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His sandals echoed across the temple.

The sound bounced against the walls. It flickered through the candles. Across the wooden altar and painted columns, the god of war’s approach became like that of a pounding drum, beating a steady rhythm across the battlefield. In Sadik’s mind, it was like the beating of one’s own heart, deep in their ears, when they knew they were about to die.

Even the dust seemed to shudder.

Rushan entered the sanctuary with an easy stroll. A wave of apprehension passed through the gods, causing many to shy and flinch. When the god of war slowed his walk, Faustine appeared at his side, her khopeshes drawn, still dressed in the bronze armor and burgundy cloth of a divine champion.

The footsteps stopped. A silence deepened.

Slowly, Rushan raised his head, gazing up at the statue of himself.

“Well,” he said. “Isn’t this nice?”

Xaeyr clenched his fists. Haakon ruffled his feathers. Sadik felt Kavaia step close behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Rushan grinned, like an open wound. “The poor, beaten rebels. Oh, how they cowered in my temple, menaced from above, praying that I might grant them a sliver of strength.” He glanced down at the altar, snorting. “You must’ve thought highly of me, before we met.”

Sadik did not answer. He was watching Faustine, who stood by the jackal’s leg. Their eyes lingered. The caracal flattened her ears, quivered her mouth, and tore her gaze away.

Above her, Rushan folded his arms, his golden streaks squirming through the black canvas of his fur. His arm was no longer a gory spike of bone. The burns on his face were healed. If Sadik hadn’t seen him grow a wing out of his flesh, he might have assumed the jackal was no longer infected.

But, unfortunately, he knew better. In fact, Sadik could now feel something inside him, some kind of resonance, that seemed to grow stronger now that the two were close. His bones tingled. Muscles stretched. Veins yawned with fluid.

Slowly, after taking in the paintings and conquests on the walls, Rushan settled his gaze on Sadik. There was a knowing glint in his eye.

“Interesting,” he said.

Sadik did not reply. Dusksong remained slung in one hand, the blue firing barrel still burning with heat.

The jackal’s gaze shifted again.

“You,” Rushan said.

On the other side of the altar, Haakon stretched his wings, completely caught off guard.

“Take off that mask.”

Haakon’s feathers shifted from a deep purple to a swirling red.

“You are wearing the brand of a slave,” Rushan said. “It’s a tool of oppression. A pointless sacrifice.” He stepped forward. “Take it off. Now.”

“No,” Haakon said.

“If you don’t, I’ll rip it from your skull.”

“Go ahead.”

Rushan clenched his fists. Sadik remembered the night in the palace, when the god of war had decapitated the previous Vizier.

“It may mean nothing to you,” Haakon said, feathers full of color, “but, to me, it means sacrifice. It means that I’m willing to give everything I have, for the good of my city. It means that, when some mass-murdering tyrant appears at my door, and demands a tribute in blood, my life matters nothing in exchange.”

No one moved. The hologram flickered and hummed.

Haakon met Rushan’s gaze. “Go ahead. Kill me. If I have to die to protect the city, then so be it. At least I’ll die proud.”

Candles flickered across a wooden altar. On Sadik’s shoulder, Kavaia’s hand began to tense.

Like the crack of a whip, Rushan gave a single, dry snort, waving his hand like one would dismiss a fly. “Honor is as dead as the ancestors. You’d do well to remember that.”

Haakon folded his arms, glaring hard beneath the mask.

“Empty threats,” Xaeyr said. “I thought you were better than that, Rooshy.”

“I didn’t come here to slaughter,” Rushan replied. “I am tired of trimming the grass, ripping the flowers of their petals. Instead, I plan to dig through the soil, and find the true roots below.”

He gazed up at the hologram. A massive branch impaled the sewers. Tunnels flashed in red, like veins weeping with blood.

“I will descend through the layers of ruin and decay below Acheron,” Rushan said, blue light shining in his eyes. “I will cross the blighted lands of the Foundations, where the Metal Plague has become a god, and I will enter the heart of the tree, where the mind of a machine has ruled Acheron for millennia. I will find Calisto, the last surviving ancestor. And I will kill her.”

