It was like the fields all over again. Nothing had changed. The Shrine was still there. The towering arch of stone, the sword hanging by the pommel from a pair of chains. Ruined pillars and stone constructs surrounded it like bones jutting from a corpse; archways, walls, stairways.


    The words engraved atop the stone arch where the sword hung were a little faded, moss and lichen growing over the letters.


    Daz Wort eines Gilazenen Got.


    “It’s been hanging like that for ten years,” Schal said.


    Verac lifted his torch, watching the spark of light crawl higher on the blade’s curved edge. It’d been longer than ten since he’d used it. Now it just hung there, blade pointing toward the earth, swaying as a breeze whistled by.


    Verac stepped closer, until the blade was hanging above his right eye. Poised. The tip glittering as if a tear were about to fall from it. As if it remembered him, too.


    Even when you’re dead, Claye, he thought, They called it your word and shackled it.


    Claye had never wielded a sword. He preferred the axe. Verac had left Phaos behind as a way of saying goodbye. Not just to Claye, but the way of life his master had taught him. To go live a new life in Eden with Saxa.


    “The word of a fallen god,” Schal read from behind.


    Verac placed a hand against the stone column, his palm contouring the spiral design of the stone. “Yeah.”


    Verac drew back his right arm, and rammed his fist into the column. The stone shattered with a thunderous crack, dust and stone shards spraying. The sword shook, its chains rattling. He strode over to the right column, flexing his hand. He swung it like an axe, smashing through the stone like a hammer through ice.


    The stone arch fell, the sword seeming to float before the chains pulled taut and it all crashed together in a cloud of dust. Verac walked up to the blade, the top of the arch cracked in half. Right through the word fallen.


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    He grabbed it by the hilt, yanking it free from the chains with the clink and snap of metal.


    He lifted the blade to the sky, the metal glowing in the orange torchlight. The only blade in Candor made of pure Resplendence. The wind howled, flickering his torch. The intertwined crossguard of gold and black-iron glimmered brighter than he remembered. The gold was almost white, the black-iron polished to an obsidian shine.


    “Gods fall, do they, Nightfinder?” Schal asked.


    “We never claimed to be gods.”


    Schal snorted. “That’s for the best. Most folk are tired of gods.”


    Verac lowered the sword, turning to him. His earrings glinted in the swaying torchlight, nose wrinkling as he took a deep breath. Nerves, perhaps. Or just the weight of knowing; the burden that came with wisdom. Watching the circle complete again only to start anew.


    “They’d rather lay them to rest,” Verac said.


    Schal nodded. “People have been praying too long, Nightfinder. They’re sick of hopes and goodwill falling on deaf ears. Now… now it looks like they want to give the devil a chance.”


    Verac swung the giant blade over his shoulders, wind sweeping his white cloak to the side like smoke. It was like a ghost in his hand. A faded memory that lingered in his muscle and bone suddenly illuminated again with full reminiscence. It weighed down on him like one of those stone pillars. Like it was threatening to crush him. He tightened his grip.


    “Maybe,” he said, voice raised above the rush of the wind. “But if the devils want in again, they’re going to find me at the door.”


    Schal tugged at his right ear. “Well. If there are any gods left that care, may they help you.”


    Things never changed. There would always be one who stood up while the others lay down. And it was always the one who’d become familiar with the weight of the world. Their own, or someone else’s. He walked over to Schal, adjusting his shoulders under the sword’s weight.


    “It’s not safe for me to stay with you, Schal,” he said, pausing beside him. “You’ve seen that I’m not exactly… in control of myself.”


    Schal nodded, lowering his torch as another gust of wind swept by. “You’re going to Whicalorse?”


    “Perhaps,” Verac said, eyeing him sideways. “There’s something I need you to do.”


    Schal returned the look, the gold ring in his ear swaying, glinting in the torchlight. “If it’ll help the Nightfinder.”


    Verac nodded. “How many Innan do you know in Whetalon?”