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Sadik Umayyad Zareb, last of the Luminous Path, fled through the streets while blood rained from the sky.

His sandaled feet pounded against bricks of dry mud. The sound of wailing alarms rang in his ears. All the buildings around him seemed to hold a sunspear lying in wait, as if the blood that reflected off their faces was the glinting of knives and teeth. He twisted the haft of Dusksong, illuminating his path with a burst of glowing runes, and sprinted faster through the throngs of empty stalls that had once been a bazaar.

He wouldn't put it past the assassin to already have his trail. She had been hunting him relentlessly, betraying a fervor that went far beyond professional duty. With the alarms of Kohav Yaran blaring loudly into the night, it was only a matter of time before the entire city would descend upon him like a plague of locusts. Inevitably, she would be at the vanguard of every strike, and she would take the time to enjoy his suffering, just as she had. . . .

Everyone was dead. His comrades. His men. He was the only one to escape the palace alive. Sadik clutched the small metal beacon tighter in his hand, knowing that it had cost the lives of five good soldiers. The intelligence gained from its soul, as well as the safety it offered, would be invaluable to the rebellion. It was worth the cost. It had to be.

Sadik wiped blood from his eyes. Some of it was his. Most of it was not.

Ahead, the buildings began to twist and deform. Many had been destroyed during the revolution, and the rest had been barricaded against the food riots that followed. There were piles of broken stone everywhere he looked—the smashed wall of an apothecary, the melted bricks of a watchtower, the remnants of godly statues strewn across the street in waves of limbs and regal faces. All of it was buried in a curtain of red as a hail of blood came slicing down from the sky. The wet slaps of his sandals echoed through the buildings around him, and Sadik knew that anyone who had not fled from this district was now lying buried in the rubble of their homes.

He packed the metal beacon into a pocket between the bronze scales of his kepresh. He renewed his grip on the greatsword in his hands. Dusksong burned a bright yellow against the bloody stone around him, stretching the shadows into rushing black spears.

After cutting through several streets and alleys, he leaned against the burned shell of a destrier stable, spraying drops of blood with every heaving pant. He glanced back at the palace. Blue shimmering walls rose high into the night, far above the mud-brick hovels. Sadik could see searchlights roaming through the bloody streets, combing for any attackers. He found some relief in knowing that he was already far beyond the search radius of the Exalted. Without any countermeasures, the elite soldiers of Kohav Yaran would've easily eaten him alive.

But, as he watched, yellow specks of light begin to swirl through the air around the palace, like fireflies disturbed from their nest. The Mezlat. Each one would be equipped with a sunspear. Each one would be as swift and deadly as a panther. They wouldn't deploy the Mezlat unless they were sure he'd escaped into the surrounding districts.

Perhaps the assassin had already found his trail.

“Gamó," Sadik said, and began to run again.

He fled through an open market that had once been used for the selling of livestock. Clearly, it had seen some of the worst of the fighting. There were skeletons of destriers lying crushed under the roofs of their stables, feed troughs that had been upended and ransacked by starving rioters. Craters in the street were now sloshing with bone, rock, and scarlet red foams of raining blood.

It was all empty. Sadik had not seen a single soul since he'd escaped the palace. From the scab-like growths of plague running along the walls, it almost seemed as if the market had been abandoned for years, rather than mere weeks. The streets were still a recent grave, full of aching memory.

For a moment, he marveled at how quickly Acheron had fallen. The city had stood for millennia. It was the jewel of the desert, the envy of the world, and it had been brought to its knees by an untold number of usurpers, traitors, and partisans. The silence of the gods only twisted the knife deeper.

He wiped blood from his face, holding his broken sword like a torch.

There were sewer entrances nearby. Sadik had memorized all the twists and turns of Acheron's drainage system, even those that had been flooded and buried in rubble. He knew, to a certainty, that a safehouse was nearby. The Sons of Sorrow maintained a network of forward bases and resupply depots for any operatives currently working above the surface. In a few minutes, he could be safe underground once more. In an hour, he could be standing among his lieutenants, showing them the tiny metal beacon that had cost the lives of five good men. The little sliver of magic currently in his pocket would spell the difference between victory or defeat for the resistance. Nothing was more important than completing his mission.