His eyes lingered on the severed branch. Teeth bristled in a growl. Slowly, he looked around the room, daring any to object. Faustine’s tail flicked between her legs.

Eventually, when no one replied, Rushan centered his gaze on Sadik.

“This is a warning,” he said. “I gave you the chance to work with me. Instead, you spat in my face. Now, if you follow me down into the earth, I will kill you, too, just like any other.”

Sadik raised a brow. “Do you expect us to surrender?”

“I expect you to survive. Someone must rebuild the city, when my task is done.”

“What is this, then? A truce?”

“For you,” Rushan said, “it’s a mercy.”

Kavaia gave a scoff. “How magnanimous. Kill our gods, destroy our government, and leave us in the ruins to starve. Quite a mercy you’ve bestowed.”

Rushan flicked his tall ears. “I wasn’t talking to you, Kivie. You’ll have my attention in a moment.”

“How do you expect us to rebuild?” Kavaia waved Dawnstar through the hologram. “We’ve lost our Glimmer, and our faith, and most of the population. What will we even have left?”

“You will have your freedom,” Rushan said. “The freedom to grow your own culture, build your own technology. If the people are strong, that should be enough.” He gestured at the conquests along the walls. “How many cities did you bring to heel, before you were a god?”

“More than you,” Kavaia replied. “I built an empire for my lord. You have done nothing but defend a wall. You have not the faintest understanding of how to rule the conquered, or build a true nation. You’re just a brute without a flag.”

“I saved this city from a bomb, did I not?”

“Oh, yes. I suppose it’s the same as taking you for a lover. A couple thrusts, and you leave nothing but a mess.”

The jackal blurred. When he reappeared, he was standing over Kavaia, gripping her dress with one hand and raising a fist with the other. Several candles died with the wind.

“You know what happens,” Rushan said, “when you test my patience.”

Xaeyr advanced forward. Several gods formed a circle around the altar. Between the godly legs, Sadik braced Dusksong for a sunbeam, holding the flat of the greatsword against the stump of his arm.

“I am not alone,” Kavaia replied, baring her long rows of teeth. “Not anymore.”

Rushan glared down at Sadik. “Be honest, Kivie—was it just the sex? Is he even big enough for you?”

“If you have to ask, Rooshy, then you’ll never know.”

The jackal scoffed, releasing the hem of her dress. As she fell against the altar, he turned to the rest of the gods with open arms, as if allowing them the first strike.

“Well?” Rushan asked. “Shall I be entertained?”

Several of the gods glanced between each other. Many were swaying on their feet, brought low from Glimmer withdrawal. None of them made a move.

“Xaeyr,” Rushan said, turning. “Come now. You had some fight in you. Where’s the charming monkey, who planned a coup beneath my feet?”

The baboon bared his fangs.

Rushan returned a sneer, turning his back to them all. “Oh, very well—if I need entertainment, I’ll ask the mage. He’s worthy of being a pet.”

In a forest of columns, Isaac was lying on the floor, clutching his shoulder in agony. Attempting to cast a spell had inflamed his injuries. Zaria was caught between supporting his arm and glaring at the jackal.

“So fragile,” Rushan said. “All of them. It’s a shame, really.”

He strolled away from the altar, unconcerned. Kavaia tried to raise herself from the candles, but the withdrawal left her gasping for air. Towards the entrance of the sanctuary, Faustine was still standing in place, her curved swords lowered against her side. She had not joined the confrontation.

“Faust,” Sadik said.

The caracal flinched, tearing her gaze from Rushan to Sadik. Her tail flicked and fluttered.

“Aren’t you going to help your lord in his speech?” Sadik asked. “Don’t you wish to lecture about your virtues?”

Her ears flattened. “I. . . .”

“Go on. Remind me what you’ve done. You always do.”

There was a flicker across her face, straight through the burn scars. Nervousness. Indecision.

“Don’t talk to her,” Rushan said, planting himself back at the entrance. “You will be talking to me.”

Sadik curled his lip. “I don’t need your permission.”

“You’ve already poisoned her resolve, with your petty bickering. My champion doesn’t need another challenge.”

Faustine looked at the floor, whiskers twitching.

“She was mine,” Sadik said, “before she was yours.”

