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Sadik opened his eyes, breaking through a crust of sand and blood.

Ahead, a large dining table sat in the middle of a spacious chamber—it was made of the same glittering wood as the Neheamatt's trunk, and the walls around it were covered in a crawling sea of leaves and roots, as if the furniture was a natural growth of the foliage. On the surface of the table, there had been laid a feast—cuts of meat, loaves of bread, vegetables laden with sauce. There was none of the fungus so typical of a mortal diet.

The chamber was dark. He could barely see the opposite wall. Even still, it was obvious that the food had been abandoned for some time. If Sadik had to guess, the war of the gods had broken out in the middle of a feast, and the ones who remained in the hall had been too few to finish the remains. Flies swarmed above the plates and half-eaten dishes, gorging on the decay. A putrid smell filled the chamber.

Too much goodness inevitably goes to waste.

Sadik blinked, realizing.

He was in the feasting hall. The base of the renegade gods.

Faustine.

He tried to rise, ignoring the throbbing pain in his nose. Something held him down. When he looked, he found himself lashed to a broken slab of marble, clearly taken from one of the ruined fortresses across the pantheon. Dead vines wrapped around his left wrist, knees, and ankles. His right arm was gone.

A prisoner.

Behind him, there was a jagged hole in the floor. He leaned against his restraints, peering all the way down to Acheron, more than a mile below—the city was lost beneath the blood storm, and most of the surrounding mountains had crumbled into stumps, creating an untold number of avalanches. From his vantage point, Sadik felt as if he was staring down at the caldera of a volcano, which spewed only blood.

The edge was close. It would take only a single push to send him falling through the air. With the curse of immortality, he would not even perish in the fall. More likely, he would be left a smear on the street, conscious and gasping, forced to live through every excruciating injury.

Sadik tried to calm himself.

He tested his restraints. The vines held him fast, and, with his right arm missing, he had little chance of slipping the bonds. There was no hope of breaking the stone itself.

Wind and sand shrieked from the open hole, ready to drag him away.

Focus.

Based on the light, he guessed that it was some time in the afternoon. He had been unconscious for several hours. Someone had removed his kepresh, leaving him only a skirt for modesty. Judging by the pain, his nose was broken, and the fact that it was not healing told him that his reserve of Glimmer was running low. His modifications—the wings and insect limbs—had already started to melt. Soon, his body would suffer withdrawal.

He struggled against the vines, pulling his wrist and ankles until the skin was bleeding and raw. If he could just twist his limbs in the right way. . . .

Something moved in the chamber.

At the end of the dining table, a god sat upon a chair. His fur was as black as a moonless night, and there were thin streaks of gold embedded across his skin, outlining a muscular figure. His eyes glimmered beneath a pair of sharp, jutting ears.

Rushan.

Sadik froze in place.

The jackal watched him across the length of the chamber. His body seemed to churn. Through the dim light, Sadik realized that his golden streaks were no longer branded across his skin—instead, they had melted below, squirming through the flesh, wriggling and lashing like a swarm of parasitic worms. Every line seemed to move with a mind of its own.

For a moment, the only sound in the feasting hall was the wind, shrieking through an open hole.

A side door opened. Sand gusted through the gap. Faustine dashed into the chamber, pushed against the god-sized door, and managed to slam it shut. With a heavy breath, the caracal leaned against the door, swiping sand from her fur.

She glanced across the hall. When she met Sadik's eyes, her ears flattened to her skull.

Another silence fell.

Rushan looked between the two mortals, rolled his neck, and settled back into his chair, beginning to close his eyes. Gold squirmed across his chest.

Faustine stalked across the chamber. The claws of her feet clicked against the marble tiles, and her red sashes swayed against the brown fur of her legs. Her eyes never left Sadik's face.

He stood as straight as he could, fighting against the vines and broken stone.

She stopped in front of him. Her black nose twitched. Whatever she smelled, it sent a curl through the burn scars on her face. Rotten food, filthy skin.

They stared at each other.

“Finally," Faustine said.

