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The bodies were piled high.

Due to the sheer quantity of dead, it was difficult for Sadik to identify any one soul. Some had lost their heads, while others had been sliced in half. There were lacerations, sunbeam scores, pulped skulls, dented chests, dozens of limbs poking from the spilling mound, like scraggly roots still clinging to a ball of dirt. With the diversity of body mods, everything was a riot of color—purple eyes, silver claws, green fur, orange scales. Often, the only way to do identify a body was to examine the uniform they still wore.

Priest robes. Metal armor. Craftsman’s gloves. There were scholars, clerks, gardeners, technicians, tailors, servants, butchers, stable hands. . . .

Everyone. Every man and woman necessary to run a fortress. Killed without mercy. Dragged away, tossed together. Soon, they would be nothing more than extracted Glimmer and recycled flesh. Why bury the dead when they still had use for the living?

A silence had fallen upon the throne room. It was broken only by the sound of Rushan’s footsteps—he paced back and forth, moving at an unnatural speed, the heavy slaps of his feet echoing across the vast, domed chamber. His hands were clenched into fists, his muscles flexing beneath the black sheen of his fur. He seemed barely able to contain his rage.

The Vizier stood in the center of the chamber, shivering in his robes. Faustine prowled at his back, a curved sword held in each hand. Thimera, the bovine goddess of pleasure and beauty, and now the goddess of death, clung to one of the many columns, watching with wide eyes.

From their vantage point at the window, Amira muttered a curse. Kavaia rumbled from her chest. Sadik raised himself upon her shoulders, hoping to see further into the chamber.

All eyes were upon the jackal. He continued to pace across the rugs and marbled floor, his golden streaks glinting in the torchlight. Only Faustine seemed to gaze at him with confidence—the rest were afraid, flinching at every gesture. The silence was as tense as a bowstring. Ready to loose.

“It all has to end,” Rushan said.

He continued to pace. The vulture glanced between the jackal and Faustine. She hissed, gesturing with her sword. The Vizier flinched, let Hisana’s mask slip further from his face, and returned his gaze to Rushan.

“Did you plan this invasion?” Rushan asked.

“N-no!” the Vizier shouted. “Of course not!”

“Your lies are bald, vulture.”

“No!”

Rushan growled. In a blur of speed, he raised his foot and stomped it down into the floor, shattering the stone tiles as easily as glass. Dust and shards flew in a storm.

“I did nothing!” the vulture shouted, daring a step forward. “The walls have not been manned for weeks! There are no souls to spare! The Kesunae must have—surely—” He floundered for the word. “A defect! Some chip in the energy! They must have crawled through the cracks like vermin!”

Rushan kicked through the fresh rubble at his feet, continuing to pace once more.

The vulture waved his robed arms. “That’s all they are! Vermin! Not even the gods need be involved! Drown them in Mezlat, let the Exalted spread through their ranks! This—this—this infestation could easily be contained if we—”

“Faustine,” Rushan said. “Cut his ankle. If he speaks again, sever the foot.”

Faustine bore her swords to either side. She was nearly two heads shorter than the Vizier, but, when she came for him, it was the vulture who panicked. He tried to run. His scepter slipped on the smooth marble, sending him into a tumble. Faustine slashed her swords in a cross. There was a gasp, a breathless scream, and a muffled thump as the vulture collapsed onto the floor, losing himself in a desperate fit of coughing.

“Sadik,” Amira whispered, just to his side. “That your protégé takin’ orders from the golden cunt?”

“It . . . appears so.”

Faustine stood above the crumpled form of the Vizier. She looked to Rushan, but the jackal had already returned to his angry pacing, paying her no heed. Her long, feline tail began to flick between her legs.

Sadik recognized the gesture. She had given it to him many times before. A quick glance, a twitch of her pointed ears. She always looked for approval. Training, battle, even the calm evenings spent in gardens and libraries. Now, she directed her gaze toward someone else.

He felt a strange twist in his stomach. How could things change so drastically, yet still remain the same?

How long had she been taking his order?

“Get up,” Rushan said.

The Vizier continued to cough and twist. Behind him, a breeze blew in from the southward window, rustling the vines that crawled along the wall. Hundreds of bodies watched from below, their eyes glassy and still.