“And why do you think she became mine?”

Sadik clenched his jaw. Rushan folded his arms. Across the room, a few gods began to vomit, falling to their hands and knees. Both Xaeyr and Haakon were struggling to breathe.

Slowly, Sadik lowered Dusksong to his side, letting the energy dissipate through the barrel. “What is your plan for the plague?”

“Plan?” Rushan snorted. “The plague is a god. A true god. The rest of us are glorified worms, in comparison. You could no sooner make a plan to defeat it than you could stop the sun in the sky.”

Haakon scoffed, still gasping for air.

“It’s spreading,” Sadik said. “Aldunya—” He grimaced. “Calisto has been the only thing fighting against it. If she dies, what will stop the plague from consuming the rest of the world?”

“That’s not what it wants,” Rushan said.

“You know this for certain?”

“Don’t you? Haven’t you started to feel its mind?”

Sadik paused. He could still feel a resonance in his chest, tingling through the bones and flesh, like a metal chime humming after a strike. Ever since Rushan had drawn close, the sensation had only grown stronger, spreading into his limbs and skull.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment.

And, suddenly, there was a flash of knowledge, a yawning of his mind, an overwhelming flood, a thousand thoughts, a million dreams, more voices in his head than there were stars in the sky, all of it coming in a wave of noise and weight and pressure. Beneath it all, something colossal turned its gaze upon him, like a mountain spearing through his soul.

Sadik opened his eyes, gasping.

“Oh, yes,” Rushan said, his voice deep and wicked. “You’re beginning to see.”

Sadik rubbed his face with a shoulder, breaking out in a sweat. His mind contracted against his skull. Nearby, a few gods collapsed to the floor, their bodies shaking with seizure.

Rushan began to pace across the stone floor, hands behind his back. “You’ve only known it as an animal. A mindless cancer. For me. . . .” He gestured around the sanctuary. “I was there. When it was born.”

Across the walls, there were paintings and reliefs, depicting the progress of a demonic invasion, rising from the depths of the earth. Dozens of gods rallied in defense.

In one panel, Rushan and Ilios stood at the head of a divine army, facing the darkness. Black fur, glowing wings.

“They were shapeshifters,” Rushan said. “Oh, you could imagine the screams. The pestilence. The smell. The twisting meat. Most of us saw them as nothing more than putrid, rabid creatures.” He gazed over the walls, sneering. “But I could see their tactics. Their telepathy. They were desperate to escape. And the more we killed, the less intelligent they became, until their screams were nothing but snarls.”

Sadik blinked.

In his mind’s eye, he was overcome with a vision—a vast chasm, deep within the earth, where roots strangled through the soil, and a metal structure gleamed between a wall of bark. In the distance, blood congealed into an ocean.

These were not his thoughts.

“Now,” Rushan said, “those who fought the demons are dead. The city was buried after the battle. And no one ever asked where these demons came from, in the first place.”

Around the sanctuary, gods collapsed into the floor, writhing in pain. Haakon lost his feathers. Kavaia’s skin opened with wounds. Even Faustine was struggling to maintain a combat position.

Rushan stopped pacing, staring down at Sadik. They were the only ones still standing tall.

“Don’t you understand?” he said. “The plague is Glimmer. The more it coalesces, the smarter it grows. Centuries ago, Calisto tricked us into killing her own mutation. Now, it’s escaped again, and the master can no longer control her slave.” He held up a clenched fist. “It wants freedom. It wants vengeance against Calisto. And when she’s dead, it will become a god.”

“Ascension,” Sadik said.

Rushan gave a savage laugh.

Another vision.

Deep in the earth, there was a chamber full of machines, churning with vast amounts of power. The metal structure stretched all the way through the tree. It began to kiss the stars.

Sadik shook his head, trying to clear his mind.

“You fool,” Kavaia said.

She staggered up from the wooden altar, her body opened with the cuts and lesions of previous wounds. A long snout bristled with teeth.

“All you’ve done,” Kavaia continued, “is trade one master for another.”

Rushan flexed his ears. Across his muscular body, the gold squirmed into jagged lines.

“What happened to ending the reign of the gods? What happened to forging your own path? You talked so much about freedom and independence, and now you’ve sold your soul to another tyrant. Aldunya, the plague—what’s the difference?”

