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The fall would take thirty-nine seconds.

Long before he took his vows, Sadik had been walking patrol along the hard light crenellations of Acheron’s walls, watching the red rock canyons through the heat of the day. Someone had bumped his shoulder. Pointed up at the sky. Far above their heads, one of the colossal branches had appeared to rustle. As the seed fell from the heavens, growing from a pollen grain to a spinning meteor, the other guards had made bets on how long it would take to strike the earth.

Thirty-nine seconds. The seed had fallen into the dry shade of a crevasse, far away from the city. No god emerged from its shell. The mobs of foreign beggars, the sick and destitute who had risked their lives for a chance at citizenship, had picked it clean of flesh within a day, believing it would grant them the power of Glimmer. But none of the Neheamatt’s blessings could ever travel far. Not even the gods.

All the world wished to enter, but none who entered could ever leave.

Later, after Sadik had advanced through the ranks, he had been lying wounded on the battlefield, a casualty of a failed counteroffensive. The weapons of Acheron’s enemies were growing more sophisticated—crossbows, polearms, cannon fire. No longer were the Mezlat and sunspears enough to guarantee victory. Their opponents were young and ambitious, advancing rapidly, strengthened by the wealth of empires.

He had been struck. His men had died. As Sadik crawled through blood and dust, he had gazed up at the tree of life. He had seen the seeds fall from her branches. And he had counted the seconds until his life would be saved.

Thirty-nine seconds. The crash of the seeds had shattered entire regiments. Ilios and Rushan had emerged from their shells, a duo of radiant feathers and obsidian fists. The siege had been broken. The warlords of the plains had remembered to fear the gods.

Thirty-nine seconds. That was how long it took to fall from the heavens.

Sadik realized his life was flashing before his eyes.

He was trapped. Lungs cemented into place. There was bulging wood, shrieking wind. The endosperm of the seed trembled and churned, juggling their bodies through a thick, hardened jelly.

Kavaia hugged him to her chest, her grip strong and desperate.

The seed began to tilt, slowly rolling itself into a chaotic spin. Sadik could only sense the movement through the tumble of his organs. His stomach rose into his chest. His heart climbed into his throat. Blood surged through his body, like someone twirling a glass of water.

They were perfectly sealed. The darkness was small and furious.

He tried to count the seconds, tried to imagine how much further they had left to fall, but there was no reference for time, nothing to see, nothing but the wind screaming in his ears, nothing but the feeling of the world tumbling around him. He burrowed his arms through the thickened paste that swallowed his body, returning Kavaia’s hug as much as he could.

Thirty-nine seconds. Twenty? Five?

They would survive. All the gods of war, stretching down to antiquity, had trusted the seeds with their lives. Thousands of deployments across thousands of years. There was never a tale of death.

Crushing. Splattering.

They screamed through the sky.

And, suddenly, Sadik found himself remembering the days of his childhood. Famine and blight ravaging his village, his mother’s fever growing ever worse. They had sold his brother for food, they had spent days hunting every lizard and herb there was to find in the foothills, and it was still not enough. Their neighbors were fleeing. Forming a desperate caravan toward the mythical city of Acheron, where every illness could be cured, and every citizen could mold their body as they desired.

His sister had pleaded for them to brave the dunes. Across the vast hills of sand, she said, there existed a coalition of nations, a land full of grass and rivers and trees. They controlled fire at their fingertips. They built ships that traveled across the sand. The land of mages and wizards would surely give them better chances than the city of Acheron, which had denied the pleas of all but the most select few for thousands of years.

His father hadn’t listened. The Diet of Nine was too far away. They would never survive the journey. Sadik had helped carry his mother across his shoulder, all his belongings strapped to his back, and his sister had disappeared into the dunes, never to be seen again.

He had always wondered if she survived. He had always imagined how different his life would’ve been if he had followed her to the land of mages. If he had refused his citizenship and remained with his family.

If he had chosen a different path.

They struck the high cerulean barriers. Kavaia shuddered from his grip. He tried to gasp through the thickened paste inside his lungs.

They were going to land on the edge of the city. At the very least, they would not fall into the arms of the sieging warlords.

Seconds remained.