“Rooshy,” Thimera said, stepping out from the cover of a column. Her voice sounded heavenly, purer than any music. Sadik remembered how she had charmed him in the pantheon—if he listened too long, she would bring him under her control. “Serenity, please. We are still in control. There’s no need to—”

Rushan blurred again. In less than a heartbeat, he had grabbed a piece of rubble and thrown it at Thimera. A column shattered into pieces, creating an explosion of stone.

“Do not use your voice against me! Do it again, and I’ll rip out your tongue!”

The bovine goddess stumbled away, gasping and spitting dust.

“Get up!” Rushan shouted, glaring down at the Vizier. “Get up!”

The vulture tried to slow his coughing. With a groan, he slammed his scepter into the marble, clutching it in shaking hands, doing his best to stand while his lifeblood stained the rugs below. The man was a mess of poorly used Glimmer—uneven muscles, haggard lungs. He would’ve struggled to bat a fly, let alone face a god.

Behind Rushan, the throne of sacrifice lay sheltered beneath a curtain of vines. It was nothing more than a mound of dirt in a room decorated with curtains, rugs, and marble, as a reminder to all that the highest mortal position was not one of luxury. Next to the throne, Xaeyr laid motionless, still covered in a swirl of Exalted, like a piece of dung surrounded by flies.

Behind the throne, a glass panel rested on the wall. It was one of the few means by which the Neheamatt could communicate directly with her faithful. The instrument was dead. No sign of Aldunya in the machines, nor the vines lining the wall. She was busy fighting the plague. Sadik could not expect to rely on her, if they should decide to intervene.

Should they intervene?

“Pathetic,” Rushan said. “I’ve scraped better men off my sandals.”

The Vizier leaned on his scepter, limping heavily. Faustine circled at his back.

Rushan strode forward. “I gave you every chance. Every opportunity! I supported your revolution when it was little more than dreams and masturbation, and you’ve repaid me in nothing but incompetence!”

“M-my lord,” the Vizier said, gasping for air. “If I can—”

“I told you,” Rushan said, “to take the palace. Let none escape. Kill the old guard, slay the Luminous Path, plant new seed where all had withered and dried. Oh, but, of course, your disorganized rabble couldn’t fulfill a simple task. Now one of Ilios’ disciples is raising an army in the sewers. One survivor festering into a colony.”

Sadik was struck cold. The death of his order had been planned, just as he suspected. All his comrades—

“He is one man,” the Vizier said.

“He entered the pantheon! Stole my mate! Don’t tell me your failures are small when they’ve loosed a sunbeam at my chest!”

Behind the vulture and jackal, Faustine looked away, settling her gaze on the rugs and marble. Her expression was dark.

“While I dealt with the gods,” Rushan continued, “you were supposed to consolidate your hold. Form a government capable of changing history.” He waved a hand toward the entrance, where the three onlookers were watching. “Oh, but, of course, you did nothing but repeat history yourselves, like you wanted to sample every dish at a feast. Infighting! Coups! Martial law! Leave it to a vulture to do nothing but grow fat on a corpse!”

The Vizier tried to speak. Instead, he placed too much weight on his ankle and gave a soft cry, struggling to maintain his balance.

“And now the Kesunae attack.” The jackal ran a tongue across his teeth. “An army on our doorstep. They have laid siege for weeks, and what have you done to stop them? Where are your defenders? What have you done with the relics you inherited?”

The Vizier did not answer.

“Look at you,” Rushan said. “Your body is as flaccid as your rule.”

“My lord—”

“Take it off.”

“P-pardon?”

Rushan blurred. In a blink, he was standing before the Vizier, towering above, clouds of dust scattering from the speed of his passing. “Take off the mask. Now.”

The Vizier hesitated. Removing the stone mask was worthy of execution. It had taken Hisana years to gather the courage.

“It’s nothing but a chain,” Faustine said, circling behind. “A weight on your duty, a seal on your soul. You should cast it off with pride.”

Rushan glanced at Faustine, but said nothing. Behind them all, Thimera had moved closer to the pile of bodies. She stared at the faces with wide eyes and drooping horns, as if the true number of dead had not fully dawned on her.

The Vizier shivered inside his robes.

Without warning, Rushan moved again. He slapped a hand on the vulture’s chest, gripped Hisana’s mask in the other, and ripped it free in a single motion. There was a flurry of snaps, the sound of tearing skin. As the Vizier sagged in the jackal’s grip, the red stone mask was held above his head, the contours of its hippo face lined with broken belts and twisted feathers.