It was what Hisana would've wanted.

Sadik kept running. He gripped the haft of Dusksong as tight as he could, and the sword blazed brighter in response.

He had to face the assassin.

She could not know the location of their headquarters. The feline traitor had been turned into a vicious weapon—the last time Sadik had faced her, she had possessed a skin laced with iron and Glimmer, and eyes that glowed like the open mouth of a sunspear. He had barely managed to kill her and escape with his life. If she was ever able to follow him down to the sewers. . . .

It couldn't happen. He could not risk the lives of anymore Sons. He would draw her away from their strongholds, for the protection of all who had served the true Vizier.

At least, that is what he told himself. In truth, he was remembering how the assassin had slit Hisana's belly. He was remembering how desperately he had begged her to stop. There had been a splattering of intestines, screams of pain, gleeful laughter. Years of friendship ended with a single knife.

Lightning pierced the sky.

Sadik stopped running. Ahead, through a pouring rain of blood, a figure was standing on the rooftops. Her body was outlined by a jagged spear of lightning—it exploded against Acheron's outer barriers, the wall of energy bouncing a shower of sparks far into the night, draping the assassin's body in a pale red glow. In the brief light, he saw a dual-wielded pair of khopeshes, a belt lined with grenades, stacking sheathes of throwing knives, and a feline tail so modified with Glimmer that it seemed as sharp as a scythe.

The light vanished again. All that remained was her eyes. They were still a brilliant green, watching him through the curtains of blood and darkness.

She was announcing her presence. Giving him a fair fight. In response, Sadik lifted his sword through the rain, letting its brilliant light wash across the mud and stone. Her curved blades glinted as they swung back and forth, the eagerness plainly visible.

There was nothing left between them. She had burned off her tattoos, forsaken her vows. The betrayal could not be healed with words.

Even still, old comrades deserved a gesture of respect.

For a long, silent moment, they stared at each other across the length of the empty street. Lightning crashed and roared.

Sadik lowered his greatsword and fired a sunbeam at her.

There was a blinding light, a mass of energy bulging from the mouth of his weapon, and the building in front of him exploded in a shower of brick and boiling blood. Faustine had already leaped above it, soaring high into the air. Sadik had barely recovered from the recoil when he saw a blue flame screaming down from the sky. He stumbled into a run, narrowly avoiding the blast of her grenade. Everything was a blurring mix of blue, yellow, and deep scarlet red.

Sadik leaped into an alley just as Faustine landed on the street. He threw himself to the ground, hearing the slice of a throwing knife just above his head. Rolling into a crouch, he slashed at the wall of a house. Dusksong rended the bricks as easily as paper. Faustine sprinted towards him with both khopeshes drawn. He leaped into the gash, smashing through the rest of the facade. The house collapsed around him as he dashed through a long-empty cookfire, battering the scales of his kepresh with brick and stone. He threw himself through another broken hole just as the roof gave way.

He sprinted through back alleys, spitting out blood and dust in equal measure. Her shadow fell across his back, lighted from above by another score of lightning, and Sadik barely managed to dodge the trio of throwing knives that hailed down from the sky. He smashed through the rotten doorway of another house. Inside, there were the remains of a family that had died of plague, their skeletons already growing into the walls. Sadik ran through the cold, shadowy room. He bashed through another door, raced down an alley, cut into a second, scrambled over a mound of rubble still brimming with corpses, and leaped towards the rounded lip of a rooftop, pulling himself into a fresh spray of raining blood.

Faustine was standing on an adjacent roof, a blue grenade cocked in hand. She didn't see him. Dusksong glowed a brilliant yellow, her runes surging with power. The feline assassin saw her shadow darken and immediately threw herself off the roof. A jagged sunbeam tore through the house. Bricks melted into slag, blood boiled into steam. Through the recoil, he heard a scream of pain, but Sadik was already running again, leaping across the tight gaps between the buildings.