Three. Two—

Impact. The punch of a planet. Everything reeled. The initial slam knocked him through the endosperm, his body convulsing like a bag of meat, but they were bouncing now, still screaming with motion, striking again, leaping and rolling, the vibrations of destroyed buildings nothing more than a shudder, spinning madly, spinning chaos, his organs squeezed as flat as cloth.

Deafened screams.

Heaving earth.

Nothing but darkness.

Another slam. The groaning crumble of walls. They passed through several humps of resistance, lurching head over heels. Slower and slower and slower.

They stopped rolling. It took Sadik nearly half a minute to respond. His body screamed in recovery, the feeling of pressure and motion still roiling through his flesh. Kavaia’s tail whipped into his leg. It was the only sign she was still alive.

There was a crack. Blinding red light. The seed opened like a pair of eyelids. Around them, the endosperm began to leak through the splintered bark, transforming from paste to liquid. He found his shoulder falling against solid ground. The jelly evaporated from his lungs.

He crawled towards the light, his fingers clawing through the flesh of the seed. Once his head was free, he vomited a thin stream of bile. Gasped down air for the first time in minutes.

Blood rained down upon his face. For a moment, Sadik closed his eyes, focusing on every drop. It was thicker than water. Reeking of iron. In his mind’s eye, he remembered how the streams of blood would flow through the gutters—amorphous, somewhere between sludge and liquid, staining everything in its path.

He was home. Or what remained of it.

They had come to rest inside an improvised storm drain. It was barely more than a ditch, the pool of blood already collected higher than his knees. Above the slope of dirt, there were rows of stone buildings, most of them carved from basalt and slate. He saw meat hanging under an awning. Fabric rolls, braided carpets. A shopping district.

People were already beginning to gather. Two headed jackals pointing and whispering, a five-eyed falcon puffing up his feathers in shock. Some crawled along the walls with the suction pads of a gecko. It wasn’t every day that a holy seed destroyed several buildings.

Sadik had no idea where in the city they had fallen, but he knew where he needed to go.

The sewers. He had to return to the Sons of Sorrow.

The Mezlat would arrive soon, if the civilians hadn’t already called for them. Guards of the palace, armed with sunspears. Perhaps the Vizier’s personal Exalted, as well.

There was no time to waste.

He stumbled from the mouth of the seed. Blood seeped past his elbows as he fell to the floor. Slowly, he rose from the frothing pool of runoff, every inch of his body now dripping a scarlet red. He had not missed the sensation.

“Sadik.”

Kavaia emerged from the mouth of the seed. With her green scales covered in blood and endosperm, she seemed like a hatchling crawling her way out of an egg.

“Please. I can’t. . . .”

She vomited into the pond of blood. Clutched her wounded shoulder. Her movements were sluggish, her limbs shaking as they tried to support her weight.

Glimmer withdrawal was catching up to her. It was a miracle she had found the strength to stand at all. Every citizen of Acheron who had their Glimmer removed found themselves in a state of catatonia, forced to endure the putrefaction of their bodies. If they had modified themselves to any serious extent, it was unlikely they would survive the experience.

Ordinarily, the wounds in her shoulder would be a trifling injury, especially to someone with the powers of healing. Now, they would require swift medical attention. She was already beginning to succumb.

“Give me. . . .” She waved a feeble arm. “Let me lean on you. For a moment. If I just . . . a moment. . . .”

He did not have a moment. He needed to run. The local garrison would already be closing in.

She would only slow him down.

He had a duty to his men. A commitment to his people. He had spent a life embroiled in war and politics, and every hard-earned lesson was telling him to leave her behind. A fallen god would give him nothing but trouble.

Of course, if he abandoned her, she would be ridiculed and shunned. Left at the mercy of the crowd. With the revolution, the famine, martial law, a perpetual rain of blood—the mortals would not take kindly to her presence. He did not think she would have to live with her mistakes for long.

She met his gaze. Her eyes were the color of saffron stems. Piercing yellow. They were stained with blood and tears.

“Please.”

Sadik took a short, hard breath. “Of course, goddess.”