She began to pace in front of him. Her movements were calm and graceful, like a cat circling a mouse. There was no need to rush.

Sadik said nothing.

Slowly, with an exaggerated laziness, she drew her khopesh from her waist, along with a vial of white, milky liquid.

He knew what it was. Back in Kohav Yaran, the agents of the Vizier had referred to it as Bonemeal—modified Glimmer, capable of transforming any flesh into bone. If one sliced a wound in the target's body, and dabbed a drop inside, a froth of bone would grow in its place, slowly leeching into the meat beyond.

Anything would do. Skin, muscle, nerves, crawling lines of blood.

Fingernails. Eyelids. Genitals.

There were many possibilities.

Naturally, the process was excruciating. Sadik had never personally tortured a criminal, but he had executed many who had confessed under a Bonemeal interrogation, and, by the time their head was on the chopping block, they were often begging for death.

She took her time coating the blade, waiting for his reaction.

He said nothing.

After a few moments, Faustine tossed the vial away, placing a footpaw against the slab of stone at his back. The hole yawned behind him. A simple push, and he would fall from the heavens.

They made eye contact. Once again, she waited for a response.

He said nothing.

There was a growl.

“Democracy," Faustine said, “cannot exist without truth. In truth, there will be controversy. In controversy, there will be change. In change, there will be chaos, wasted blood, a mountain of ash where once stood glory. But, eventually, there will be freedom."

A bead of sweat rolled down Sadik's chest, mixing with the sand and blood.

“Thus," Faustine continued, raising her khopesh to the side, “look to those who reign in pride, and cut their legs beneath them. Look to those who cloak their greed in faith, and mask their cruelty as justice—give them an end upon a fire. Look to the many, those who toil beneath a yoke of power, and tell them the truth. With rage in their hearts, they will rise for democracy, and the truth shall set them free."

There was a silence. Flies buzzed across a mound of spoils.

“Sokar Menes," Sadik said. “Meditations of the Mask."

“My goodness. Our glowing paragon does know how to read." She sneered. “You just don't listen."

Sadik shook his head. He knew the quote because Sokar Menes had been a renegade Vizier, famous for his spurning of the gods. His reign was the reason why Viziers were required to sacrifice their identity . . . and why the gods were no longer allowed to interfere in mortal politics. It had been a disastrous time.

There had been many disastrous times, now that he thought of it.

Faustine leaned forward, tapping her khopesh against the stone. “Funny, isn't it? How knowledge proves dangerous?"

Sadik looked her in the eye.

Her whiskers bristled. “What?"

“Do you know anything," he said, “other than someone else's words?"

She cut the bottom of his thigh. Splinters of bone grew into the wound, cracking and frothing, burning his flesh from the speed of transformation. It felt like a thousand maggots suddenly eating him alive. By the time the Glimmer had solidified, there was a white lake of bone slashing through his skin, molded to the shape of veins and tendons.

Every twitch would tear a new hole. Every hole would grow more bone.

Sadik grit his teeth, breathing.

“Oh, come now," Faustine said. “You can scream for me."

He looked at her, lips pressed together.

She began to pace again, feline eyes tracing the contours of his body. His tattoos were dim. Buried in sand.

This would be a long day.

“I gave you a chance," the caracal said. “I tried, Sadik. I really. . . ." She looked away, tall ears flicking. “I came to you. Many times. I tried to talk. You never bothered to listen."

He looked up at the ceiling. Roots and veins crawled along the stone, creating a gnarled blanket of wood. He could almost imagine he was in a garden.

Was Aldunya listening? Would she interfere?

Had the god of gods left him to die?

“The last thing I remember," Faustine said, “is the night the palace burned. Our conversation. I tried to hug you, and you smelled like her." There was a sharp breath. “The original went and gave her soul to the life tank, while the pain was still fresh. Now, every time she is birthed, the only feeling is loss. Betrayal. A life twice removed."

She continued to pace, watching for his reaction. Her claws clicked against the stone.

“Do you have any idea," she said, “how it feels? My first breath of life, burning with hatred. I slithered out of the tank already spitting your name."