“The brand of a slave,” Rushan said, gripping the Vizier by his robes. “You should be grateful.”

He threw the mask into the floor. Hisana’s face shattered into pieces, skittering across the room like pebbles skipping across water. With a grimace, Rushan released his hold on the vulture, letting him fall limply to the ground.

Sadik gasped. He moved without thought, trying to climb off Kavaia’s back and throw himself through the window. As he pushed himself on her shoulder, she took one hand off the ledge and grabbed his wrist, holding it in place.

“Sadik,” she said.

“Her mask! Her—her—”

Kavaia leaned her head against his own, nestling the hard ridge of her jaw against his cheek. There was a squeeze on his hand. Sadik felt some part of him give way, some part that had needed nothing more than a simple touch.

He remained hidden. Instead, he made a sound that was tired, small and weak.

“Weak,” Rushan said, a growl tinging his voice. “All of this.” He gestured around the throne room, taking in the vines and columns with a sweep. “All of this! Weakness! Complacency! No wonder the ancestors refuse to return! We used to walk the stars, not scrabble through the dirt!”

Thimera flinched at his yell. The Vizier watched from the floor. Faustine gazed on with excitement, a savage grin forming on her face.

“Look at those men!” Rushan yelled, gesturing to the bodies. “You think this a crime? Do you think a hundred souls means anything compared to the truth? She has enslaved billions!” He waved a hand, dismissing all the corpses. “She murdered Ilios when he turned against her. She would have done the same to these souls, the second they posed a threat. It’s nothing but a calculation in her eyes!”

“What the fuck?” Amira said. “Did he—”

“He murdered Ilios,” Kavaia said, firmly. “There is no doubt. He—”

“Why?” the vulture asked.

Rushan stopped pacing. A silence fell upon the chamber, like the slam of a coffin lid.

“What is your purpose?” The Vizier climbed to his knee, weakly gesturing at the pile of bodies. His bare face was bleeding where the stone mask had ripped, and his black eyes had widened to the size of fists. “What madness has possessed you?”

The jackal stood silent. His body was stark in the torchlight—sharp ears, obsidian fur, golden lines tracing muscle and nerve. His body was so black that it seemed a living shadow.

Faustine twirled her swords. “He brings true change. Freedom through chaos.”

Thimera approached from the side, her brown fur covered in dust. “He was betrayed. Framed for a crime.”

Rushan held up a hand, his face serious and sharp. The chamber fell silent once more. He stood above the kneeling Vizier. Wind rustled the vines, and the blood of dozens wept across the floor.

“What is my purpose?” he asked. “I have only one—war. Conflict is my duty. Battle is my honor. And I am done waging war to defend a wall, to take a hill, to smash the mortals afflicted with greed. I fight for the soul of this city. I fight against Aldunya.”

The rustling of the vines intensified. Behind the throne, the glass panel suddenly flickered to life, blaring a chaotic mixture of light.

Rushan opened his palms. “The wages of war are simple. Strike your enemy where they are weakest. Show strength in battle and deception in tactics. Surround their forces, break their supply lines, confuse their ranks. Sow chaos. And, when you have destroyed their ability to fight, you slaughter their leaders.”

The Vizier broke into a mixture of coughs and gasps. His black eyes were wide, glistening with fear.

“You ask what madness possesses me.” Rushan squatted before the vulture, jabbing a golden finger into his chest. “I say the madness is within you. All of us. God and mortal, faithful and savage. This farce of a culture, this—this—this lie of a civilization. It needs to end. Only through destruction will we be saved.”

The vines began to scream. They rustled with fury, writhing like a bed of snakes, a shower of leaves falling from the curve of the dome. On the wall, the glass panel solidified its light. A glowing phrase appeared.

ARROGANT FOOL

Rushan snorted. “See how she squirms. Do you feel her fear?”

Sadik remembered his escape from the pantheon. Just before fleeing the hippodrome, he had looked back across the field, and he had seen Rushan standing alone, watching the rot and pus pour across the stands. He had been laughing.

More phrases crawled along the panel, the words large and bright.