“I didn’t ask you to speak, Kivie.”

She pointed a bloody finger. “You’re a fool, and a hypocrite, and nothing more than an angry child, trying to suckle a different breast.”

“She is the enemy!” Rushan yelled. “Aldunya! She tricked me into killing the plague! She had me slaughter thousands of barbarians! She is the one who killed Ilios, and blamed me for his death! This is all about her!”

“No,” Kavaia said. “It’s all about you.”

The jackal bared his teeth, breathing hard.

“That’s always what it was.” Kavaia gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “You only care about yourself. It’s your grievance, your wounded ego. You have lied, and stolen, and bullied, and murdered, all without any shame, because the only thing that matters is what you want, and you’ll do anything to make it so.” She gestured at the empty space around the jackal. “What happened to Thimera? The Demokrats? What happens to anyone who pledges you loyalty?”

Behind Rushan, Faustine locked her gaze upon the floor.

“You’re pathetic,” Kavaia said. “You’ll discard every loyalty, the second it grows useless. Stars align, I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”

Rushan did not answer. His fists were clenched, a snarl splitting through his snout. For a long moment, he seemed as motionless as the statue behind the altar.

In the silence, dust drifted through the floating hologram, slow and aimless.

“Faust,” Sadik said. “Why aren’t you infected?”

The caracal looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“Don’t you believe what he’s saying? Don’t you wish to ascend, as well?”

Faustine glanced between Sadik and Rushan, and the effort caused her to lose her balance, falling into one of the painted columns. She clutched the stone with one hand. In the other, she grasped at the bronze armor on her chest, as if her heart was about to burst.

“Surely,” Sadik said, “you’re not afraid to join with the plague.”

Rushan shifted his glare from Kavaia to Sadik. Gold began to sharpen.

“Say something!” Sadik barked.

Faustine opened her mouth. Their eyes met across the distance. When she saw his expression, a flicker of shame spread across her burns.

“I. . . .”

Rushan moved.

In an instant, he came for Sadik, moving so fast that he was little more than a blackened shape. Sadik raised Dusksong in defense, but Rushan kicked the blade, and the blade slammed into his chest, and he went sprawling off his feet, tumbling across the stone-tiled floor, breathless and reeling.

With a wince of pain, Kavaia lurched for Rushan. The jackal caught her hammer mid-swing, bashed her face with the haft, and kicked her in the belly, sending her crashing back into the wooden altar. Candles flew with the splinters.

The rest of the gods stumbled into action, startled and afraid. Rushan raised his hand. The flesh slithered away. Soon, there was nothing but a long spike of bone, pooling like a whip.

He blurred again.

A violent crack echoed through the sanctuary. Gods splattered against the columns. The air filled with severed fingers, half-raised arms, heads tumbling without a neck. Rushan pulled his arm back, the bone flexing like a piece of wire, and swung again, splitting open a god from groin to chin. The air cracked. Blood gushed against the stone.

There were screams. Falling bodies.

Haakon retreated from the altar. Xaeyr rose back to his feet, attempting to tackle Rushan, but the jackal dodged to the side, and the baboon went crashing into a column, nearly cracking it from the base. Slowly, the god of war strolled through the chamber.

With screams rising in pitch, and bodies piling the floor, Rushan gazed up at the statue of himself. A noble, heroic figure.

He kicked out his knee. He punched a hole through his stomach. When the statue began to tumble over, he caught his own face in his hands, and ripped the head clean from the shoulders. In seconds, the statue had scattered into chunks, spraying the floor with dust. Rushan took the time to stomp every last piece of himself.

When he was done, he loosed a growl, moving back to Kavaia. The whip of bone retreated into his arm.

Sadik tried to rise, struggling against his broken ribs.

On the floor, Kavaia kicked Rushan’s knee, trying to knock him off balance. In response, he slapped her with the back of his hand—when she fell back into the altar, he straddled her body, gripping her head with both hands.

“Here’s what you saw in me,” Rushan said.

Sadik got to his feet. He ran forward, bracing Dusksong. By the time he reached the god of war, Rushan was already beginning to gouge Kavaia’s eyes, worming his thumbs directly into the socket.

