stiffened against him, pulling back in shock. She had sniffed the air, and she had known the truth.

Sadik nearly vomited.

It smelled like someone else. The vulture. The man who had stolen her mask. It was a defiling presence, coating every breath he took. There were no more games in this room, no more nights spent in cool baths and quiet leisure. He could smell the lack of joy. He could still taste the blood in the air, like he had in his dreams.

Spilling. Splattering. The wet thunk of her head—

A hand fell on his shoulder.

Kavaia was standing next to him. Her touch was careful, and her gaze was soft, the light of the Neheamatt’s wood glimmering across her scales. She did not say a word—instead, she waited for him to speak, ready to do whatever she could.

Sadik leaned against the bronze doors, swallowing the bile in his throat. After a moment, he straightened himself, renewed his grip on his sword, and gave a small nod. Kavaia’s hand lingered before pulling away.

“Right,” Amira said, jogging up to the door. Dozens of Sons followed behind. “Big cunt’s not here. Gonna be in the throne room, close to the life tanks, probably cowerin’ and such.”

Sadik nodded. “All targets in one spot.”

“Don’t ya love it?”

Some of the Sons gave a quiet grunt.

“Remember,” Amira said. “Stick to your squad leaders. They got the countermeasure. If you go fifteen feet from your sergeant, you’ll get eaten by an Exalted, and that ain’t a fucking joke. Only parts of you left will be less than sand.”

Some of the men shuffled closer. Sadik checked the small metal device on Dusksong’s guard, making sure that it still drew power from his sword. Kavaia watched him—he already knew, without asking, that she would choose to stay by his side, instead of the others.

Amira traded her shortbow for the wyrmslayer, anchoring the bottom limb to the marble floor with a weighted thunk. She seemed to ready to fell a god. “Same route?”

“Just as we planned,” Sadik replied. “Swift and vicious.”

“No quarter?”

“Not for traitors.”

Amira grinned. Kavaia gave a low rumble. The Sons clapped their fists to their hearts, metal skin echoing against breastplates.

Sadik opened the doors.

They rushed into the hall, boots and sandals slapping against stone. No one greeted them. The building was silent.

Sadik began counting his steps. He had memorized the route from the bedchamber of the Vizier all the way to the largest domed building in the palace grounds, where the throne of sacrifice lay sheltered against vines and the rows of life tanks glimmered amidst vats of melted flesh.

Sixty eight steps down the corridor. Turn left at the intersection, pass two corridors, then cut right, heading straight for the double doors. Total steps to the eastern garden—one hundred and fifty two. From the gardens, the throne room of the Vizier could be accessed by cutting through the military barracks. The barracks would be full of guards, if any still remained.

Butcher the men, slaughter the usurper. For the second time, the palace would fill with blood.

Sadik began to run. Dozens of Sons followed in formation. Rows of torches blazed inside mounted sconces, the light of the flames dancing upon pillar and statue. Ancient Viziers, each of them wearing a mask suited to their species, watched the invading rebels from marble plinths and shadowy recesses. All the hallways were carved from basalt and quartzite, stones that glinted like Glimmer, the interplay of white and black stone creating an impression of a starry night sky.

There were no guards to be found. As Sadik raced down the halls, he counted no less than two dozen places where an armed sentry should’ve stood, places that any sensible defense force would’ve manned with spearmen and archers. Chokepoints, bottlenecks, killzones. All were empty. The Sons had arrived unopposed.

Was the diversion successful? Had all the palace guards run to fight the Kesunae? Maybe the Demokrats were so disorganized that they could not defend the home of their leader. Or maybe the Sons were about to walk straight into an ambush.

Sadik continued on, his sword glowing with the light of a sunbeam.

Soon, they reached the end of the hall, the lines of statues and gold inlays ending in a large set of bronze double doors. Sadik bashed them open. Amira and Kavaia followed at his back.

They emerged into the night. A wall of greenery surrounded them. The gardens of Kohav Yaran spread out toward the high cerulean walls, with the bounty of nature spilling across a series of footpaths, archways, and terraces. Grape vines hung like curtains, bulging with fruit. Rose bushes bloomed in the night. Willow trees rose high into the air while scrubs of olive squatted below. Cedar, cypress, myrrh, plums, pomegranates, ash trees, almonds, rosewood. . . .

Sadik shook his head. He had to keep focus.