THE COST OF PRESERVATION

WE ARE NOT ABANDONED

YOU REPEAT THEIR MISTAKES

Rushan did not look at the panel. He kept his gaze on the Vizier, his muzzle curling in anger. “I will bring freedom to this city, no matter the cost. They will come into a new dawn, kicking and screaming, and they will thank me when the depths of their suffering have been revealed.”

“You’re a demon,” the Vizier said.

“I am the god of war,” Rushan replied. “And, if war must be waged, I will be at its head.”

“You—you—” The vulture gave a violent cough, hacking blood onto the marble. “You monster. You murderer! You slaughter the faithful while Acheron burns, and you think you are saving it?” He glared into the face of the jackal, mustering all the defiance he could. “I should have never taken your order. I should’ve seen what cruel vanity you would inflict upon—”

Rushan grabbed the Vizier by the throat. He rose back to his feet, dragging the bird into the air. And, in one simple motion, he kicked the man in the chest, separating his head from his body, the vulture’s spine erupting from his torso like a sword being pulled from its sheath. The limp body tumbled away, a mass of limbs and robes. The head remained inside Rushan’s grasp, the beak falling slack, the ridged line of vertebrae dripping with blood and gore.

Rushan watched the light fade from the Vizier’s eyes. Then he tossed the lifeless head over his shoulder, as if it did not interest him any longer.

Thimera’s snout was open in shock. “What have you done?”

“Dirtied my fur,” Rushan said, wiping blood on his skirt.

“You killed the Vizier!”

“I killed the last one, as well.”

The cow was aghast, almost rushing for the vulture’s headless body. Before she could move, Faustine turned to face her, bearing her swords in hand. The caracal was a walking armory of swords, knives and grenades. Thimera froze in place.

“Leave her,” Rushan said. “She still has use.”

Faustine sneered. “Better she finds it soon. All I’ve seen is a concubine batting her lashes.”

“I gave you an order.”

The caracal twirled her swords, bearing her fangs in a silent hiss. Thimera flinched.

The vines had stopped rustling. The glass panel was empty and transparent. Rushan glanced at Xaeyr, who was still lying next to the throne of sacrifice. The baboon had not moved at all. The process of being flayed by an Exalted had seemed to strip him of all consciousness.

“Report,” said the jackal.

“Gidros has cleared most of the palace,” Faustine said. She made her way to Rushan’s side, her chin barely reaching his hip. “Only stragglers remain.”

“Use the destriers in the stable to make it seem as if the Kesunae attacked. Leave no evidence we were here.”

“Done. Should we mate with the beasts, for authenticity?”

Rushan ignored the joke. “Where is Sadik?”

Faustine looked away. It took her a moment to answer. “If I knew that, he would be in several places, not one.”

“You said he would be here.”

“He’ll be defending the city. That’s where he’s spent his life, repelling the barbarians.”

“I’d rather he spend his life on your blade.” Rushan scratched his chin. “Find him. That is your priority. A man of his caliber is our greatest threat. He’s killed you enough times for that to be clear, I hope.”

“He needs to do it every time,” Faustine said. “I need to do it once.”

“No more failures. He stole Kavaia from me. Shot me with his sword. That will not go unanswered.” He glanced down at her. “If the crocodile is still with him, bring her to me. Alive.”

The caracal nodded. “Two sewer rats, served at your pleasure.”

“Have you had any reports from the battle?”

“The Kesunae are advancing. Some of the gods are not fighting as they should.”

Rushan snarled beneath his breath. “Which ones?”

“War is chaos, my lord. Hard to say. All I know is that the horsemen are making too much progress. Someone’s helping them.”

The jackal began to pace through the chamber again, his sandals stomping across broken stone and glistening blood. “It’s Lanir. She’s turned some against me. Of course, they’ve learned not to show open resistance.” He clenched his fists, like he wanted to strangle the air. “There’s nothing worse than false loyalty. I should return to the pantheon and strangle the dragon, before she flies again. Let that be an example.”

“One opponent at a time,” Faustine said. “The Kesunae are pillaging the city. We need to save those trapped in their path.”

Rushan did not reply.

“My lord, the people are dying. We are fighting for them, not the promise of vengeance.”

“History will revile us,” Rushan said. “What does it matter?”

“It matters to us. To our souls.” She scratched the burns on her face. “Even unseen, a scar will ache.”

Rushan glanced down at her. "Is that one of your philosophy books?"

"My own words. One day, of course, they will be printed in a book."