The houses were closer together now, many of them forming connected lines of stone. He leaped over the gaping holes in the roofs, not daring to glance at whatever remained of the occupants. There were half-empty clotheslines, chicken cages, chairs and tables, broken pots and shattered spears. Every step was a scramble, every inch of balance in constant danger. More than once, Sadik was forced to leap as the bricks beneath his feet suddenly gave way. Only the light of his sword let him see the obstacles through the dark, bloody night.

In the distance, the woody trunk of the Neheamatt impaled itself through the bloody clouds. Acheron's cerulean barriers were constantly surging with strikes of lightning and trebuchet missiles. The sky around Kohav Yaran was boiling with the trails of Mezlat, beginning to spread out over the city like a drifting sea of stars. It was only a matter of time before the drones spotted him.

He could lose her down in the slums. The houses below were a maze of brick and stone, and there were endless streets and alleys with which he could break line of sight. If the worst came to pass, he could take shelter with some of the last citizens still living here. Most would recognize his face. Some would be sympathetic.

But the thought of running away only made him think of Hisana again. He had run away from her mutilated corpse as laughter rang in his ears. Stumbling, blinded by tears, he had attempted to flee from the bedchamber while Faustine mocked his every step.

He should've died with her. He should've seen it coming. For months, he had listened to the caracal, watching her descend into fanaticism, refusing to believe that she could ever—

Sadik scrambled to a stop. He had come to the edge of the quarantine zone.

Ahead, the streets had collapsed down through the foundations, leaving most of the district lying in jagged craters. He could see signs of uncontrolled plague. Some of the buildings were slashed and crossed with jagged lines, as if they were covered in scabs. Many of the homes had turned craggy at the edges, beginning to twist into eerie shapes. On the streets, there were entire spilling mounds of the hard brown substance, piling on top of each other like a mass of soap bubbles. Inhuman shapes stumbled through the night, moaning and begging.

The entire district had been lost. Cursed beyond recognition. Even the gods had forsaken that place. Entering it would be certain death.

He barely managed to hear the assassin coming.

There was a glimpse of bloody fur and two curved blades. Dusksong was too broken to block the strike. He didn't even manage to scream in pain before she carried her momentum through and tackled him off the roof.

They flew through the bloody air. Sadik was the one who slammed into the barricades, but they fell again, and Faustine was the one who crashed into the mounds of plague, both of them cracking through the brittle substance like they were breaking a crust of bread. There was rolling, confused punches, a narrow dodge of a khopesh, kicking and snarling. Suddenly, Sadik felt himself bouncing against bricks of stone, something that could only mean he had landed on a street. He gasped for air, and his mouth filled with blood.

Faustine pounced on him. The only thing that stopped the slash of her khopesh was one of his bronze gauntlets. She pushed down, leaning her full weight behind the weapon, a curved blade shuddering in protest mere inches from his throat.

“Tyrant!" she screamed.

Her tail stabbed him in the side. It was sharp, furless, covered in serrated edges—the tip wormed through the scales of his kepresh, burrowing into flesh. It had been so modified with Glimmer that it moved like a fifth limb.

“Traitor!" Sadik screamed.

He punched her in the hip, right at the point where a sunbeam had seared her flesh. Her mouth opened in a grimace, and a splash of acid came from her fangs. Some of it caught his ear. The sudden, screaming pain only brought her sword closer to his throat.

Faustine's grin was full of sharp metal. “Oh, my star. Run. Please run."

Hisana crawling along the marble floor, dragging blood and intestines. Begging him.

“Run," Faustine said, cooing. “Run, my star."

The last thing she had ever done was raise herself, meet his eyes, and beg him to flee, just before the assassin's blade had decapitated her in a single stroke.

Sadik's scream was strangled by the sword sawing its way through his hand.

“Death to tyrants!" the assassin shouted. “We are the dawn of a new era! No more shall the gods—"

“Help me!"

A man was running towards them. His naked body was covered in tumors, some of them bubbling outward into hanging strands, as if they were vines of grapes that had been left to rot. Every step came with a brittle crack. Sadik realized that his bones were rotting inside the flesh, breaking beneath his weight.

“Help me!" the man shouted. “Help me!"