He trudged through the blood. Her hand swallowed his shoulder. Because she was nearly twice his height, any support he could offer was small and awkward. Every step threatened to buckle his leg.

They made their way out of the storm drain. The crowd of onlookers had grown larger, the whispers and gasps bubbling above the rain. Many eyes grew wide.

“The Jade Demon!”

“She’s here!”

Some began to flee from the crocodile. Others merely stepped back, watching with something like horror as Sadik helped her stumble through an alley. More than a few had dropped to their knees, absorbed in fervent prayer.

They emerged into a market. One of the few untouched districts left in the city. Instead of plague, or the rubble left by the Demokrats, there were streets lined with flagstones, painted awnings, curving bridges, buildings of polished brick. Destrier carriages and jeweled palanquins studded the base of a temple, the pyramid steps adorned with onyx and turquoise. Many of the citizens had modified their bodies against the unceasing rain of blood, from vibrant plumages of feathers and oiled manes of hair, all the way to slug-like shells of mucus and tilted crowns made of webbing and bone. Sadik would’ve settled for an umbrella.

Everyone had stopped. An entire street frozen in place. Dozens of people, rich with Glimmer, watched them through the gloomy red light.

Minutes ago, life had been normal here. As normal as it could be.

Sadik spared one last glance behind them, looking above the buildings that the seed had smashed on the way down. There were no yellow sparks in the sky. No sign of a Mezlat swarm. It would not remain that way for long.

More than anything, he hoped Faustine would not find them in time.

With no ceremony, he led Kavaia down the street, moving as fast as the crocodile could bear. It was not nearly quick enough. She vomited several more times, loosing streams of bile across the bloodied stone, and every lumbering step seemed to force more weight onto his shoulder. Her groans of pain eclipsed the murmur of the crowds.

A formerly divine crocodile, ten feet tall and utterly naked, stumbling against an equally naked human, his body and sword glowing with light. Somehow, Sadik doubted they would escape any notice.

Lightning pierced the sky. A slash of blue against the thick hail of red. In the brief light, far above the other buildings, he saw a towering oval structure, one that appeared lined with hundreds of causeways and arches.

Kolossós. The largest stadium in the city, dwarfing everything but the mountains. Inside its hallowed grounds, there was an infamous tournament known as the Paths of Ascension. Entering the tournament would find oneself pitted against endless trials of beasts, modified warriors, and divine champions. The prize, for anyone fearsome and daring enough to claim it, was apotheosis. Godhood. Immortality.

Throughout history, the blood of thousands had stained its sand. Foreigners from all over the continent would journey to Acheron in hopes of participating. Very few had ever managed to ascend to the pantheon, but a sizable portion of the city would still attend every tournament, wishing to witness the crowning of any mortal who could claim divinity by right of sword. If nothing else, it made good entertainment.

Kolossós was the only building in the city that could rival the palace of Kohav Yaran for size. And it was just the landmark that Sadik needed to see.

He knew exactly where he was now. If his view of the stadium was shadowed by the eastward mountains, and the tall cerulean barriers were to his west, they must’ve fallen into Khali-Kosar, a teeming collection of bazaars and temples, named after a white tiger warlord who had managed to pierce Acheron’s barriers centuries before. Close ahead, there would be the district of Nedivar, a sweltering sprawl of bronze workshops and technology mines. Inside Nedivar, they would find one of the safehouses used by the Sons of Sorrow.

Safety was close at hand. If they were swift, if they could reach the safehouse without being pursued, they might just survive.

The lightning faded. A gloomy red returned.

Beneath the thick patter of rain, the sound of mechanical whirs filled the air.

Immediately, Sadik pushed Kavaia towards the shelter of an overhead bridge. They ran over the sodden flagstones, the crocodile tripping over a signpost and smashing it to splinters. Down the street, other civilians began to hide in turn, sheltering inside alcoves or taking flight with modified wings. More than one blended into a brick wall with camouflaged skin.

They knew what was coming. The Demokrats had taught them well.

Mezlat crested overhead. A dozen drones swarming in a tight patrol, their bellies glowing yellow with the pulsing tip of a sunspear. Each held the shape of a disc, their bodies smooth and featureless save for an exhaust port and a single metal eye. Kavaia squeezed herself into a tight recess between building and bridge. Sadik watched from behind the cover of a foundational pier, tracking the cluster of flying machines as they drifted above the street.