The jackal made a noise in his throat, glaring at the vines surrounding him.

“Rooshy?” Thimera asked, stepping out from the columns. “What . . . should I be doing?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Prepare a speech. When the smoke clears, tell the people of my deeds. Heroic defense, sorrow for the dead—most importantly, a new government ruled by the gods. We have to take control. Sell the mortals on their betters.”

Thimera nodded. Her bovine face, normally glowing with a radiant beauty, seemed as pallid as the dead behind her.

“I will fuck you later,” Rushan continued. “Make sure you are clean.”

The goddess of pleasure did not answer.

“My lord,” Faustine said. “Should I release a new clone of the Vizier?”

“No. His use is at an end.” Rushan waved another hand, as if his patience for the situation was rapidly declining. “Slaughter his doubles. Use their flesh to fuel your own. I want at least fifty of you birthed within a day.”

The caracal hesitated. Releasing a single clone while the original still lived was strictly forbidden, let alone fifty. Even a fanatic like her would understand the reasons. How could anyone tell the difference between the original and the clone? How could the original remain important if their soul was scattered amongst several? If there were defects in the birth, if one of the clones decided to replace their source. . . .

“Is that a problem?” Rushan asked.

“Only . . . logistically, my lord. Some are near completion. Others need more time to grow.”

Rushan shook his head, growling. “Figure it out. You are my best soldier.” He gestured to the severed head of the Vizier. “As you can see, I need steadfast allies, more than ever. If there was anyone in this city I wish I had more of, it is you.”

Faustine blinked. Her long, pointed ears began to flick. After a moment, she managed to speak. “I—thank you, my lord. You will not be disappointed.”

The jackal cracked his knuckles. “If you need me, I will be slaughtering the Kesunae. It’s time they remembered fear.”

“And the people remembered glory,” Faustine said, bowing.

Rushan made to exit the throne room. Faustine hoisted the headless body of the Vizier on her shoulder, heading for the secret entrance to the life tanks. Thimera watched both of them leave, stiff and motionless.

“Get down!” Amira hissed.

Amira and Kavaia lowered themselves below the windowsill. Still hoisted on the crocodile’s back, Sadik looked for the Sons taking cover around the entrance of the dome. When he saw a sergeant peeking out from cover, he gave an urgent motion to hide. There was a sound of scrambling and fiercely whispered orders.

Rushan’s footsteps echoed through the chamber, steadily growing closer. He was going to pass right beneath them. Kavaia’s heart began to pound through the padding of her armor, and Amira slowly gripped the dome wall with her paws, readying her greatbow in one hand and a wyrmkiller in the other.

Below, the throne room doors were thrown open. Rushan walked out into the night. He didn’t look above him. When he passed out of the vestibule, he did not glance at the men hiding to either side, sheltering in the large cactus spines. His posture was easy, his demeanor controlled. If Sadik had not seen him tearing the spine from the Vizier, he would’ve assumed the jackal was on a relaxing stroll.

Rushan looked over the burned remains of the garden, the scattered rubble of the buildings beyond. He did not pay it much attention. Soon, his gaze was drawn into the cerulean walls. Through the glow, it was possible to see a blurred image of the battle raging in the eastern section of the city. He rolled his neck, loosened his arms. Preparing for battle.

Suddenly, the jackal stiffened, as if stung from behind. He shifted his head, almost glancing over his shoulder. Sadik saw Rushan’s nose begin to twitch. He was sniffing the air.

A breeze was blowing. Had it carried their scent?

They were completely exposed. He would just have to look up. A single glance, and they were all dead.

Immediately, Kavaia twisted her body to face him. With Sadik still clinging to her back, he became sheltered behind her form, squeezed between her weight and the curving stone behind. When she placed a hand on his hip, Sadik realized she was preparing herself to jump, ready to rush into battle while pushing him to safety.

The jackal sniffed the air. His sharp ears twisted along his head, searching for sound. The night was very still.

After a few moments, he turned his head away from the throne room, a growl shuddering through his chest.

“I’ll find you, Kivie. Mark my words.”

With a loud crack, and a gust of wind, Rushan vanished into the night, running so swiftly that his form was little more than a blur. He broke the stones beneath his feet, shattering the glass windows with the speed of his passing. If he continued to sprint at his current pace, he would arrive at the battle in minutes.