Sadik hooked a foot under Faustine and kicked her away. At the same time, he grabbed one of her ears, pulling hard. The result was a spray of blood, a severed ear, and a blind slash of her sword as she flailed in pain.

The man's torso split in half, opening like a mouth. There was a festering mass of plague where his organs had once been, spilling out in gushing torrents of blood and metal. Faustine kicked one of his kneecaps, breaking his leg into a sideways V, and severed his head with a single stroke. At the same time, the blackened tumors on his skin began to explode, releasing thick clouds of plague into the air. All the spores began to move like flies, rushing with purpose.

Sadik was already sprinting again. Their entrance into the quarantine zone had attracted too much attention. People were spilling from the houses now, already forming into a mob. Some were shambling on extra limbs. Others had grown such a jagged shell of metal that they could only crawl. Many were birthed from the spilling mounds of plague themselves, emerging from the bubbles in a shower of soupy flesh. Most of the creatures did not look human in the slightest, even if they sounded like them now.

“Help us!"

“Please!"

“It hurts!"

He ran as fast as he could, weaving through the rotting limbs and rushing bodies.

A grenade exploded behind him. He wasn't sure which was louder—the moans of the plague victims, the wet patter of blood raining onto brick, or the squelch of Faustine's swords as they ripped through flesh.

The quarantine zone had once been prosperous. As Sadik raced through the streets, he saw houses made of stone, craftsmen shops, fountains depicting the gods that were now swollen with blood. Most of it was unrecognizable. The plague had modified the surrounding architecture into a chaotic mix of metal and flesh—there were webs of arteries coating doorways, melting pools of steel flowing like lava down the street, entire buildings swallowed by sacs of hard brown tissue, something like the layers of a cockroach's shell. More than once, Sadik was forced to fire a sunbeam with Dusksong, burning his way through houses and spilling flesh alike.

He was losing his strength. Faustine's tail had wormed its way deep beneath his armor. Every step sent hot white pain shooting up his side, and every swing of his sword felt weaker than the one before. The little Glimmer left inside of him would help seal the wounds, but the air was thick with spores, and he had almost certainly caught the plague. He was going to die.

There was not much time left. The thought was freeing, in a way.

Orienting himself by the cerulean energy barriers, Sadik ran towards the Syran river, located at the heart of the city. There was still an outpost entrance at the silty banks of the river, one that only the bravest of Sons would dare to use. He wouldn't enter the safehouse itself. The risk of infection spreading through the resistance was too high. Instead, he would place the beacon at a dead-drop by the entrance, find a suitable location further on, and make his final stand. The Sons of Sorrow would receive the intelligence necessary to overthrow the new dynasty, and he would meet his end fighting the same assassin that had taken everything from him.

He could die happily, then. As the last of the Luminous Path, it was only fitting.

And, so, Sadik ran through the quarantine zone with a feeling of serenity spreading through his chest. The broken blade of Dusksong illuminated his path. All around him, the people of Acheron were crawling and shambling, begging for help as their flesh melted into the walls. The drains were swollen with blood, the air was full of black spores, and it was no longer possible to deny that the city had been abandoned by the gods. Even still, Sadik continued to run, dodging the swipes of bladed arms, slashing through the brown masses of plague that swallowed entire houses. He felt as if his burden was finally coming to an end.

But something strange began to happen. As he ran towards the river, he saw violence break out between the misshapen crowds. There were individual scuffles, masses of crawling men devouring a single opponent, scattered limbs flowing through the rivers of blood. At times, the plague victims were a throbbing tangle of violence, full of warbling screams and the squelch of ripping flesh. Sadik kept to the edges of the street, skirting the battles whenever possible. Dusksong cut down any creature who dared to approach.

Everyone knew the plague was intelligent. It acted with a cunning fit for a swarm of insects, as if all its thralls were in constant sympathy. They would swarm together from every corner of the city, twisting into monstrous shapes, roving through the streets in gangs, infecting all who crossed their path. Cordoning off entire districts had become the only solution, as burning the bodies merely spread it further. Now, it appeared as if the disease had ravaged their minds so completely that they could no longer distinguish between friend and foe.