The Sons rushed into the gardens, following the walkways that curved through the foliage. The gardens were designed to bring shade during the hottest times of the day, shrouding the sky with canopies of leaves and walls of stone, all of which provided excellent cover for an advance. They passed beneath archways shrouded with vines, cut through gazebos carved from ebony. Some of the Sons drank water from the shallow rivers. Others plucked grapes and pears.

The night was quiet. Completely still. The gardens had been built as a place of rest and peaceful reflection, where a man could contemplate the gifts of the Neheamatt and the luscious blessings she bestowed. At the moment, he found the silence unsettling. The Sons of Sorrow should have met resistance by now, and, yet, they seemed to be all alone. No mortals, no Mezlat, no Exalted. Just the dry, desert wind rustling through the leaves.

There should’ve been a holdout force. Even if the city walls were breached, the Vizier would have left some forces to guard the palace. Were the Demokrats running so low on men that they had none left to spare?

Faustine would know better. She would’ve prepared exactly the right defenses to repel an incursion. He had taught her everything he knew, and nothing had made him regret it more than seeing her stride into Hisana’s chambers. She was passionate. Ruthless. A prodigy scorned.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

As he led his men further on, the cerulean walls started to become visible through the canopy. Shafts of blue light drifted between the leaves, bathing the dirt and stone in an ethereal glow. Eventually, the greenery began to recede, and the Sons found themselves moving right at the edge of the walls, as if they were marching at the base of a colossal wave. If a man raised his head, it would seem as if the sky had been perfectly split between day and night—black clouds on one side, a shimmering blue on the other.

But Sadik did not look at the sky. He gazed through the walls, hoping to see some glimpse of the city through the barriers of energy.

There was nothing distinct. Only three colors were visible through the thick wall of light—blue, orange, and black. The blue was the eastern wall of the city, which, from this distance, seemed about the width of a sword. The orange was a series of fires burning across multiple districts, appearing in a pattern of straight lines and misshapen wedges. The black came from the abandoned quarantine zone closer to the palace, occasionally slashed through with clouds of smoke—a wide sea below the orange, a row of spires spreading through the blue.

He stopped. Usually, the gardens of Kohav Yaran smelled of flowers and fresh dirt. Now, standing at the edge of the grove, there was a tinge of smoke in the air. If he listened carefully, he could imagine the sounds of war.

Bellowing men. Clashes of steel. Destrier hooves, the thrum of sunbeams. Someone screaming in agony.

Isaac and Zaria were somewhere out there, in the thick of things. Despite knowing them for only a short time, he hoped they would survive.

Sadik turned his gaze back toward the palace. Above the trees of the garden, a large dome building rose into the night. Many spines crawled down the walls, giving the dome a corrugated appearance, while decorative thorns jutted out from the spines in long, sharpened rows.

The throne room of the Vizier. His target.

The other buildings held the shape of leaves, with long oval rooms and stem-like hallways—in contrast, the throne room of the Vizier held the rounded shape of a cactus, meant to symbolize the duality of rulership. Cacti were tough, unbending plants with fruits contained within their thorns. A proper Vizier must channel the same spirit. Sharp spikes, beautiful flowers. Rigid and defensive to those outside, sweet and nourishing to those within.

The vulture would be there, hiding with his scepter and finery while the city burned around him. Had he taken all the guards to protect himself? Is that why the palace laid empty?

Sadik continued along the path, the cerulean walls glowing at his side.

The barracks loomed ahead. They were built from the same sparkling stone as the rest of the palace, but, instead of leaves, they held the appearance of tree roots, partially burrowing through the earth. If the throne was a cactus, and the buildings were leaves, then the soldiers must be the roots of the plant, for every plant depended on their roots for strength.

No one guarded the door. No torches burned along the wall. Not a man seemed to stir inside. Were they sleeping? Had the soldiers abandoned their posts?

Sadik grew thirsty for blood. The silence had lasted long enough. If none of the Demokrats planned to face him, then he would slaughter them in their beds, just as they had done to him.

Hisana. The Luminous Path. Every servant of the true Vizier.

Dusksong burned in his hands, trembling with power.

“By the stars,” Kavaia said.

The crocodile was staring through the cerulean wall. Instead of focusing on the distant battle, she had fixed her gaze lower, toward the quarantined district lying just on the edge of the palace. The district that had long ago been lost to the Metal Plague.