Once again, Sadik found himself worrying for Isaac and Zaria. They were about to meet a very deadly opponent.

“Stars alive,” Amira said. “Just swallowed my fuckin’ heart.”

Sadik climbed higher onto Kavaia’s shoulders, earning an irritated grunt when he leaned his elbow on her head. He looked through the window. Inside the throne room, Thimera was standing alone, vacantly staring at the blood and shattered stone at her feet. Faustine had disappeared behind a secret panel in the wall. Next to the throne, Xaeyr was unguarded.

This was their chance.

“Go,” he hissed. “Now.”

He scrambled off the crocodile’s back, dropping to the ground below. Amira and Kavaia landed beside him. Dozens of Sons rushed out of cover, bearing their sunspears. Sadik gave a flurry of hand gestures. Everyone formed against the bronze double doors—squads of ten, weapons braced and ready. Amira pressed her leopard ear to the door, listened for a moment, and shook her head. Silence.

“Thimera’s providence is her voice,” Kavaia said. “If you let her speak, she will have you enthralled.”

“Take her alive,” Sadik said.

“Sir,” Amira said. “Kinda think she killed innocents. Don’t matter if she did so by sucking his cock, she was there.”

Sadik squeezed the haft of his sword. Dusksong blazed beneath the shadow of the cactus, most of her runes still alight. There were plenty of sunbeams left to fire. “I want answers. Maim her, cut her legs where they stand, but leave her able to speak.”

Amira threw a quick salute. Dozens of Sons did the same. Kavaia stood above all, her mortal-sized spear braced in a loose underhand grip.

Sadik twisted his sword again. The runes brightened, and a sphere of energy grew at the broken edge. Normally, the sword would channel the energy through nearly three cubits of steel, bringing the light into a fine searing beam—now, with half the blade missing, it was a chaotic swirl of energy, barely controlled, the yellow sunbeam growing to such raw intensity that the entire weapon shook in his hands.

It was a good feeling. His entire body was shaking, as well. He could not recall a time he had been more furious.

Rushan had organized the revolution. He had ordered the destruction of the Luminous Path. He had ordered Faustine to kill Hisana, and now he had slaughtered a second Vizier. All to wage war against the Neheamatt, the one true source of life.

It was him. The jackal. He was the cause of every ill that Acheron had suffered. At this point, Sadik would not be surprised if he had created the plague, as well.

He drew back, braced himself, and kicked open the doors.

The throne room returned, like he had never left. Painted columns, jeweled friezes, hanging vines, marble statues. There was a weight to the air, a sense of power evident in the high vaulted ceiling and teeming foliage. Thimera had moved to the center of the dome, where an audience would entreat before the throne—at the crashing of the doors, she spun in place, her eyes growing wide. She saw nearly a hundred mortals rushing for her, including the goddess of death. Panic poured across her face.

The Sons fired their spears. Thimera threw herself away, narrowly avoiding a dozen lances of energy, scrambling across the rugs and marble until she reached the safety of a column. Sadik sprinted to the right, Amira to the left, three squads of Sons taking the center while another contingent laid down suppressive fire. They spread like water, rushing like the tide.

“Stop!” Thimera yelled.

Her voice was overwhelming. It grew louder than his thoughts, echoing in his mind, every repetition of the word seeming to sap his will and strength. If he had not braced himself for her voice, he would’ve done anything to obey her command.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” The bovine goddess flinched as a dozen sunbeams skewered the column she had taken cover against, each one melting the stone. Some men ceased their fire. Her voice was winning. “Lower your arms! Do not attack!”

Her words echoed. They sang like the heavens. They burrowed beneath the skin, smothering the mind.

“You will not dare—”

Amira reached the left. With feline agility, she slid to a stop, anchored her bow, and loosed an arrow. The wyrmkiller flew like a javelin. When it struck Thimera, it skewered clean through her thigh, spraying blood and gore. The goddess was blown off her feet, tumbling across the rugs, struck breathless by the force of the blow. Sadik gave her no chance to recover—the second she lay flat on the ground, he swung Dusksong with all his strength, striking her face with the flat of the blade. There was a crack and several flying teeth.

Thimera sprawled across the floor, her commands replaced with gasps and moans. A dozen Sons threw themselves upon her ten-foot body, pinning her limbs as best they could. Quickly, Kavaia flipped the goddess onto her back and began to tie her hands with several sections of vine. When the bindings were secure, the crocodile grabbed one of her horns, yanked her head back, and forced a braid of vines into her mouth, tying them into a gag. Thimera’s voice became nothing more than whines and hums.