Something was amiss here. They had never attacked each other before.

Sadik did not stop. He ran through it all, focusing only on the task ahead.

The end of the district came suddenly. Abandoned barricades cut the street in half, collapsing with disrepair and the weight of growing plague. A constant thrum of water could be heard on the other side. Sadik slowed his pace, tossing the metal beacon into the bent-open mouth of a drainage pipe. The loud clattering of metal quickly vanished beneath the earth.

And that was it. The package had been delivered. The mission had been a success, even if it had cost the lives of everyone who completed it.

Sadik tightened his grip on his sword. Now, he could fight freely.

He climbed through the rubble of a broken house until he was standing on the roof of its neighbor. His body was completely soaked in blood—the rain had never ceased, and the pain in his side was burning as hot as the sun. Faustine's acid had eaten away much of the flesh around his ear. Only the vestiges of Glimmer still left in his skin had prevented it from reaching the bone. With its power, the wounds would be survivable, if only barely.

He held Dusksong out in front of him, twisted her haft, and raised the greatsword high into the air. Her glowing hue was bright against the bloody night. It would be visible to everyone in the city.

One last gesture of respect.

He couldn't see the assassin through the blood and darkness. It didn't matter. She wasn't dead yet. It would take both of them some time to succumb to the plague. Time enough for one last fight.

Sadik only wished he could kill her permanently.

But something odd seemed to happen again. He did not feel any sign of infection. There was no twisting skin, melting lungs, a feeling that his muscles were slowly growing into metal. The onset of symptoms was rapid—victims of the plague always reported an immediate sense of doom, a feeling of something higher calling them to task. They could be enthralled within an hour of transmission. Sadik ran a hand over the tattoos on his neck and cheeks, feeling nothing but shaven skin and wet blood.

Somehow, he had run through a plague zone, breathing spores, fighting the twisted citizens inside, and had come out the other side unscathed. It was a miracle.

He glanced over his shoulder, past the flooded banks of the Syran river and the lighted spires of Kohav Yaran. Far above the city, the colossal trunk of the Neheamatt stood against the mountains. Her branches crawled through the bellies of the clouds. Even the raging storm of blood could not hide the majesty of Acheron's noble tree, as if any attempt to do so would break the weather itself.

Standing above the banks of the river, Sadik looked at the great Neheamatt and felt some measure of reassurance. A memory of faith. Someone had just protected him from the plague. Perhaps the gods had not abandoned the city, after all.

There was an explosion deep in the quarantine zone. Blue fire rose against the red hails of blood, and a chorus of screams boiled from the overgrown buildings. It sounded as if Faustine was personally slaughtering half the district.

She hadn't seen him. A quick glance over to the palace told him that the Mezlat were spreading out over the more populated areas of Acheron, places where light and warmth could still be found. They had assumed he would hide amongst the crowds, which could only mean that the drones had not seen him, either.

He could escape.

The realization came as something of a shock. He had the chance to flee. The outpost entrance—the place where he had stashed the metal beacon—was still nearby. He could be sheltered underground in minutes. The tight walls and rusted metal of Acheron's sewers would protect him from the manhunt. In less than an hour, he could be standing amongst the Sons of Sorrow once more.

He looked behind him. The Syran river had become a graveyard of ships. In the darkness, there were only impressions of the delta fleet listing above the water—shattered hulls, fallen masts, the tattered cloth of sails and standards still bearing the royal stars of the Vizier. Many of the ships had continued to drift downstream, piling against each other as they reached the underwater rubble of the broken stone bridges. The hulls and decks were almost as straight as a row of teeth. Anyone with a little courage could walk across their planks and make it safely to the other side.

He could run that way, too. He was not trapped. He was not infected.

There was nothing stopping him from running away.

Nothing except for the blood. The rain falling down around him. It made a sound quite distinct from water. There was a thickness to it. . . .