“I don't care," Sadik said.

She cut him on the hip, left side. Bone frothed through the blood, soaking down, needling into every pore. It felt like fire hardening into a jagged rock. A few tendrils of the new bone managed to scrape his pelvis, and Sadik ended up falling slack against the marble, unable to bear his weight.

I am a shining star. I carry the sun. I walk the Path.

I carry the sun. I walk the Path.

I carry the light of the stars.

Ilios was my—

“Fine," Faustine said. “I suppose you've already had this conversation."

“Many times," Sadik gasped.

She leaned above him, tapping the flat of her sword against his bone-gnarled hip. He had to fight down a whimper.

“Tell me where the Sons of Sorrow are hiding."

Sadik struggled to regain his footing.

“Come on," Faustine said. “Surely, the executioner of Kohav Yaran knows how this will end."

In his mind's eye, he stood before a crowd. Dusksong was still whole. The blade was long and sharp, polished to a gleam, and a prisoner was being dragged across the stage. Bone grew from every limb, like crystals in a cave. He was babbling through the tears.

Sadik had tried to think of it as mercy, in a way.

“Usually," Faustine said, “I'd offer you a quick death, just for old comrade's sake. Oh, but, sadly, you went and killed Thimera. A member of the Luminous Path, slaying a god. Leaving us cursed with life." She gave him a sneer. “How scandalous."

“Someone made it easy for me," Sadik said.

“Revolution demands sacrifice."

“And who gets to pick these sacrifices?"

Faustine glanced over her shoulder. Rushan was still sitting at the dining table, surrounded by rotten food. His eyes were closed, as if he was meditating. Gold crawled along the black of his chest.

“Did Thimera have second thoughts about your murders?" Sadik asked. “Or did he merely grow bored of her?"

Faustine stuck the tip of her khopesh under his chin, less than an inch from touching. The Bonemeal oozed from the blade.

“I have a better idea," she said, leaning in. “You're going to tell me where the Sons are hiding. When you do, I'm going to cut off your head, wear it on my belt, and let you watch as the god of war lays waste to your rebellion. You'll live to see it all."

He said nothing. The sword tapped his chin, and a piece of bone, as thin as a hair, melded into the edge. His remaining hand tightened into a fist.

“Oh?" Faustine asked. “Something to say?"

“I'm glad Hisana never cloned herself," Sadik said.

Her ears began to flatten. A blade danced at his throat.

“It was known," Sadik continued, “that the clones would degenerate. They went mad. Hysterical. She was terrified that the same would happen to her. She said she'd rather die than put the city in danger."

Their eyes remained locked.

“For the first time," Sadik said, “I'm glad she's dead. It's horrible enough, seeing you like this. I couldn't bear it with her."

She cut him across the side of his neck, just below the jaw. Before he could gasp, she sent her blade slicing across his chest, taking his right pectoral in a single motion. Bone gnawed through the meat, impaling his throat, pricking the top of his lungs, gushing steam from the molded flesh. As Sadik tried to breathe, Faustine went to work cutting off the wings at his back. Each one took several chops.

He couldn't stop the scream.

By the end, he was hanging limp against the slab of marble, taking shallow breaths. Every rise of his chest put more pressure on the bone in his lungs, and the bone itself was as sharp as a bramble of thorns, contoured to the shape of his veins. Dozens of stabs accompanied every breath.

His wings laid bloody and limp at his feet. He had barely even used them.

What a waste.

With the curse of immortality, he would never die. She could torture him as long as her heart desired. Impale the organs. Slice off the limbs. A pile of meat and bone, still twitching with life.

I carry the sun. I walk the Path.

I carry the light of the—

“Your goddess isn't here," Faustine said, whipping her sword through the air. Blood and bone scattered in drops. “Amira ran away, once Rushan beckoned the plague to come. They're cowering back in their stadium. Decadent fools, every last one."

She pressed a claw into his chest, right beside the jagged bone.

“Tell me the location."

Sadik leaned his head against the marble, preparing himself.