The Mezlat maintained a tight formation, buzzing down the now-barren road without bothering to search any of the alleys or markets. Sadik felt a small relief. For now, they were only investigating the Neheamatt’s seed. It would take some time before a search was organized. Assuming, of course, that the witnesses would cooperate at all. Many were sympathetic to the Sons.

Still, the two of them would have to stick to the alleys from now on. As much overhead cover as possible.

Kavaia leaned her cheek against the recessed wall, breathing heavily. The raining blood had mixed with the blood of her wounds. It was impossible to tell which was hers.

“Goddess,” Sadik said, tugging her hand. It felt like trying to pull a tree by its branch. “We must hurry.”

“Kavaia,” she panted. “My name.”

“I had not forgotten.”

“Use it, then, if you please.”

“Oh, but it pleases me to serve, goddess.”

“Are you mocking me with that term?”

“I suppose my tongue has grown used to the word. Among other things of yours.”

She loosed a ragged breath. “Do other mortals find you humorous?”

“No,” Sadik said, taking another glance. The sky was clear. He squeezed her hand as he tugged. “Come. We’re almost to safety.”

“Safety?”

“The Sons have a forward base in the sewers. Close to the smelters. We will need to travel through buildings to avoid Mezlat patrols.” He used Dusksong to gesture toward the path. “I’ll cut through any doorways to fit your size, if necessary.”

In the deep shade of the bridge, her eyes seemed to glow.

“I must warn you,” Sadik said. “An assassin stalks my shadow. A former. . . .” He searched for an appropriate word. “A former protégé of mine. She is fervent. Relentless. I killed her yesterday, but—”

“Sadik,” Kavaia said. “Leave me here.”

He blinked at her. Thick curtains of blood streamed from the bridge, splattering against the flagstones.

“I am slowing you down.” She clutched her shoulder. “You’ve already suffered for my failings. I don’t—”

“Kavaia,” Sadik said, as if instructing one of his men. “We are wasting time.”

The crocodile leaned out from the recess. Even while contorted into hiding, she managed to rise above him. “Rushan will search for me. If I come with you, he will tear apart your rebellion in vengeance.”

“Let him,” Sadik replied. “I’ve quite enjoyed collecting enemies. Maybe I’ll climb the ramparts and piss on the barbarians.”

“I don’t appreciate your jests.”

“And we don’t have time to argue. I swore myself to your service. That is the end of the matter.”

Her eyes were silent and pleading.

“You will die if I leave you here.”

“Sadik.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t deserve this. I am an exile.”

“So am I, as it happens. We should form a circus.”

“I am a fallen god! Do you understand what that means? I have been stricken from grace! Denied any quarter! Cursed to know nothing but scorn until my flesh withers and rots!”

Her expression broke into sobs.

“I ruined everything. The last chance to stop Rushan. Xaeyr trusted me, and I broke that trust for a selfish mistake. A foolish cry for help.”

“Kavaia, you should not—”

“Kill me,” she said, closing her eyes. “Please.”

Beyond the bridge, a second swarm of Mezlat drifted above the bricks and chimneys. They were searching now. Combing the streets.

“Do it. Please. Before it’s too late.”

“Kavaia,” Sadik said, choosing his words carefully. “You must listen—”

“I would rather it be you. Otherwise, it will be a mob. All the families I’ve broken. They would drag me through the streets.”

“Goddess—”

“If not them, it will be Rushan. He will find me, and he will make me his toy. A testament to his greatness. I would rather gnaw through my wrists than experience such a fate.”

Sadik glanced out from beneath the pier, tracking the sound of footsteps.

“Please,” Kavaia said. “If you are sworn to my service, then grant me this last request. I have no immortality. No protections. You could slaughter me like a pig, and the people would rejoice. It would be a favor to the world.”

He didn’t answer. Blood seeped through a gutter. The stone was cold and silent.

“Please.”