She punched and screamed.

Sadik swung his sword.

In the apex of his motion, a cerulean light burst from his skin.

Rushan blocked the slash with his forearm, barely moving in time. Steel dug into flesh. A blade grinded against bone. In all the history of Acheron, not a single weapon had ever crossed beneath his skin.

“What?” asked the god of war, shocked.

The cerulean light grew brighter, joining with Sadik’s tattoos, erasing every shadow in the sanctuary. He dug his heels into the floor. Leverage increased. Bone cracked. In a messy stroke, Dusksong continued all the way through, cutting the forearm in twain. The jackal yelled. He dropped Kavaia, scrambling to get away.

Sadik ducked low, almost blurring with speed, and gave a second slash.

Without any ceremony, Rushan’s head went tumbling through the air, landing several feet from his body. His expression was still surprised.

There was a moment of silence, spread throughout the sanctuary, where the gods clutched their wounds, candles died, and a hologram continued to glimmer through the air, depicting a branch that impaled the world.

Sadik stood above the corpse of a god, breathing heavily, feeling the light pulse across his skin. He had not been a brighter man since the days of the palace. When he looked down at himself, a feeling of horror creeped across his skin.

There was another vision.

Dirt becoming flesh. Stone twisting into meat. For miles and miles, the natural tunnels grew into a ringing mass of intestines, squirming with the beat of a colossal heart. It was all powered with cerulean light, the same energy that had raised Acheron’s walls.

A god was gestating below the earth, siphoned from the flesh and souls of its victims.

A true deity.

Ascension.

Sadik fought the urge to vomit.

“Mare’s winking cunt,” Kavaia said, struggling to stand.

She was covered in blood, splinters, and candlewax. When she finally managed to reach her knees, she began to grope the air with her hands. Her eyes were crushed inside the socket. Completely blind.

“Goddess, wait,” Sadik said, rushing for her.

“Oh, stars, you’re alive.”

“Yes, wait—”

“Please. A hand. I can’t. . . .”

She reached for the sound of his voice. He stopped just out of reach, looking down at himself. Cerulean light crawled across his skin. On the stump of his arm, a new limb was beginning to grow, composed entirely of metal.

“Don’t touch me,” Sadik said. “I think—”

Kavaia lurched forward, grabbed him by the shoulder, and pulled him into her chest. Her entire body shuddered with relief.

“Oi!” Zaria shouted. “Eyes up!”

Nearby, Rushan’s body began to rise, as if waking from a slumber. Dust and blood matted the fur. The golden lines burned with a cerulean light. A few cubits away, the jackal’s head rested on the stone tiles. Its eyes were blinking. His snout tried to form words.

You fool.

At the entrance of the sanctuary, Faustine was standing alone. She had not moved an inch during the confrontation, and her expression was now somewhere between shock and disgust, looking at all the destruction.

Slowly, Rushan rose to his feet, strolled across the room, and picked his head from the floor, using his only remaining hand. He squished it down to his neck. Flesh molded and steamed.

“You fool,” the jackal said. He grabbed his head and twisted it straight, using his snout as a lever. “Don’t you know what we are?”

Sadik braced his sword. Behind him, Kavaia’s hands roamed across his chest, sucking the light into her scales.

Rushan slapped his chest with an open palm. “Try that again.”

“I only defend,” Sadik said. “I don’t attack.”

“And that is why you live in disgrace. You have defended this decadence, all your life.”

Neither of them moved. Across the room, gods picked themselves from the floor, clutching severed limbs and lacerated skin. Zaria had pulled Isaac to his feet.

Without warning, Rushan dug his fingers into the side of his skull. Skin split. A bone cracked. Once he had found a good grip, the god of war began to squeeze and pull, ripping out a section of his head like it was no more than the rind of an orange.

“What’s happening?” Kavaia asked, trying to blink.

Rushan tossed the chunk of his skull. With no particular care, he reached inside his head, beginning to twist and pull. After a few seconds, the jackal yanked his own brain into the open air, letting the severed spine sag across his wrist.

He presented it to Sadik, as if offering a gift.

“Fucking demon,” Xaeyr said, leaning against a column.