When Hisana had died, her blood had made a sound. There was begging, claws scraping across marble, a dying echo of a voice, and the thud of her headless body falling to the carpet. But those were not the sounds he heard afterward, when he was alone, remembering. Sadik remembered the gush of blood coming from her neck—it had been so thick that it audibly splattered against the tiled floor. The sound of her blood had kept him awake for countless nights. It had told him, over and over, that she was gone forever.

Lightning pierced the sky. It crashed against Acheron's energy barriers, the shower of sparks flying high above the city, illuminating the barren streets of the quarantine zone. Underneath the rubble and growing plague, everything was drenched in blood. It was just as red as hers had been.

The blood of the true Vizier.

Hisana's blood.

Blood.

Blood.

“Traitor!" Sadik yelled.

His voice carried through the night, echoing down the twisted streets. Even the moans of the plague victims seemed to quiet in response.

“I am still burning!"

He held Dusksong high overhead, and the broken sword was a bright yellow against the darkness, like a ray of light finally breaking the dawn.

“You have killed the sun, traitor! And you will pay for your crimes!"

His skin began to glow. The tattoos on his face and neck—his eye, his cheek, a wreath of thorns around his throat—they all began to burn with a brilliant phosphorescence, so strong that it glinted off the scales of his armor. He concentrated, willing his skin to burn brighter, and the old markings responded, as if they had never gone away.

In the distance, all sounds of violence had ceased. The quarantine zone was still once more.

“I will not skulk through the dark!" Sadik yelled, raising his sword to the heavens. “I still follow the Path! I am a brightness against evil!" He lowered Dusksong, pointing it out over the street. “You are a betrayer! A hollow shell filled with lies! And whatever utopia you hope to bring—"

Lightning flashed again. Two swords flew through the sky.

He blocked the twin strikes, but Faustine's tail was too quick to dodge. It stabbed through his leg. The pain weakened his defense. She leaned over him, feline face curled into a snarl, the scars where her tattoos had been glistening with blood.

“Your death will save the world!"

And she pushed him forward, metallic tail worming through his thigh. He ended their cross with a shove, pulled Dusksong back to his side, and fired a sunbeam. The naked lance of energy sailed clear over her head as she tackled him off the building.

They did not fly for long. Sadik had only a brief second to see the sunken hull of a ship before he was crashing onto the wet planks of the top deck. He rolled, gasping for air, managing to twist just enough that he dodged a swing of a khopesh. He swung Dusksong in kind, putting such force behind the blow that it shattered the ship's mast. Sodden planks immediately burst into yellow flame. Blood hissed and crackled.

He rose to his feet. She swung low, aiming for his leg. A dance of steel began. Their blades crossed and crashed and sang through the night. Every kiss of metal was louder than their snarls.

His lifeblood was draining. Through the glow of his sword, he saw flakes of metal growing through her skin. Unlike him, the assassin had caught the plague. They were both dying. It was only a race to the same miserable grave.

Beneath them, the ship lurched. The hull had tilted to the side while resting on the riverbed. Now, it was falling forward, collapsing under their combined weight. Bloody water, thick and brown, began to rush over their feet. Sadik parried a slash, dodged a second, and leaped for the next ship in the graveyard.

They began a running battle through the corpses of the delta fleet—trading blows on the top decks, scrambling over the shattered planks, rushing through the shattered corridors as they swelled with blood and water. More than once, Sadik fired a sunbeam that would split an entire schooner in twain, but Faustine always leaped above it, sailing through the air with teeth and blade. All the ships that did not sink during the fighting were instead caught alight, and the river quickly became illuminated with rows of yellow flame. The symbol of the Vizier—a gazing eye wrapped in stars—was found on every sail and standard in their path. Nothing saved it from the fire.

They landed on a frigate. Faustine pulled her arm back for a thrust. When it did not move again, she screamed. A jagged spike of plague was growing from her elbow, the arm locked in place. Sadik attempted to take a forward stance, ready to sever the limb in a single swing, but his leg screamed in pain, and he collapsed to the deck below. For a long moment, their yells of pain rose above the raining blood.