An army had gathered on the other side of the wall. From a single glance, it was difficult to tell how many of the infected were present, both from the opaqueness of the walls and the misshapen forms they had adopted. Some had lost their heads, or had them shifted to different positions. Others had grown arms where there should be legs, mouths where there should be shoulders, sacs of ichor where once were organs. A few of the victims had even managed to combine into a single organism, like separate wads of dough mashed together into a ball.

It was impossible to gather an exact count. Hundreds, easily. If the wall had not been there, the Sons would be overrun in seconds.

Amira stuck her tongue out, giving the crowd a rude gesture. Sadik slapped her arm.

The spread of the plague had not stopped with the people. Entire growths had fastened themselves to the wall. Some had formed into separate blisters, growing across the surface like bulging spots of mold, while others had amassed together like a fleshy wasp’s nest, oozing streaks of black ichor. A few spilling hills collected in the wedge between earth and wall, their heaping, bulbous shapes appearing to pulse with a beating heart. Everything squirmed.

Something was odd about these growths. They almost seemed to glow.

“Hoi!” Amira whispered, tapping on the wall. “You come to watch the show?”

The creatures moaned. Some split themselves in half, displaying a nest of tongues where once had been intestines.

Amira gave another rude gesture.

“Sadik,” Kavaia said. “They are watching you.”

Sadik squinted through the thick wall of light. With a start, he realized Kavaia was correct. Everywhere he looked, all eyes were focused on him, no matter if they were attached to a face or grown in colonies. Nearly a hundred of his men had gathered along the wall, and, still, the infected were only focused on him. They swarmed around his position, contorted and undulating.

He supposed that was natural. His sword was shining in his hand, and his tattoos were fluorescing across his face and neck. That was the point of the Luminous Path. Just as moths gather around a flame, people gather around a light. The instinct was as basic as hunger.

But something nagged at his mind. The beating heart he had witnessed in the sewers, deep in the Foundations. The war being waged between Aldunya and the Metal Plague.

A horrible thought occurred to him.

Sadik had been blessed by the Neheamatt. The great tree had sheltered him from the plague and wrapped him in her fronds, all at a time when she was dying from infection. At the same time, the plague was intelligent. It had spread itself with a vicious cunning, always altering its tactics based on the quarantine efforts. Releasing spores over the barricades, changing the speed of infection, even rushing the streets in mobs whenever the cleansing fires forced it to emerge. The fact that it had directed its efforts toward Aldunya’s roots only proved the danger that it posed—it was now striking at the very heart of the city.

Had Sadik become one of its targets? Was he so important to Aldunya that the plague had singled him out from the rest?

The masses on the walls were glowing. Blue light crawled through the rotting tissue, flowing like blood, glinting off the metal shards, reflecting in the eyes and fingernails that grew like blades of grass.

Blue light. Cerulean. The same color as the walls. The same color he had seen in the beating heart, so far below the city.

Was the plague consuming the energy barriers?

Sadik’s mind began to race. As he gazed through the edifice, he could see more details on the other side—the morphing bodies, the chittering faces, all the pustules and distended skin. The wall was more transparent than it should be, as if the arcane energy had become no more than glass. Was the thickness waning? Was the entire wall beginning to melt like a glacier?

Isaac and Zaria had entered the city through a hole in the eastern wall, the very same gap that the Kesunae were now pouring through. How big was this gap? How had it formed? Could a similar break occur in any of the other walls?

If the Metal Plague could drain the power from the walls, and the source of the energy was located deep beneath the earth, and the plague had already spread into the Foundations. . . .

Sadik blinked. He gazed up at Kavaia. Her eyes were already wide, as if she had reached the same conclusion.

They were not safe here. Not any longer. If nothing was done, the walls could disappear. If the cerulean walls vanished, the plague would become unstoppable. Acheron would only be the start—it would travel across the world, infecting entire continents, bringing every nation under its melding grasp.

A true apocalypse. The same level of threat that had destroyed the ancestors. Civilization had managed to crawl back before, guided by the remnants left behind. But now . . . what would happen if all life had been subsumed? Brought under the thrall of a malevolent disease?

Amira slapped Sadik on the back. “I know you like to gawk, sir, but I came here to kill some cunts, not stare at the wildlife.”

Sadik tore his gaze from the wall. The military barracks were just ahead. Beyond, the dome of the throne room continued to rise into the night, splayed with spines and spikes. The Vizier would be hiding there. So close at hand. So close to justice.