She began to weep. Beneath the cover of a bridge, deep in the heart of a shattered city, the former goddess of death lost herself to grief. She cried without restraint, with all the force of centuries, the low keening in her throat speaking of loss, shame, regret, every wound she had endured, and the knowledge that it no longer mattered if anyone saw her break. The rain continued to fall, the streets remained empty, and the indifference of the world only made her cry all the harder.

Sadik leaned Dusksong against a wall and placed himself in front of her. When she did not notice his presence, he reached out and gently touched her arms. She flinched, freeing her face from her hands. Slowly, Sadik placed his own hands on either side of her snout, wrapping his fingers around the hard ridges. Her scales were cold, stained with blood and tears. They were not used to the touch of another.

He gazed into her eyes. She blinked and shivered.

“Are you going to keep being selfish?” Sadik asked.

She stiffened beneath his touch.

“Everything is what you want, isn’t it? You saved my life because you wanted to be noble. You brought me to the pantheon because you wanted a friend. Even now, you just want to die like a coward.”

She tried to look away. He guided her face back to his own.

“What if I don’t want you to die, Kavaia? Has that crossed your mind? What if Xaeyr is hoping for your rescue? What if Rushan achieves his dream of autocracy? What if the entire city of Acheron crumbles to sand because you refused to fix your mistakes?”

Lightning flashed through the sky, tinted an angry red.

“Bear your guilt,” Sadik said. “Live with your failings. You are not the only person in the world. Until you learn that, death is a mercy you do not deserve.”

She closed her eyes. Shuddered beneath his grip. With a gentle pressure, he rubbed the ridges on her snout until she looked at him again. He softened his voice.

“I don’t want you to die, Kavaia. You still have that.”

Her head tilted. Warm skin against cold scales.

“When we met, you asked me to place my trust in you. Now is the time for you to place your trust in me.”

She tried to speak. Nothing came.

“I will protect you. I will help you get through this. You need only ask.”

Her breath was shallow and weak. Her eyes were very wide.

“I understand. And I am here.”

For a moment, she seemed unable to move. Slowly, shaking all the way, she reached up towards his arms, her fingers wrapping around the naked skin. When he rubbed the edges of her jaw, she gave him a faint squeeze in return. They never took their eyes away from each other.

With a soft whimper, she began to nod.

“Stop right there!”

Two guards approached from the street. Beneath the light of an oil lantern, the scales of their armor were as bloody as a gutted fish, their sunspears already lowered and burning. Sadik cursed beneath his breath.

“Inspection! Now!”

Kavaia was the first to move. She broke his grasp and crawled from the tight confines of the bridge foundation. As she slowly rose back to her full height, the guards shifted backwards, nervously glancing between each other. Sadik grabbed his sword and placed himself at the crocodile’s side, watching the two men with practiced eyes.

They were young. Neither older than sixty. One human, the other a lion. Normal amount of limbs and eyes. Only the minimum level of modifications were present—denser muscles, iron-weaved skin, reflective membranes in the eyes. Both wore bronze kepreshes with missing scales on the chest and stomach, supplemented with vambraces, padded skirts, and worn leather sandals. It was surplus gear. Poorly maintained.

Sadik guessed they were conscripts. Perhaps a pair of fungus farmers, forced up from the warrens below the city when the Demokrats took power. They had been poorly trained, poorly altered with Glimmer, thrust into the role of civil guard because all the other men had been imprisoned or stricken with plague. Even now, their grips on their weapons were shaky, struggling to control the bulging sunbeam. They might’ve only fired their spears a handful of times, if at all.

Sadik would do his best not to kill them.

“H-hold!” The human guard held out a feeble hand to Kavaia, craning his neck to meet her gaze. “Goddess, stop right there!”

Kavaia wiped her face with a hand. The point of the sunspear glowed in her eyes.

“Drop your weapon!” the lion shouted to Sadik, his mane matted with blood.

Sadik twirled Dusksong in his palm, making sure the flat of the blade was facing out. Yellow runes smoldered along the steel. “Do you know who I am?”

“Drop it!” the lion yelled, taking a step forward.

Sadik stepped forward in kind, closing the distance. A few more paces and he could chance a strike.