The feline assassin threw her khopeshes down. She came for him with teeth and fist. Sadik could only brace through the first few punches, dodging a spurt of acid. But, when she swung her tail, he swung Dusksong in kind, and her severed tail impaled itself against the hanging fabric of a sail, going limp like a dying scorpion. The hull of the ship shifted beneath the water. Faustine stumbled back, clutching the stump of her modified tail. Sadik came forward, swinging upwards. Lighting flashed across the sky as her severed arm flew into the river.

Sadik lost his balance. He planted Dusksong through the wooden deck, leaning against her hilt. In the blood and darkness, he lost sight of the assassin. A blind swing hit nothing but the ship's rigging. She kicked him in the back. The hidden blade in her foot nearly came out the front of his abdomen.

Both of them collapsed to the deck. Sadik did his best to apply pressure to his injuries, but there were too many—his back, his side, his leg. He could feel the Glimmer within himself begin to grow overwhelmed. There was too much pain. Too much blood.

Slowly, Faustine rose to her feet. One of her arms had been severed at the shoulder, and the other was locked at her side, already bristling with vines of plague. She gasped for air, spreading a plume of spores from her mouth. Sadik attempted to lift Dusksong, but the thick blade had become too heavy. His breath was just as feeble as hers.

“You should have joined me," the caracal said.

She fell against the mast, watching him with glowing green eyes. Fires blazed across the graveyard of ships.

“We could've freed this city. Saved it from tyranny. Why didn't—" She grimaced, coughing out more spores. “You never listened to me."

“I did," Sadik said. “I always did. You thought I'd . . . fawn over every word. It was you who never listened to me."

“You loved her," Faustine said, spitting out the words. “You were blinded."

“I was doing my duty!" Sadik tried to rise. He groaned, coughing out blood. “I followed the Path! You betrayed your vows!"

“She was the Vizier! A sacrifice to the gods! You consorted with her! Your—your—" Her words came through gritted teeth. “Your disgusting affair. You even dared to learn her name."

Sadik could not answer.

“Hisana," Faustine said. “Her name was Hisana. That was what you said."

He had cried her name when the blade entered her belly.

“All of Acheron saw her as Vizier, the Faceless. That was her duty. Sacrifice her identity in service of the people. None of us could live freely. We all had to give ourselves away." The assassin slid down the mast, resting against the deck. “For what? A government that grows fat while the mortals starve? A pantheon of gods that never dare to leave their sacred tree?"

Sadik gripped Dusksong tighter. The blade gleamed with blood.

“It's all a means of control," Faustine said. “It's all a lie. All of our traditions. They make us complacent. The new democracy will empower the people. We will not be dependent upon the gods. No one shall ever starve again."

Sadik fell back against the planks, drawing shallow breaths.

“You will never reclaim the throne. We fight with the tides of history. The people will see—"

“Silence," Sadik said. “Spare me your lectures. I've suffered them quite enough."

The caracal bared her metal fangs. “Maybe you should've listened."

He had spent so many hours with her, deep in the meadows of Kohav Yaran. Listening to her arguments, skimming the books she had read, always giving a patient ear. He had been trying to steer her back to the Luminous Path. The path of brightness. She had fallen so far astray.

“Yes," Sadik said. “Maybe so. I could've saved her from you."

Slowly, with all his injuries screaming in pain, he found the strength to stand. Everything was wet with blood.

“She was a tyrant. Oppressing the people." Her fangs were bared in a breathless hiss. “It was a pleasure."

He limped along the swaying deck, dragging his sword in tow.

“Killing me makes no difference," Faustine said. “I will return."

“It will not be you."

“No, but I will survive." She coughed, green eyes strained. “I only wish I could watch you die."

Sadik stood above the assassin. He raised Dusksong until the lights of Kohav Yaran glinted off her runes. Even while broken, even while the dynasty that had forged it was lying in ruin, the old executioner's sword would find one last taste of justice.

“Sadik," she said, looking up at him. Her voice had grown soft. For a moment, all he saw was the same young woman that had looked to him for guidance and training. Years of their lives. Countless battles. The nights in the garden. . . .

He hesitated.