He shook his head, trying to center himself.

There were too many things occurring at once. Hisana’s chambers, the absence of the guard, the Kesunae invasion, the plague. . . .

Faustine.

The life tanks were close to the throne. If he wanted to end her life permanently, he would have to destroy every last one of her clones. Cut their limbs, sever their necks. Stomp every skull beneath his sandals, watching the light fade from their eyes.

A familiar rage consumed him.

“Let’s go,” Sadik said, bringing Dusksong to bear.

Kavaia was still gazing through the wall. Her attention had split between the plague victims and the battle raging in the distance. She touched the wall with a gentle hand, as if wishing she could be where the death was thickest.

Amira slapped her ass. “Hoi, Green Cunt, let’s go already.”

Kavaia glared down at the leopard, massaging her buttocks with a look of outrage. “Novsh! Teneg ükhel!”

“Oh, what’s that? You tell me to eat your droppings?”

Kavaia bit down a response, raised her chin, and used her long strides to return to Sadik’s side. He heard several foreign curses beneath her breath.

They moved toward the barracks. Nothing disturbed the night. There were no guards on patrol, no snipers in the trees, not even any Mezlat drones patrolling the sky. The moon had been swallowed beneath the clouds of smoke, leaving the gardens shrouded in darkness. When Sadik approached the entrance of the root-like building, he moved through a calm blanket of leaf and shadow.

They stacked up at the doors. Squad leaders rushed toward the other entrances, hoping to cut off all forms of retreat. Any men inside the barracks would find themselves with nowhere to flee.

Sadik palmed the handle. Amira gave him a nod. Kavaia readied her spear, adopting a loose underarm grip.

He rushed through the door.

The barracks were full of blood.

The room was long, low and narrow, filled with bunk beds and empty weapon stands. Blood had splattered on the walls, splashed on the beds, spread across the marble floor in thin, scarlet pools. The beds had clearly been abandoned with some haste, their sheets and pillows lying scattered, and more than a few had been smashed into pieces—only a pile of broken stone and spilling straw remained, intermingling with the blood still lying fresh upon the stone.

“Clear!” Sadik shouted.

The Sons raced to secure the doors and corners, ready to defend their position. Sadik and Kavaia walked through the center aisle of the barracks, gazing at the destruction. Whatever battle had occurred here, it had come with great speed and violence.

“The blood is fresh,” Kavaia said, casually tilting a heavy stone bed.

“Where are the bodies?” Sadik asked.

Not a single guard remained inside the barracks, alive or dead. A massacre without victims. Sadik kicked over a broken bedpost, finding nothing but linen and straw beneath.

But, as he examined the signs of conflict, he began to see more than blood—slivers of bone, scattered teeth, even a few scattered ligaments. The thicker the pools of blood, the more gore was discovered. Even when there was no blood, Sadik began to see scorch marks along the walls, places where the stone had melted like wax on a candle.

“More light!” he shouted.

The Sons raised their sunspears, letting a beam grow at the tip. Sadik held Dusksong above his head, the yellow light causing the shadows to jump and leap away. Many sunbeams had been fired at the root-like walls. On a glance, it seemed similar to the wounds caused by an animal’s mauling—a frantic chaos of slashes, streaks, and deep punctures, all of it surrounded by black ash and melted stone.

Sadik had seen these markings all his life. Sunbeams. He could tell, just from the angles involved, that a single shooter was responsible for most of the weapon scores. Almost no one had fired in return, and those that had were clearly panicked.

“Hoi!” Amira said. “Big fuckin’ feet!”

She pointed. Towards the back of the long, narrow room, a pool of blood had spilled out into the central hall. A series of bare feet had travelled back and forth between the end door and several areas across the pool, the bloody trail lasting for so long that the imprints had gone from sopping wet to a light hint of scarlet. Based on the length of the stride, and the size of the footprints, it had only been a single man, and that man had been very large.

The size of a god.

Everything came together. A single shooter killing dozens of men. The depth of the violence, the victims slaughtered with such strength that only pieces remained. The lack of guards present throughout the palace.

“Rushan,” Kavaia said, releasing a held breath.

“No.” Sadik pointed at the sunbeams scars across the room. “The jackal fights with his fists. This was done by a different god, one with a weapon.”

Kavaia shook her head, her leathery throat beginning to bulge. “He gave the order. The blood reeks of his name.”