“Secure the entrance!” Sadik shouted. “Squads three and four, on me!”

The room blurred with motion. Men rushed into place, their sandals echoing on the marble. Sadik crossed the room at a marching pace, leaping onto the dais, heading for the secret entrance close to the throne with two dozen men at his back.

One goddess secured. Now for the assassin.

He passed the throne of sacrifice. Xaeyr still laid by its side, the only sign of life coming from the Exalted still wrapped around his furry body. The swirling cloud of Glimmer had not been ordered to defend the goddess—it only carried out its command to flay the baboon within an inch of his life, healing and ripping in equal measure. As he passed, Sadik waved his sword at the Exalted. It shuddered away, streaming like a cloud of flies, its movements growing pained and confused as it entered the range of the countermeasure.

“Squad six,” Sadik shouted, “secure the god of cataracts! Goddess, heal him!”

Kavaia ran for the baboon immediately, as if she needed no encouragement. By the time the men had reached Xaeyr, once more draping his body beneath the invisible signal of the countermeasure, the goddess of death had already thrown herself by his side, sucking the wounds from his body as quickly as she could place her hands. His body was a riot of torn muscle and exposed organ—there was always more injury to be found. As Kavaia gave her flesh, the air filled with pleas.

“Forgive me! Come back, Xae, please!”

The Exalted swarmed through the air, spreading itself into thin galaxies of light. Its motions were furious. Every time it tried to attack a soldier, and was repelled by the signal emanating from their weapons, it seemed to swirl even faster, as if offended that something had dared to oppose it.

Knowing the Exalted, more would soon be coming, pulled off the frontline of the Kesunae invasion. They could communicate with each other instantaneously, and they would protect their brethren like a hive of insects, blanketing the skies in metal dust. If the men stuck within the radius of the countermeasure, they would be safe. Of course, the Exalted would not come alone. They would bring hundreds of Mezlat. They would alert the mortal guards. At this rate, they might even tell the gods.

The alarm had been raised. Their position exposed.

The Sons were running out of time.

Sadik continued on. He passed beneath statues of ancient gods, mythical heroes, masked Viziers towering above the people with outstretched hands. As he headed for the vine-covered wall, the foliage began to crawl from the hidden doorway, the gentle susurrations of their passing almost sounding like gentle whispers. Close to the throne, the glass panel returned to life, bearing messages made of light.

KILL THE USURPER

DESTROY THEIR CLONES

BEGIN AGAIN

Sadik reached the hidden doorway. With the vines receded, he could trace the subtle crease in the wall that signified its position, though he did not need to see it. He had entered this room many times before.

A small machine jutted from the wall. It held a dark glass panel—when Sadik pressed his palm against it, a light began to shine, crawling from the tips of his fingers to the bottom of his hand, seeking the contours of his skin. At the same time, he began to speak.

“We carry the light of the stars.”

There was a chirp from the machines. Permission granted. The Demokrats had not been able to change the authorization codes. Beneath the walls, locks slid from position, shuddering through metal and stone. The crease in the wall became a crack, steadily growing from a gap into an open doorway.

Stairs descended into the earth. Stone walls, concrete steps. Sadik followed it down, his breath growing haggard, his hands aching from gripping his sword. When he reached the bottom, another door greeted him. It was made of wood. The Neheamatt. It swirled and glowed.

He grabbed the handle and threw it open.

The life tanks stretched into the distance. They were squat and cylindrical, organized into half a dozen rows, with a glass casing above and a metal machine below, like an egg displayed in a stand. Inside the glass, bodies were submerged in a red broth of liquid, connected to dozens of feeding tubes. The machines groaned with life—pumping fluids, recycling flesh, taking readings and samples, each of the display panels blinking with biological data that Sadik could not fathom. Yasmin might’ve been the only soul on the planet who could still understand these devices.

Every tank held a clone. Some were little more than organic kernels, lost in the broth of their creation. Others were near complete, their limbs and skin still glossy and translucent. As he looked down the rows of tanks, he saw Glimmer trickling through the reddish broths, accelerating the birth of dozens.