The lion’s eyes reflected the light. He looked to his partner for support, but the human was staring slack jawed at Kavaia, lowering his sunspear until it singed the bloody flagstones.

“T-the Jade Demon! I—” His gaze tumbled down her naked body. “Goddess, I mean—we didn’t—”

“Are you Demokrats?” Sadik asked, risking another step.

Both guards leveled their spears at his chest. The sunbeams pulsed and whirled.

“Is your duty worth your lives?”

“It’s him,” the lion whispered. Without turning away, he elbowed his human partner. “Fire a signal. It’s him.”

“Why are you working for them?” Sadik looked both men in the eyes. “Do you believe in their cause? Have you not lost your families?”

Behind him, Kavaia took a step forward, trailing a shadow across his shoulders. She focused on the human.

“Stop!” The lion struck his partner again. “Fire the signal!”

“They’ve killed this city,” Sadik said, judging the distance. The lion was more composed. He would be first. “Burned the granaries. Sundered the fleets.”

With one hand on his spear, the human guard mimed the prayer of the compact, taking a step back. “Goddess. Don’t give me the plague.”

Kavaia did not answer. Lightning slashed the sky.

The human fell to his knees. “There are refugees here. Entire garrisons. We can’t lose another district. Please, bring the plague elsewhere. I’ll do anything!”

“Get up!” the lion hissed.

“Please, goddess! Have mercy!”

“Walk away,” Sadik said, taking a final step. “If you leave, I promise you no harm. If your families are starving, the Sons of Sorrow can offer—”

The lion leaped back, aiming his spear towards the sky. A single blast would alert every Mezlat in the district.

Sadik dashed, burning his tattoos in a blinding glare. The lion flinched, and Dusksong cut his throat clear to the spine. In a panic, the human swung his spear in a wide arc, the sunbeam lancing through light posts and buildings. Kavaia kicked him with the strength of a falling tree. He crumpled across the flagstones, his bronze armor cratering into his chest.

The lion sunk to his knees, clutching at the gaping hole in his neck. Only a few slivers of flesh still connected his head to his shoulders.

“Forgive me,” Sadik said.

His mouth gaped open. Blood leaped from his muzzle.

But something odd began to happen. He did not die. The lion remained on his knees, choking like a fish out of water. In seconds, much of the blood in his body had joined with the fallen rain, far more than any person could lose and still remain conscious. Through it all, he continued to stay upright, gasping and begging.

On the street, his human partner gave several rattling breaths. Kavaia’s blow must’ve punctured his lungs. His eyes were wide, as white as the moon.

Sadik stepped forward. With the skill of an executioner, he severed the lion’s head in a single stroke. It bounced against the flagstones. To the side, Kavaia stomped down on the human’s face, reducing his skull into bone and paste.

For a moment, the only sound was the heavy patter of blood falling upon stone.

Suddenly, the lion’s body began to spasm, clawing its limbs like a dying insect. The lion’s head, lying two cubits away, spun his eyes inside their sockets, the mouth gaping back and forth in an attempt to speak. Kavaia leaped away as the human’s body managed to flail back to its feet, stumbling down the flagstones with viscera raining from its headless shoulders. On the ground, bones and teeth began to wriggle. A tendon crawled like a slug.

Sadik watched the pieces of men flail around him, struck motionless with horror.

Behind them, the corner of a building crashed into the street, severed by the wild arc of a sunbeam. Above, the gloomy sky grew bright with stars. Mezlat descending from the clouds. Diving straight for their position.

Kavaia pulled him away. He felt drenched in blood.

Instead of the bridge, they ran for a high-walled alley. It was barely more than a crack in the wall, slithering through the markets of Khali-Kosar. It would be the difference between life and death.

Flagstones reflected a swarming light. Someone screamed. Windows were shuttered, gates were slammed. Sadik was painfully aware of his own deepening shadow, his naked skin screaming with exposure. He threw himself into the alley just as a mechanical onslaught passed overhead.

The Mezlat converged on the street, a dozen flat discs coalescing from all directions. The air grew hazy with exhaust fumes and racing trails of energy. With machine precision, they painted the two guards in a yellow light, watching them suffer with as much sympathy as a colony of buzzards. The flying machines were tools of war, designed to overwhelm an enemy position by sheer strength of numbers. A destrier would contain more capacity for thought.