The Sons glanced between each other, beginning to whisper. Even Amira, usually quick with a jest, had started to glance around the room, eyes widening at the pools of blood.

Kavaia turned to him. “Sadik, you must pull your men back. If Rushan has stooped to slaughtering mortals, there is no telling what terrible schemes he has in motion.”

“We are not leaving,” Sadik said. “Not now. Not anymore.”

“You cannot face the gods. Your men will die like flies.”

“They are already dying in the streets. The Kesunae are invading the city. If we leave now, and the Vizier still lives, the entire invasion was for nothing.”

Kavaia stepped forward, the ridges of her head nearly scraping the ceiling. “And if your entire rebellion is killed with a stroke? Would that not make your efforts in vain, as well?”

Sadik did not answer.

She gestured at the open doorway, back at the gardens they had crossed. “We must leave. Regroup and reassess. The fight is not over, as long as we still live.”

“I am not leaving,” Sadik said, his hands clenched into fists.

“Sadik—”

“I am not leaving!”

His shout surprised him. Kavaia flinched back. The Sons gripped their weapons.

“I ran once before,” Sadik said. A rage gripped his chest, boiling up from his throat. “I watched the love of my life die, and I did nothing to stop it, because the woman who killed her was my friend, and I could not bring myself to harm her. The one time I failed my duty, it cost me everything.”

Further away, Amira crossed her muscular arms, watching with an even expression.

“I am not leaving,” Sadik said, his voice final. “Not again. Not anymore.” He gazed around the room, making eye contact with every squad of men. “Let us be clear. The gods are killing their own faithful. We may have to face them in combat. If anyone here doubts their chances against the divine, or does not wish to commit heresy, now is the time to leave. You may go without consequence. Deicide must not be done lightly.”

The men—all modified with muscle and armor—glanced between each other. There was surprise. Confusion. Naked fear. They looked at the bodiless carnage with a growing terror. After a moment, a cheetah broke from the ranks, fleeing back toward the gardens. Emboldened by her response, a dozen more followed, dropping their weapons as they ran.

No one else moved. Not a word was spoken. The Sons kept their eyes on Sadik, waiting for his order.

“Is there anyone else?” Sadik asked. “You will not receive another chance.”

One by one, the rebel army placed their fists upon their hearts, giving Sadik a small bow. Many had been shaken by what they learned. At the same time, their backs were straight, and their gaze never wavered. He did not doubt their conviction.

Before the revolution, most of these men had not been soldiers. But now, standing at the cusp of battle, Sadik felt they all deserved the title.

“Amira?” he asked.

The leopard anchored her greatbow to the floor, swatting a sandwyrm tooth that hung from the top limb. “I’ve killed worse. And fuck you for askin’.”

He looked up at Kavaia. “Are you still with me?”

“You realize,” Kavaia said, “that you are asking me to slay my fellow gods. People I have known for centuries.”

“Are they people you care for?”

“Hardly. Most have spat in my face, at one time or another.”

“What about the Vizier?”

“He seemed a weak figure. Unworthy of his station.”

“And the guards who might stand in our way?”

“Grains of sand, blowing in the wind. Let them fall where they must.”

Sadik nodded. “Then what are we waiting for?”

“I was hoping you would dislodge your head from your posterior. For a man who channels the sun, it seems there is one place it does not shine.”

Amira snorted.

“Sadik,” the crocodile said, the light of his sword reflected in her eyes. “Allow me to speak in the parlance of a mortal.” She leaned over him. “Yes, I am with you. And fuck you for asking.”

Sadik felt something warm in his chest. When he looked around the room, finding all eyes upon him, the feeling increased. He nodded, walking around the goddess of death. She fell into step at his back. Amira did the same. There was a pounding of boot and sandal as the Sons of Sorrow began to mobilize.

The pools of blood were still fresh. Many men had died in this room, and the god who killed them had taken the time to remove their bodies. For what purpose, he did not know. Perhaps he did not want to know.

Hiding the evidence. Feeding the life tanks.

He pushed open the door.

The path to the throne room lay ahead. Unlike the grove behind them, the fires of the revolution had reduced this garden to cinders. The ground was black and desolate, the stone terraces lying raw and exposed. There were fields of fallen branches, pockets of ash, formerly luscious trees reduced to slim, black poles still jutting from the earth. The only greenery to be found were the soft petals of wild flowers already growing amongst the destruction.