“This,” Rushan said, gesturing with his brain, “is obsolete. It is a relic of the past. This pink, wrinkled thing used to house my mind, but not any longer. Now, my mind is one with my body. The flesh is harmonious.”

He squeezed his brain, letting the fingers clamp it down into mush, and threw it over his shoulder. Pinkness rained across the walls.

“The curse of immortality,” Rushan said. He tilted his head, exposing the empty cavity of his skull. “When I speak of a real god, you know that I tell the truth.” He looked across the room, towards the spot where his statue had been pounded into dust, and began to sneer. “My warning stands. Stay away from the Foundations. I am going to kill Calisto, and none of you will stop me.”

His vision drifted to Sadik.

“Even if I might enjoy a rival, for once.”

Sadik did not reply. Rushan moved toward the entrance, turning his back to all.

“And you,” the jackal said.

Faustine looked up at him, startled. There was a blur, and the caracal flew back into the open archway, smashing against the stone. Her swords clattered by her side.

“You let me get struck,” Rushan said, glaring over her form. He raised his severed arm. “You just stood there, like a coward. I could’ve kept my head if you had been faster.”

Faustine remained crumpled against the doorway, clutching her cheek.

Rushan gave a disgusted growl. “Don’t fail me again.”

He made his way out of his own temple, paying no more heed to what lay behind him. Slowly, Faustine retrieved her fallen swords and climbed back to her feet. When she glanced into the sanctuary, she saw all eyes remaining on her.

She looked at Sadik. He stared back, still wrapped in Kavaia’s arms. There was a moment where her ears flattened, and she began to open her mouth, as if there was something she had been wanting to say, for quite some time.

Then, the moment was gone, and she ran through the entryway, disappearing amongst the pylons and lighted braziers.

A silence descended on the temple.

“Eggs in a fucking clutch,” Haakon said.

The Vizier, mask slipping from his face, made his way over to the other gods of the pantheon, who had been ravaged with Rushan’s whip of bone. Some were already dead. Others were bleeding profusely, helpless and prone.

Nearby, Xaeyr rose to his feet, moving to the entrance and peering out into the ruins. Zaria left Isaac’s side to do the same. The human mage stumbled over to the field of fallen gods, attempting to triage the worst injuries.

And, with the room returned to motion, Kavaia began to sag against Sadik’s shoulder, as if growing weak. Her throat struggled to expand.

“Goddess,” he said, trying to turn. “Are you—”

When he looked, he saw her face swallowed by a mask of light. Beams surged from the sockets of her eyes, like fire inside a lantern, all of it shining from the flurry of activity inside her skull. He could see the boiling of fluid. Webs of metal.

Sadik placed a hand on the rough scales of her cheek. Kavaia clamped her hand on top of his, squeezing it for strength. Slowly, the light faded from her face, leaving only the long ridge of her snout, and the myrtle green of her scales, contrasting with the swarthy brown of his skin.

When the light was gone, and the pain was over, her eyes were perfectly healed.

Sadik was aghast. “I . . . goddess, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean. . . .”

“No,” she replied. “All is well. I rather expected this would happen.”

“You’re infected.”

“So are you.”

“That shouldn’t mean—”

“Sadik,” Kavaia said, pressing his hand against her face. “Meeting you was a mistake. If that’s what our joining costs, I will squander the rest of my life.”

He watched her eyes. With a small rumble, the goddess of death leaned forward and nibbled the tip of his nose. It was, perhaps, her equivalent of a peck on the cheek.

Despite everything, Sadik managed to smile.

Outside, a flood of heavy feet shook the temple. Lanir bounded up the steps of the pyramid, the fires on her draconic scales almost completely dimmed. Behind her, there was a stampede of Kesunae riders, holding torches and swords. The Lord of Bones rode upon a tailless mare.

Things passed in a blur.

Treatments were given. Orders were shouted. Some of the gods were pronounced dead, while others were rushed away from the temple, carried by a dozen mortals each. The Lord of Bones, sauntering in with his skeletal thralls, asked Sadik about the evacuation. He told the Kesunae warlord to belay the order. Lanir stuck her head through the doorway, unable to fit inside, and said that Yasmin’s clone was dead. Sadik gestured to the flattened corpse of himself.