They began to scan the surrounding buildings. Sadik pulled his head back. A grid-like pattern of light etched itself across the wall in front of him. Slowly, the sound of mechanical whirs began to spread along the streets and alleys.

“What was that?” Sadik whispered.

Kavaia scraped her foot against a brick, leaving a crust of viscera. “There is no god of death.”

“Another curse? Was the blood not enough?”

“Don’t we deserve it?”

Sadik risked another look. The headless men had been abandoned by the Mezlat. They were still writhing on the street, flailing in shock and confusion. Neither of them could scream any longer.

A curse of immortality. For those already dying, there could not be a crueler fate.

“Follow my lead,” Sadik said. “Stay low.”

There was no response. When he looked back, Kavaia was prodding a finger against the wounds in her shoulder, testing the extent of the injury. She seemed surprised.

“What is it?” Sadik asked.

“I’m . . . not sure.”

The smell of exhaust grew near. Half a dozen sunbeams thrumming above.

“Go!” Sadik hissed.

They slinked down the alley. Lights danced above. Due to the narrow space, Kavaia moved behind him, her impressive height forcing her to weave through clotheslines and balconies. Sadik cut through an adjacent alley, took two more turns at random, waited for the spotlight of a Mezlat to pass them by, and then dashed across an open street. Lightning peeled through the clouds.

He knew how the Mezlat would search. The machines were relentless. By now, they would have formed hunter-killer squads, diving down into the narrow alleys in order to search every nook and cranny. If his identity had been reported to Kohav Yaran, there might’ve already been an Exalted hunting their trail. The sentient clouds of Glimmer were only deployed in extraordinary circumstances. Capturing the leader of the Sons of Sorrow would certainly qualify.

Sadik stuck to the shadows, moving with a relentless pace. The alleys of Khali-Kosar were long and circuitous, frequently spilling into streets, gardens and courtyards. They passed by open bazaars, barricaded homes, rudimentary shrines covered in candles and animal sacrifice. More than once, he came across a group of citizens who were hiding in back alleys, unable to find shelter from the Mezlat in time. He could do little but ignore their cries of fear.

Above, mechanical sounds flittered across the rooftops. Yellow lights flared along the walls, the shadows rushing like spears. Sadik raced through every alley that he could find. The brick walls blended together, every archway and blood-rusted gate seemed the same as before, and every turn into a shadowy corridor threatened to be his last. The only thing that gave him reassurance was Kavaia’s heavy footfalls keeping pace with his own. She was performing remarkably well, considering her wounds and withdrawal.

Slowly, across a jungle of brick and blood, they lost their pursuers. Mechanicals whirs faded into distance. There was nothing but the sound of rain and panting breaths.

The Mezlat had not spotted them. For now, they would form a loose perimeter around the more populated sections of the district, slowly expanding the radius as they went. Many of the garrisons this side of the river would be called to aid in the search, but it would take them some time to muster.

They ran ahead. Kolossós loomed above the markets and hovels, serving as a blood-soaked beacon. The eastward mountains sawed through the clouds above. Far in the distance, the high cerulean barriers of Acheron continued to thrum with arrows and boulders.

And, suddenly, as if the Neheamatt had answered his prayers once more, the district of Khali-Kosar came to an end. They found themselves standing in front of a small canal, where a thick stream of water, blood and sewage fed itself into the Syran river. On the other side, the district of Nedivar appeared through the gloomy rain. There were bronze workshops, stonecutter guilds, endless scaffolding and pulleys surrounding the technology mines. Few of the smelters remained operational. Too many had died.

“Stars above,” Kavaia panted. “There is too much city in this city.”

She attempted to move towards a bridge that would take them over the canal. Sadik ran ahead, holding out a hand. Despite the exertion, a chill ran through his spine.

On the other side of the bridge, Faustine was waiting for them.