Faustine took a shuddering breath, eyes bright and full. “If you had joined me—"

He split her head in half. There was more metal than bone, and the blade became stuck when it entered her chest. Instead of pulling it out, Sadik twisted the haft. A searing ball of energy boiled out from her flesh. The sunbeam disintegrated the mast she was leaning against, impaled the hull of a schooner lying behind her, and instantly boiled a section of the river into steam. By the time he freed his sword, there was barely anything left of her ashen corpse.

Even still, the plague within her would survive. In less than an hour, she would be standing again. Growing into some hideous shape. Somewhere down below the city, her voice might join with the others.

Sadik walked to the edge of the deck. Ahead, out over the Syran river, the lights of Acheron glittered through the curtains of blood. There was still life in the city, out in the districts that had managed to escape the worst of the violence and plagues. Acheron was a shadow of herself, a curtain of stars slowly growing dim. He could not think of any time in history where her plight had been so dire. But, staring out over it now, he felt some measure of hope. The city would survive.

The ship lurched beneath him. He wobbled over the edge of the deck, staring down into the murky brown waters below. He would not have the strength to stand much longer.

He looked up towards the Neheamatt, following the great grooves of the trunk until they disappeared in the bloody clouds. Somewhere above, the gods still remained. Even if they had gone silent, even if the city had not seen any sign of their guidance since the revolution, they must still be up in the heavens. Watching.

He must feel some hope. He must have faith.

Sadik felt the puncture wound in his side. He placed Dusksong back in her sheath, as much as the broken blade could fit. With a deep breath, he stood as proudly as he could manage.

He looked towards Kohav Yaran. The Mezlat were still swarming through the air around the palace. Some of their lights seemed to be growing closer. They had spotted him.

Sadik gazed at the palace where once he had served, placing a fist over his heart.

“My star," he whispered, and stepped over the edge.

The Syran river swallowed him with barely a splash. It was the season of flooding, the waters thick with silt and mud. The current heaved against the hulls of the sunken ships, and he found himself flipping through the darkened waters, bouncing against planks and large chunks of stone. He did not resist. Slowly, the sound of rain vanished. All he could hear was the thrum of the water, carrying him deeper.

He remembered the night he had first seen Hisana's face. They had spent the day attending a formal ceremony for Veteus, the new god of animal husbandry. The day had been hot, the speeches and godly blessings as longwinded as ever, and their only amusements had been each other—glances, quick touches, some dangerously open flirting. When the Vizier had finally managed to retire to her chambers, Sadik had found himself racing to his secret entrance, the hidden tunnel that ran the length of the palace. He had barely seen the jade and lazuli lining her porcelain bath before she was scooping him in her arms. He'd felt so small against her, so eager to finally. . . .

. . .and his back rested against the river floor. There was algae, a gentle break in the current. He only wished the pressure. . . .

. . . .and she had disrobed by the light of a fire, savoring his every reaction. Pacing forward, leaving a trail of royal clothes behind, she had loomed above him, standing as tall as a god. His touch had sent a shiver through her body. Her grey skin was as soft as gossamer, the former hide smoothed from rounds of Glimmer, but it was still hers, he could see the old traces of the person she had been before she was Vizier, and he began to worship every inch of her body, delighting in her breaths, the way she. . . .

. . .touched him across his back. He was shifted. Something like silver was briefly visible through the murky water. It couldn't be a fish. . . .

. . .but she kept crawling forward, her tongue snaking through the slit of her mask. She was so much larger, her breasts so ample that he could've curled into a ball inside a single one, and while she usually took the time to enjoy her playful control, she did not do so tonight. Her breaths were nervous, unsatisfied. Without a word, he had reached for her mask, and her hand had engulfed his immediately, as if she had been desperately waiting for him to do so. Even in her chambers, the only escape either of them had from service, they had never dared. . . .

He gasped for air. Water flooded his lungs. There was something worming through his belly. The burning was indescribable. Someone was lifting him from the floor.

A hand on his face.

Her face.

Was it slipping from his mind?

There was silt and blood.

Dark green skin.

No.

Grey skin. Underneath the mask, her skin was. . . .

He was rising. There was dark green. Glinting silver.

Hisana's face disappeared into darkness.

Slowly, everything bled away.