Faustine leaned toward his face, as if she meant to lick the blood and grit from his cheek. “I want to know defenses. Fortifications. How many rebels? How well are they armed?"

He didn't answer.

“Would you like to lose a finger? A kidney?" She lowered her sword to his waist, edging between the legs. “Maybe Kavaia wouldn't be so fond of you if you lost your—"

He headbutted her. There was a crunch. Faustine stumbled back, clutching her snout, almost tripping over the roots.

“Fuck you," Sadik said. “And fuck the demon you serve."

The caracal caught her balance. When her hand fell from her muzzle, it was dripping with blood. Across the length of the feasting hall, Rushan opened his eyes, gazing at Sadik through a wreath of darkness and rotting food.

Faustine began to snarl. She came for him, full of sword and fang.

Without warning, a side door slammed open. Sand belched across the hall, gusting in waves. Two figures struggled out of the storm. They were the size of mortals, and it took them some time to close the door against the wind, their faces indistinct in the gloomy light.

“Ah," Faustine said, stopping just before him. Her expression grew from angry to cruel. “Good. I was hoping you'd see this."

The two figures approached. One was wearing a set of brown robes, held loose upon their body. The other slipped off their robe to reveal a bare chest and pleated skirt. Slowly, their faces entered the light.

The first figure was Yasmin. The second was a clone of Sadik.

The real one blinked.

Yasmin stood in the feasting hall with her pink hands rubbing together. There was a timid smile on her face, as if she would much prefer to be back in her laboratory, but she was still glad to talk, regardless. The sleeves of her robes billowed around her arms.

Next to her, a version of Sadik stood with a straightened back. His black hair was loose and messy, and his tattoos had grown dull beneath a coating of sand and dust. With his robe removed, he wore nothing but a filthy skirt, as if he had barely escaped imprisonment.

The clone held Dusksong in his hand. With the greatsword glowing at his side, the effect was complete.

The real Sadik hung against his restraints, staring in shock.

“H-hello," Yasmin said, quietly.

“Greetings," the other Sadik said, curt and professional. “May the sun shine your path."

They looked perfectly real. If a clone of himself was not standing next to her, Sadik would have a difficult time telling Yasmin apart from a fake. The whiskers, her nervous expression, even the way she played with her hands. . . .

Faustine hadn't managed to clone other people. Instead, she had used Glimmer to disguise her own clones as others.

She had been a master of infiltration, in a previous life.

“By the way," Faustine said. “Thank you for bringing Yasmin to the pantheon. Very kind."

Sadik felt a sinking in his chest.

“I-I think I have her mannerisms," the rat said. “You know—um—the way she talks?" She gave a helpless shrug. “She's nervous. Doesn't like to be seen. When I disappear, no one will notice. H-Hopefully, I mean."

The fake Sadik cleared his throat. “Meanwhile, I will return to the hippodrome, saying I managed to escape imprisonment. I will act my usual self—stoic, controlled. The less words I have to say, the better." He hefted Dusksong back into both hands. “By the time they notice the difference, it will be too late. The pantheon will fall."

Sadik looked between the two clones, trying to find something that distinguished them. When he saw nothing, he turned his gaze to Faustine.

She gave him a victorious sneer.

His heart began to pound.

“Well," the fake Sadik said, “if that is all, we should be going. I'm sure Kivie will be very glad to see me."

“Yes, yes," Yasmin said, giving a bucktoothed grin. “It's exciting! Adventure! I'm not going to be afraid! Not anymore!"

Faustine flicked her head. Yasmin waved a cheery hand, while Sadik placed a fist above his heart. When they turned away, the real Sadik attempted to break his restraints, ignoring the bones stabbing into his flesh. He felt a desperate need to act.

Nothing worked. He remained tied.

The clones made their way across the feasting hall, skirting around the dining table. Eventually, they reached the main doors. There was a push, a gust of wind, a battering of sand, a glow of a broken sword. The door was closed. No one remained.

Sadik breathed, feeling sweat roll down his face.

“Now," Faustine said, stepping toward him. “Where were we?"

He spat in her face.

“Ah, yes. I remember."