Some were clones of the Vizier. A select few were important dignitaries the Demokrats had installed. Most, however, were different versions of Faustine. Sadik saw the caracal’s face reflected dozens of times, as if he was looking into her mother’s belly and watching her grow through every stage of life, from conception to full adulthood.

There was nearly a hundred of her. An army born of one. No wonder she had always returned after death—he would have to kill dozens to exhaust their supply. And, with the bodies left in the throne room, the entire army could soon rise from their wombs. The flesh of the dead would feed the machines. The machines would feed the flesh, giving birth to many more. A gruesome cycle for a gruesome end.

Sadik stood in the doorway, absorbing it all. He stood too long.

A grenade fell at his feet.

They had made too much noise above. She knew they were coming.

Without thinking, he dashed forward. The Sons scattered back against the stairs. When the bomb exploded, Sadik was slapped off his feet, the shockwave bruising his flesh, the shrapnel screaming off his armor. He rolled across the concrete. A shadow flew above. He scrambled, braced, and swung.

Faustine leaped onto him. The force of her landing slammed back into the floor, knocking all air from his lungs. Before he could even gasp, the caracal was already rolling away, tossing another grenade toward the entrance. Fire erupted from the doorway, mixing with shouts and groans.

“Coward!” Faustine yelled.

Sadik raced to his feet, swinging Dusksong in a wide arc. The caracal parried with one sword and struck with the second. They weaved and dodged, slashed and snarled. Steel rang through the cavernous chamber.

“How long?” Sadik shouted. He ducked beneath a slash, swinging his heavy sword in an uppercut. “When did you follow Rushan?”

Faustine feinted to one side, slashed from the other, and jumped above his head, her Glimmer modified legs allowing her to easily bound over the tanks. She landed on a glass casing, shaking her own clone within, and threw several knives in quick succession. Sadik tried to block with the flat of his sword. Two bounced off his armor. One nearly took his throat.

A hail of sunbeams tore through the air. The Sons were returning fire. Faustine took several glancing shots, her brown fur catching alight. As she staggered and burned, Sadik raced forward, smashing the glass below her with a savage chop of his sword. There was a flood of broth and broken glass. The half-born Faustine poured onto the concrete like she was little more than jelly. The current Faustine fell through the open air and slammed into the machine itself.

Sadik swung again, aiming for her head. She managed to leap away. With wounded grace, she flopped onto the central row of the chamber, attempting to answer with a dual slash of her swords.

More sunbeams flew. The Sons had quickly recovered and advanced, already close enough that they could jab with their spears. In seconds, she had taken several stabs and lances. Even with her augmentations, the blows were severe.

Dozens of men against a single target. The battle was over in seconds.

Faustine collapsed to the floor, gurgling blood from her throat. Sadik waved his men back. He stood above the caracal, his body and sword glowing with light.

“Why?” he asked. “Why did you swear allegiance to the jackal?”

She looked back at him. He saw the burn marks where her tattoos had rested. He saw the same eyes he had known for decades. They used to be bright. Now, they were filled with hate.

“Answer me!” Sadik screamed.

Her mouth opened. Blood poured. It took her great effort to speak. “You . . . never listened.”

He chopped her head in half. He stomped her skull beneath his sandal. He split her body, severed her limbs, broke every bone he could find. When he returned to himself, Faustine was little more than her constituent parts—meat, blood and fur. There was nothing left of the woman he had raised.

A ringing echoed through the chamber. Dozens of life tanks were sounding a warning. What the warning meant, Sadik did not know, but the lights on their panels were flashing, and steam began to vent from their metal bases, with the clones inside beginning to churn within their wombs of glass. Some of the tanks had been cracked in the battle. Others had shattered completely, oozing their broth of nutrients across the concrete.

“Sir?” asked one of the sergeants, a jackal with three arms. “Are you alright?”

Sadik wiped blood off his face. After a few breaths, he straightened himself. “Use the emergency switch to release the clones. Leave none alive.” He spat onto the floor, suddenly nauseous. “Do not break the machines. They are sacred.”

The men glanced between each other.

“I have a god to interrogate. Excuse me.”

He stepped over the body of his former comrade, shuffled through the ranks, and headed back for the stairs.

He wanted to look behind him. This would be the last time he saw her. Her last death, their last hope of reconciliation. If nothing else, she deserved a moment of pause.

In the end, he continued on, trying not to remember.