Sadik raced ahead. The layers of burnt soil crunched beneath his feet. The light from his sword glimmered amongst the ash and waste. Ahead, there were only piles of rubble where buildings had once stood. Temples, apartments, laboratories. The Demokrats had not managed to rebuild that which they had destroyed, and, now, in the dead of night, not a soul was stirring.

Which one of the gods had killed the palace guards? Were they acting alone, or had Rushan given the order?

Most importantly, where were they now?

He reached the throne room. The great dome stretched high overhead. Like a true cactus, the building was large, round, and thorned, with a series of spines stretching down from the center of the dome in a radially symmetric pattern—four spines on each side, twenty thorns per spine. The thorns were colossal, easily the size of a god, and the valleys between the cactus-like spines grew so deep that a schooner could sail between them.

The entrance was just around the corner. Bronze double doors. In previous years, he had received several guard postings around this entrance, opening the doors to any dignitary who wished to enter. He still remembered the first time he had caught Hisana’s eye.

She had worn a white linen dress designed for her size, with bangles of silver, earrings of gold, and a necklace laced with sapphire. Her dusky, grey skin seemed to catch the evening sun, and the butt of her jeweled scepter had clicked to the floor, echoing through the garden. There had been a pause. He had held the door, and she had gazed down at him through the mask. Later, when they could speak freely, she had told him—

“Contact!” Amira hissed.

A light was growing from the ruined buildings beyond. It was not the light of a torch. It was clear, radiant, and brightly yellow, shining as pure as the sun itself.

“Find cover!” Sadik said.

Options were limited. The doors were nearby, lying at the end of an outer vestibule that burrowed into the dome. The cactus spines provided several deep valleys. At once, the Sons scrambled to safety, jamming together into the few pockets of stone they could find. Ninety men disappeared into the shadows.

Sadik leaned out of cover, watching the light approach.

Gidros emerged from the side of a fallen temple. He was the same rhinoceros god that had stood next to Rushan during the ceremony of apotheosis. Little was known about the man—he did not participate in ceremonies, did not give blessings to those who prayed at his shrines. As the god of penance and asceticism, his thick grey skin was covered with innumerable scars, and the horn on his head had been sharpened into a brutal spike. It was said that he was so devoted to flagellation that he had cut out his own tongue. In centuries, not a soul had heard him speak.

Sadik remembered the tail end of the ceremony, when Rushan had declared the roles of the new gods. Thimera had become the goddess of death, freeing the city of immortality . . . and Gidros had become god of the sun, freeing the sky from the storm of blood.

As it turned out, the rhinoceros was the source of light. His thick leathery hide, normally dulled with scars, glowed with a fine radiance. Gleaming yellow lines traced the contours of his body, forming into arrows upon his arms and sun-like spheres upon his chest. A pair of wings stretched from his back—fearsomely wide, searingly bright, each of the white feathers glowing with such luminosity that they seemed a pair of clouds in the morning sky, absorbing all the rays of the sun.

For a moment, Sadik blinked at the light. He almost thought he was staring at Ilios once more.

He blinked again. Gidros walked around the edge of the burned garden. Like a comet in the sky, he passed among burned trees and blackened stone, heading toward the northern end of the palace. There was a warhammer in his glowing hands, the double-sided heads nearly the size of a blacksmith’s anvil. As he walked, Gidros shifted his polearm to one hand, casting a light from the palm of the other. He was searching the shadows. His pace was slow and deliberate.

He was hunting.

Amira leaned above Sadik’s head, giving a low whistle. “Ain’t that a painting.”

Even further above, Kavaia loosed a quiet hiss. “He never seemed right of mind. More than once, he refused my healing after a battle, just so he might savor the pain.”

Gidros paused. Something in the distance had caught his attention. He raised his glowing palm, and the sunbeam grew from a bulging sphere into a searing arrowhead, boiling between his fingers. Lines of radiance surged through his arm. He fired. The night was split with a lance of energy.

Somewhere on the other side of the cactus dome, a woman screamed in pain. Gidros unfurled his wings, blew them twice, and flew into the air, easily rising above the buildings around him. He disappeared into the sky. The woman screamed louder, a dim glow travelled around the dome, and then she was silenced.

None of the Sons dared to move. In the sudden quiet, Sadik imagined what the men in the barracks would’ve experienced—a sudden entrance, a blinding light, their friends sliced and seared without mercy. From the bits of gore left behind, Gidros had clearly made use of his hammer and fists, as well.