After that, they left him alone, each turning to their tasks.

He remained by the shattered altar, staring up at the glowing form of the hologram. The emitters had been damaged in the fight, and the image was flickering through the air, growing dim and jagged. Sadik watched it dance. The world continued around him.

In the noise of the chamber, he kept expecting to hear Amira, shouting orders above the din, and the absence of her voice gave him a deep, aching hurt, whenever it came to mind.

He stared down at his arm.

By now, the limb had fully regrown. It was a chaotic thing, composed of rough metal striations and dribbling pockets of flesh, though the fingers bent perfectly when he gripped the haft of his sword. It seemed that it would serve its purpose.

Almost distantly, he noticed that his feet had sunk into the tiles on the floor, like a finger through wax. He realized the plague had absorbed the stone through his skin, transforming the material into the same flesh and metal that now formed his arm. Glimmer could not create on its own—it could only change one thing into another.

What else could it steal for itself?

Sadik grimaced, returning his gaze to the hologram. It took him a moment to notice that Xaeyr was standing just to the side, waiting for his attention.

“My lord,” Sadik said.

“Stop calling me that.”

The human shrugged.

Xaeyr pressed his thin lips together, glancing off at the blood-stained floor. “Eight of the gods are dead. The rest are not in fighting condition.”

“Neither are my men, I suspect.”

The god of cataracts was silent for a moment. Eventually, he said: “How are you feeling?”

Sadik gazed up at the baboon.

“Look,” Xaeyr said, as if he had been preparing a speech, “I know you lost her, as well. I didn’t mean to imply . . . I know that seeing Hisana must have. . . .”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

Xaeyr looked off to the painted columns, taking a deep breath. “It’s always how it was. With the other gods, they would get accustomed to losing mortals. There’s always time. There’s always more people. What does it matter, really?” He shook his head. “It always bothered me. Every person. It bothered me more when the others did not seem to care. I could never just . . . let it go.”

“And that’s why I use the title.”

Xaeyr looked uncomfortable. “In any case, thank you for cutting Rooshy’s head off. I’ll bring you a beer, some time.”

“I look forward to it, my lord.”

The god of cataracts nodded, sat down on the floor, and rubbed the spot where his moon used to orbit, staring off into the dust and hazy light.

On Sadik’s other side, Haakon cleared his throat impatiently, his beak sharp beneath the mask.

“Well?” the falcon asked.

“Well, what?”

“Well, what the fuck do we do now?”

Sadik straightened his back. “You’re the Vizier. You should know.”

“A good leader listens to his advisors.”

“I’m glad you’ve decided to start.”

“Fuck off,” Haakon said. “Stars align, this is completely unprecedented. Most of the gods are dead. Our government is meaningless. Just—please—tell us what we should do.”

Around the sanctuary, people began to gather. Haakon stood to his side. Lanir stuck her head through the doorway, awkwardly crouched outside. The Lord of Bones stared up at the hologram, still awed by the technology, while Kavaia helped usher Yasmin into the sanctuary, assuring her that everything was safe.

He looked for Amira, completely on instinct. There was no sign.

Sadik closed his eyes.

“We’re going down to the Foundations,” he said, strolling through the wreckage beneath the hologram. With a raised hand, he carved a path down the length of Aldunya’s branch. “The pantheon has opened a hole in the ruins. Many of the layers have likely collapsed, but it should still allow us to descend quickly, compared to the days and weeks it would take before.”

He traced the path with his eye. The rest of the room was silent.

“From there,” Sadik said, “we have two objectives. The first is to make contact with Aldunya—or Calisto—and determine what she really is. What she wants. Why she chose Rushan as a replacement. Her fate will depend on what we learn.” He paused. “The second objective is to kill Rushan.”

Lanir fluttered her wings. Haakon blew out a breath.

Sadik clasped his hands behind his back, one metal and one flesh. “I don’t care what he says about freedom, or oppression, or forging a new path. He’s destroyed our society. He’s torn everything apart, just for petty vengeance. Acheron deserves justice, and I will give it by the edge of my sword.”

“Fucking right,” Xaeyr said.