Behind her, at the very start of Nedivar, a large stone face wept tears of molten bronze. It was a statue, commissioned by Hisana nearly a decade prior, depicting the face of an unmodified human with a spherical glass helmet. According to Hisana, the tears of molten bronze had been a testament to Acheron’s industry, and a quiet indictment of the city’s decadence. The ancestors had walked the stars—their descendants survived on primitive metallurgy. Even now, millennia after they had vanished, society could not hope to replicate the bounties they had once enjoyed. Even the technology mines were growing exhausted.

Faustine had chosen the spot for a reason. It was Hisana’s commission. One of the few touches she had left on the world.

The assassin was taunting him.

She was taller than before. More heavily modified. Beneath the gloom of the clouds, highlighted against the tears of molten bronze, her profile appeared subtly misshapen. There was targeted muscle growth. Metal shunted bones. Her caramel brown fur interwoven with enough steel to forge a breastplate.

Denser. Faster. Stronger.

Sadik had been naked for hours. It was only now, staring at the caracal, that he felt truly exposed.

“Exile!” Faustine shouted.

Kavaia flinched, as if struck by an arrow.

“You may pass. Alone.”

With the speed of a cobra, Faustine drew a khopesh from its sheath, pointing the curved sword further into Nedivar. There were no guards in wait. No Mezlat in the sky. Only the empty shells of industry.

“Run along,” Faustine said, draping a sultry hand along her throwing knives. “It’s time for the mortals to play.”

Sadik brought Dusksong to bare, keeping the blade steady and bright.

Faustine snorted, rubbing the burns on her face. No matter how she changed after death, the caracal always kept the scars. The tattoos of the Luminous Path could still be traced. Instead of removing them with Glimmer, she had elected to burn the markings off her skin. Sadik wasn’t sure if it was another taunt against him, or a way to bolster her convictions.

Kavaia moved to Sadik’s side. “Who are you?”

“Oh,” Faustine said, flicking an ear. “Soldier. Visionary. Savior of the people. Take your pick.”

“Betrayer,” Sadik said. “Assassin.”

“At least I wasn’t a coward.”

Sadik nearly stormed across the bridge. Only a hand from Kavaia kept him at bay.

“My, my.” Faustine’s grin was full of fangs and metal. “Already moving your affections on to godhood, are we? Was the Vizier not enough? Seems you’ll have mated with our great tree, by year’s end.”

“Quite dramatic,” Kavaia said. Her eyes were judging the distances. Planning. “A blade in the dark might’ve been wiser.”

“I make certain exceptions.” She twirled her khopeshes, the swords glinting with the light of molten bronze. “True reformation will only come from the ashes, not the stars. All those who had served under tyranny must be killed. An example must be set.”

“The Demokrats have set enough examples,” Sadik said. “And I have heard enough lectures.”

“Have you? Or were you just pretending to listen?”

“I have been forced to learn. Have no doubt of that.”

They watched each other from across the length of the bridge. It was made of stone. No longer than twenty paces. Their swords grew thirsty.

“Exile,” Faustine said. “I have orders to spare your life. You are free to pass. The agent of oppression is not.” Her tail sliced along the stone, glinting like a knife. “Don’t worry. Once I kill him, we’ll become better acquainted.”

“No,” Kavaia said. “We won’t. I think you are the one who should leave, if you wish to run your tongue any longer.”

“Oh, my. Was that a threat? From a fallen god?”

“Consider it a promise.”

The caracal grinned. “You can crush men with a single blow. Stomp us like ants.” She widened her stance, ears folding back. “Not every day I get to cripple a god. I’ll try not to enjoy the heresy.”

“Goddess,” Sadik said. “You should go.”

She cracked her knuckles, scales and chines glistening with blood.

“This is not your fight.” He gestured to another crossing further down the canal. “I will distract her. If you can find the safehouse—”

“Sadik.”

“Yes, goddess?”

“Trust me.”

He glanced up at her. She had adopted a brawler’s stance, focusing her slit eyes upon the assassin. The fear and desperation were gone.

“As you command,” Sadik said, bracing his sword to fire.

Faustine stepped forward. With a gentle shuddering of flesh, two more arms slithered from her back, unsheathing a pair of khopeshes as they went. Four blades in four arms. Each of the claws as sharp as knives.

Behind her, the stone face of the ancestors continued to weep.

They charged across the bridge.