“Zerleg khar,” Kavaia said, spitting upon the ground. “He obeys Rushan just for the carnage.”

“He is a disgrace to the sun,” Sadik said. “I would rip the wings from his back.”

“Hoi, hoi, hoi,” Amira said. “Let’s not go pickin’ every fight we see. He’s gone, and we got a job that still needs doin’.”

Sadik glanced ahead. There was a set of bronze double doors. The entrance to the throne room.

They moved into position—stacks of men, weapons high, ready to secure the room. Amira pulled a wyrmslayer from the quiver on her back, the arrow easily the size of a spear. Sadik held Dusksong out before him and tried to steady his breathing.

But, as he closed his eyes, he heard voices coming from inside the throne room. There were several sources, each of them carrying the kinds of booming notes that could only come from beings of prodigious size. More gods were in the room. From the sound of their voices, they did not appear happy.

“You hearin’ that?” Amira asked, opposite him on the doors.

Sadik nodded. They both listened. While the voices were deep and loud, the walls were thick, and it was difficult to discern the words. Even Amira’s leopard ears seemed incapable of parsing the dialogue.

This was bad. Their target had to be inside—Sadik knew the evacuation plans better than anyone still alive, and he knew that, if escape into the tunnels was impossible, the Vizier had to be brought to the throne room, as it was the most defensible position in the palace. But charging into a room full of an unknown quantity of gods would be suicidal. One god had slaughtered an entire barrack. Several would spell their end.

If they could not assault the throne, they had to see inside. Plan an alternate strategy.

“We climb,” Sadik said.

He walked out of the vestibule, returning to the open air. Above, the cactus dome stretched high into the night, littered with spikes and spines. There were a row of windows stretching around the circumference of the dome, nearly ten cubits above the ground. For the sake of light and ventilation, they were always kept open. The one above the entrance would provide an excellent vantage point.

Amira leaped onto the curving wall. There were no handholds to be found, but she used her feline agility to scramble up the sheer stone face, jumping between the large thorny spikes. Meanwhile, Sadik remained on the ground, judging the distance to the window. His unmodified body stood no chance of climbing on his own.

“Goddess,” he said. “Could you climb this?”

She glanced up at Amira, who had already reached the window. “With some difficulty, yes.”

“Perfect. I will ride on your back.”

“. . . pardon?”

“I must see into the room,” Sadik said, matter of fact. “And your arms will be occupied. So I will cling to your shoulders.”

“Oh,” Kavaia replied. “Will you, now? Have I been reduced to your pack mule? A palanquin for your pleasure?”

“You could always throw me, instead.”

“There are several more options!”

Above, Amira was gesturing for them to climb. Her movements were growing frantic.

Kavaia rumbled, gave him a look of displeasure, and bent her knee. Sadik leaped onto her back, managing to wrap his arms around the collar of her neck. As she returned to her feet, lifting him off the ground and adjusting his body, Sadik turned to his men.

“Find cover,” he said. “Remain hidden.”

The men scattered into position. Kavaia began to climb, using the strength of her fingers to grip the roughly hewn stone. Eventually, after much straining, she managed to reach the sill of the window, pulling herself next to Amira. Sadik raised himself upon her shoulders, his chin nearly resting on her head.

“You won’t fuckin’ believe this,” Amira said.

He saw inside the throne room. And what he saw disturbed him.

There was a pile of bodies. Hundreds of souls. Every man and woman who had served Kohav Yaran in some capacity—taken from their offices, murdered in their homes, slaughtered as they tried to flee. There were rivers of blood, dozens of limbs. The silent mouths were still open in shock.

There were five people in the room. The Vizier stood upon the fine rugs lying before the dais, his thin vulture body shivering in his robes. Faustine hovered at his side, her two khopeshes drawn and ready. Thimera stood amongst the columns and drapes, her bovine horns twirling with unease. Next to the throne of sacrifice—a towering mound of bark, leaves and thorns—laid the baboon god of cataracts, Xaeyr, his body still being flayed with a cloud of Exalted.

The last person drew everyone’s attention. Every man in the throne room, god or mortal, watched him with keen interest. Torchlight glinted off his golden streaks. His obsidian fur laid darker than the shadows around him. And, after a gasp of air, Kavaia began to growl.

The fifth person in the room was Rushan, god of war.