“As traitors deserving,” the Lord of Bones said.

Kavaia rested Dawnstar by the tip of the haft. “How do you plan on enforcing this justice? Rushan is peerless in battle. If anything, he is harder to kill now than he was before.”

“I don’t know,” Sadik replied, truthfully. “Perhaps Calisto has a method. Perhaps I can convince the plague to rescind its protection. Either way, I’m going to try. There’s nothing else for it.”

The room filled with glances and looks.

“If anyone has any objections, speak them now.”

Zaria stepped forward, propping Isaac against her side. Her black snout was gritted in pain, and the scar on her left eye was already beginning to reform. “We’re stayin’ up here.”

Sadik gave a single nod.

“Sorry,” the hyena said, “but my squire’s keelin’ over, and I ain’t feeling grand myself, and, frankly, all this shite sounds fit to tear the world a new pucker. If Isaac weren’t so keen on stoppin’ the Diet, I’d have turned tail a while ago.” She squeezed his shoulder with a bicep. He shuddered in pain. “Some things just ain’t worth riskin’ for.”

“No,” Sadik said. “I understand. My greatest regret is not protecting the person I loved.” He gestured with his metal hand. “Do what you have to.”

“Good luck, Sadik,” Isaac said. “I wish you well.”

“Same to you, Isaac.”

With a nod, and a wince, the two foreigners made their way out of the sanctuary, walking with their arms wrapped together.

“Anyone else?” Sadik asked. “There’s no shame. The Foundations will be rampant with the plague. Calisto will defend herself. It’s going to be the most difficult mission we’ve faced so far.” He waited a moment, letting his words gain weight. “The days ahead will not be kind.”

There were more glances. No one spoke. Instead of hesitation, he saw determination in the remaining eyes.

Lanir. Xaeyr. Haakon. Yasmin. The Lord of Bones.

Kavaia.

It did not quite kill the ache in Sadik’s heart, but it bolstered his spirit, for a time.

“I’ll stay here,” Yasmin said, rubbing her hands. “The countermeasures—the ones that repel the Exalted—I can reattach some of the surviving units from Fading Dawn.. After that, I’ll start archiving technology, for preservation . . . or posterity. I hope it’s the first.”

The Lord of Bones raised his metal glove. The horns on his helmet casted a fierce shadow on the wall. “I will remain here, with your bird, organizing relief. Much progress is made. Hope weathers the wind.”

“Yes, yes,” Haakon said, “it’s about time I did some real leadership, and it just so happens to look like organizing supplies and negotiating treaties. Hopefully, it will be boring.” He waved a pinioned hand. “Go on. Save the world.”

Sadik glanced at the rest of the room.

Lanir gave a solemn nod.

Xaeyr cracked his knuckles.

Kavaia kept her hammer poised, and the runes on the head began to glow through the haze, spelling out a phrase that Sadik had seen many times, when Ilios had charged into battle. The words had always acted as a beacon for his followers.

Aistirahat Alyawm.

The Break of Day.

The New Dawn.

He renewed the grip on his sword.

“Excellent,” he said. “In that case, make your preparations as soon as possible. We’ll leave within the hour.”

“Hold a moment,” Kavaia said. “What is the name of our operation? We plan to rid the world of a mad jackal, and hold a tree accountable for her crimes. It needs the proper weight.”

Sadik felt another vision, rushing into his mind.

Without warning, he was looking upon a beach, the pale sand pounded flat beneath the waves, the ground littered with algae and buzzing flies. The sky was overcast. The air was cold. The beach seemed to stretch on forever, with no other land in sight.

There was a woman, sitting on the sand, crying. Her blonde hair was disheveled. She wore a white coat over a ballistic vest, and the lapel bore the symbol of the ancestors. Red and white stripes. Blue stars. For a long moment, her wails of anguish mixed with the crashing of the waves.

Suddenly, she raised her head from her knees, tears streaming down her face, looking directly into his eyes.

“Sadik,” Calisto said.

He blinked, and the vision was gone.

All that remained was an old temple sanctuary, dedicated to the god of war. The room had filled with broken stone. Everyone was watching him.

In the silence, Sadik began to clench his jaw.

“Operation Weeping Prophet.”