She wiped the spittle from her snout. When she brandished her sword, there was still a wet glaze of Bonemeal. Much more to go.

Sadik bared his naked chest to her, as if inviting the pain.

But, suddenly, in the middle of a stroke, Faustine stopped. Her sword began to hesitate. Instead of closing the distance, her eyes took in the sweep of his tattoos, from the line of his cheeks down to his waist. As she looked below, he glanced above, examining the burn scars that twisted through her face.

There was a silence. Neither moved.

In the distance, Rushan stood up from his seat, letting the chair shriek across the stone. Slowly, he made his way along the dining table, examining the rotten food. Flies scattered in his presence. Eventually, there was a motion in the darkness—a glimpse of elongated bone, sharpened to a stake, followed by a wet sucking noise. Something throbbed.

“Sadik," Faustine said.

He turned his gaze to her.

She stood with her sword at her side, a gust of wind swaying the red sashes at her waist. Her tall ears swayed through the air.

“When we first met," Faustine said, “what did you think of me?"

For a moment, he did not answer. Their eyes remained locked.

He remembered a bright day in his training yard, long ago. Steel glinted in the sun. Men shouted and fought. Amongst the recruits, there was a young caracal, so weak and thin that she could not wield her spear. When he told her to leave, she had begun to cry.

“You are not her," Sadik said. “You're just a clone."

Faustine scowled. “I have her body. Her scars. Every one of her memories."

“You're still a different person."

“Every Vizier has had clones, besides your tottering hippo. They made a dynasty of themselves. Was that good enough for them?"

“Clearly not, since you ended it."

“I am her!" Faustine yelled. “I know I am! The rest doesn't matter!"

“No," Sadik replied. “I killed the real Faustine, back when she shattered my sword. I killed more than a dozen others who came in revenge. Do you remember any of them?"

She did not answer. A snarl winded through her snout.

“You're just the last in the line," Sadik said. “One more body in the grave."

Faustine gave a heavy breath, stalking forward. Her sword grew ready. “Answer the question. When you first saw me, what did you think?"

Rushan watched from the darkness. Outside, a sandstorm continued to howl.

Sadik closed his eyes, trying to focus through the pain. With the false clones on their way to the hippodrome, he knew there would be no one to rescue him. Not in time, anyway.

Filthy. Tired.

Exposed.

He loosed a sigh.

“You reminded me of myself," he said.

Faustine blinked.

“When I came to Acheron," Sadik continued, “I was a thin, starving boy, trying to escape a blight in my village. Most of my family had died along the way. I remember succumbing to thirst, thinking I would soon join them—instead, the goddess of death healed my woes, and I was chosen to become a citizen. It changed the course of my life. I would've been unremarkable, otherwise. No one to remember my name."

He met her eyes. She stared back at him, silent.

Memories stirred.

“So," Sadik said, “when I saw you, in my training yard, struggling to survive, I knew exactly who you were. I knew you had escaped from the mines. I knew you had abandoned your family to be there. And, in my mind, I thought I had the chance to repay the miracle that had been granted to me."

Their eyes continued to meet. Blood dripped from sword and bone.

“And I did." Sadik tugged his remaining arm against the restraints. “And here we are. This is what it has led to."

Faustine scoffed, shaking her head.

“Clearly," Sadik said, “you were never grateful. Perhaps I would've been better served, just looking away."

“Sadik, why do these mines exist at all?"

She waited for an answer. He gave none.

“In these mines," Faustine said, “there are souls that have never seen the sun. They slave in the fungus colonies, or scrape the dredges of the technology veins, hoping to find one last relic of the ancestors. They are so modified with Glimmer that it's impossible to live on the surface, with the sun and noise and air. It is a short, miserable life."

He still did not answer.

“Did you never look around you?" She waved her khopesh at the open hole in the floor. “There were slaves in the coliseum, fighting for a chance at freedom. There were nobles stealing workers from the streets, using them as diversions in their parties. Even the protected class—the merchants, the craftsmen, the priests—even they were struggling beneath a burden of taxes. Only the soldiers were allowed to rise above their station."

The caracal began to pace back and forth, swinging her sword.

“Oh, but, of course, what did we do? We, the soldiers?" She slashed the air in front of him, gusting wind across the open bones. He fought down a shudder. “We slaughtered the barbarians! Scattered any refugee that came for aid! They wanted our Glimmer, our precious technology, just as you did when you were a boy, and we spent decades killing them for it!"

Sadik breathed through the pain.

“You call me ungrateful," Faustine said. “I think you forgot your past. The family you left behind. I never did."

“You were my family," Sadik said.

Her ears flattened down. Behind her, Rushan drifted through the darkness, his eyes watching from afar.

“Faust, what did you think of me?"

“Don't call me that," she hissed.

Sadik rose against the marble slab, tugging at his restraints. “I took you under my care. I trained you. How many times did I save your life?"

The caracal turned away, fur bristling.

“So many days on patrol," Sadik said. “So many nights in a garden. We were never far. Always rising together."

Her claws tightened on her sword.

“Look at me, Faust."

She did not respond.

“Look at me!"

Faustine turned her head, glaring over her shoulder. Her feline pupils were as sharp as arrows.

“What did you think of me?" Sadik asked.

“What does it matter?" Faustine replied. “You made your choice."

“There was no choice."

“Yes, there was!" She jabbed the air with her khopesh, facing him again. “You chose her! The hippo! Our great and mighty Vizier! You decided to break a sacred law for a night in her chambers! Don't tell me it was meaningless—you were risking death! You chose her!"

“Chose her?" Sadik's voice grew low. “Instead of you?"

Faustine's snout began to curl.

He leaned forward, tearing the bones through his flesh. “Is that what you think it was? What we had?"

She was breathing heavily, bashing the air through her fangs.

“I never chose her over you," Sadik said. “I loved you."

“No, you didn't! All those years meant nothing! You never listened! You never returned my gestures! Compared to Hisana, I was just a friend! Something to use and throw away!"

He began to shake.

“Answer me again, Sadik! I want to know!" She leaned in close, inches away. “What was I to you?"

“You were my daughter!" Sadik screamed.

Faustine recoiled away. Behind him, the wind began to shriek and howl.

“You were just a little girl, crying for my help! You had nothing to your name! I had your entire future in the palm of my hand!" He snarled with pain and fury. “How was I supposed to see you?"

She did not answer.

“I took you in! Raised you as my own! No one else was there for you! It was only me!" He breathed against his wounds, doubling the pain. “Who helped you through your training? Who gave you special protection in the court? Who was there to comfort you, when you were lost and scared and alone?"

Faustine looked away, blinking.

“Answer me!"

Her gaze fell to the floor. Black ears flicked through the dark.

“I gave you everything a father could give!" Sadik roared. “And you threw it all away!"

His voice pounded through the chamber, crashing upon the gloom and stone and roots. Rushan watched from the edge of the dining table, barely a shadow in the dark.

Sadik breathed out, feeling the drip of blood and sweat. “You stupid child. What do you think you're doing?"

The caracal stared at a distant corner. Her tail curled around a leg.

“Look at me, Faust."

She raised her chin, breathing.

“Look what you have done to me."

Faustine turned herself to him. Sadik stood against the marble block—alone, filthy, covered in blood, his nose broken, his flesh carved with bone, his entire expression twisted into a look of smoldering fury. His gaze burrowed into hers.

“I . . ." Faustine said. “You never. . . ."

The wind seemed to die. For a moment, there was silence.

Slowly, footsteps began to echo across the chamber. Faustine flinched, stepping away. Sadik straightened his posture. Both broke their attention away from the other.

Like a wraith slithering from its tomb, Rushan emerged through the darkness.

His left arm was a wicked spike of bone, as long as a man was tall, bristled with flesh and eyes. Streaks of gold crawled beneath his fur. And, when his face became visible in the light, Sadik saw that his skin had burned almost to the bone, leaving one side of his snout permanently locked into a snarl.

The god of war looked upon him.

“Would you like to know the truth?" he asked.