《Nightfinder》 Prologue I¡¯ve only ever felt safe in the dark. Deep in the shadows. Hidden from what can see me, and blinded from what I could see had I light to reveal it all. I still remember the grains of sand bunching beneath my hands and feet. It was cold. I can still hear the final gasps of my mother coming from somewhere beside me. She sounded scared. She sounded in pain. They all did. It¡¯s strange. I should¡¯ve been dead. I should¡¯ve been at the bottom of the canyon they threw us in. Sinking to the bottom of the lake that had been there moments before I hit the surface, and the darkness erupted. I¡¯m sure I wasn¡¯t seeing things. There was definitely a body of water at the bottom of the canyon as I fell. I remember it. Ah, there¡¯s something else I remember. The Firecalorians who threw us in said we¡¯d break our necks or drown. There was definitely a body of water. The scent of mud still lingered in the air as well. Cold and murky as the water should¡¯ve been. So why do I remember sand between my toes and in the palms of my childish hands? Fine and dry, but cold. Riddled with stones, large and small, but easy to rest on in the dark. My father landed somewhere ahead of me. The image of him being skewered through the chest when he tried stopping them is still burned into my mind. She came down a few minutes after we¡¯d been thrown. All the women did. I try not to think of what they did to them up there, before they were thrown down the canyon after us. I remember sitting up against a rock I felt out in the darkness. I remember sitting in the black for hours that unravelled into days. I remember being grateful for the fact that I couldn¡¯t see them. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. I could hear them, though. Those who fell atop other bodies, or who landed feet first. Those who survived the initial fall, and had to wait to die. I remember their screams. Their cries. Their pleas for help. No one came for them. I suppose I was lucky. I didn¡¯t have to remember their faces, at least. I could just sit in the dark, waiting as their sounds slowly grew quieter. Gentler. And I could finally breathe when they fell silent for the final time. I don¡¯t remember being captured by the Firecalorians. I don¡¯t know if I have any family or friends who escaped them. If I do, I hope I never meet them. I remember the first glimmer of light in the canyon, as I sat there in the silent blackness. Comforted by the dark. Sensing things watching me but never knowing if they were real. How the light brought an end to my comfort. It poured in from around a jagged outcrop of the canyon wall, little blades of light that stabbed my eyes. They made me turn away. Scared of the mere sight of everyone who cared for me laying dead around my feet. I remember my arms wrapping around my body, my legs shivering as they tucked against my chest, sand scraping against my skin. I remember seeing their bodies surrounding me. I remember screaming. The man who carried the Animus lamp found me first. He helped me stand, and he covered my eyes as he led me out of the canyon. I don¡¯t know how long we walked for. All I remember is my legs burning, the feel of his rough, warm palm pressed over my eyes, and sand scraping my feet until they were numb. He brought me here, to the Dae¡¯s Tower. Inside the Shadefall. Where everything is dark. He¡¯s taught me much since that day. He¡¯s shown me what I am capable of. He¡¯s helped me understand the dark. And above all, he¡¯s helped me understand things I always knew to be true but could never say. Man cannot live without darkness. They go insane without lies. And they will destroy anyone who tries to free them. And yet, there are still those who try to free them. There are those who wish to see the light. And atop them all stands one man who has stopped my Shadefall. I cannot let that happen again. I will not allow him to stop me from saving this place. My name is Mach. And my mission is to kill the Nightfinder. 1: At The Lords Citadel Year 1257, Month 4, Day 16. The Lordkeep slammed his sceptre against the base of his throne, the clang echoing through the hall and fading with silence in its wake. Chambers cleared his throat. The throne stood atop twelve stairs arranged in a half-moon that was divided into four quarters: stone, black-iron, glass, and wood snarled with roots. The figure atop lifted his head. A pair of eyes resembling giant blood clots glared down at him from within a white hood. They began to swirl gently, as if the clots would start dripping. Something started taking shape. A figure, or some kind of- Chambers glanced down. There were stories about the Lordkeep. Stories of men who stared into those eyes, or whatever they were, and found their worst fears come to life within them. Then came the nightmares for months after. Then came the fulfillment of what they saw. ¡°Speak, Chambers of Firecalorse,¡± the Lordkeep said, his voice rattling the glass wall on Chambers¡¯ right. Chambers interlocked his fingers, orange sleeves swallowing them. ¡°Lordkeep,¡± Chambers began, the words running back down his throat. ¡°I have reason to believe¡­ that the Shadefall is spreading.¡± The Lordkeep¡¯s giant hand tightened below the gold skull atop his dark sceptre. It was unlike the skull of any creature Chambers¡¯ had seen. It resembled a human, in part. A human with slanted eye sockets and three horns protruding from its forehead. And within its golden jaws was a giant eyeball. Its slit pupil glowed like a dying ember as it gazed at Chambers. There was no use denying it. Fear was a weakness, but no amount of courage was going to stop the chill that ran down his scarred back. What in the ten muses is that thing? Chambers thought. ¡°Have you brought evidence for this claim?¡± a voice rumbled from beside him. Chambers turned to the right, meeting the pin-pricked gaze of Petrus. The Sentinel of Stone. His throne stood six stairs high, carved out of stone grey as rain clouds. The glass wall behind cast him in shadow. Petrus¡¯ hood tightened against his high cheekbones as he lifted his chin. Wisps of white hair streaked to his chest, framing a mouth split by scars. His thin lips peeled back in a snarl, flashing teeth sharp as a Khobalian¡¯s. Chambers swallowed hard. He¡¯d heard much about the Lordkeep and his Four Sentinels. But standing in their circle, swallowed by their looming shadows, reminded him of how cheap stories are. Just gazing at the Lordkeep reminded him of how small he was. How little he knew. In a world so vast with monsters this gargantuan, a lone merchant surely couldn¡¯t make a difference. ¡°Of course, Sentinel,¡± Chambers said, reaching into his orange cloak with a trembling hand. He hadn¡¯t come all the way from Blacalorse just to be dismissed. Or slaughtered. Another chill ran down his spine like a thin claw. He produced a small tree branch, the tip blackened as if burnt by fire, the bark peeling like rotten skin. Chambers tapped the branch, loosening grains of what seemed like ash¡­ until they curled into the air. ¡°That¡¯s Shadefall blight,¡± another voice said from behind. Chambers glanced over his shoulder. The Sentinel of Wood stared with narrowed eyes, a finger over his lip. His throne was carved out of a Devil Tree stump, leaves still growing out of the backrest in bunches of green and pale red. His torso was human, freckles dotting his cheeks. But his legs were like intertwining roots that resembled human limbs. He wore wooden gauntlets and vambraces, green leaves sprouting from them. A pair of living branches draped over his shoulders and covered his chest, leaves sprouting from them like splayed fingers. Five leaves, Chambers thought. The Lordkeep leaned back in his giant throne. ¡°Take it to the alchemists.¡± Chambers leaned back as Thorley held out his hand, a dark green vine entwining it like a snake. It sprang forward, curling around the stick Chambers held and slithered back. Thorley caught the branch, and held it up to the light. He leaned forward, the side of his nose scrunching up as he examined it. A hollow growl rumbled on Chambers¡¯ left. He turned to the Sentinel of Iron, the six stairs leading to his throne made of black-iron. The throne itself was forged from slabs of the dark metal, the backrest topped with glinting black spines. He sat with his elbows on the arm rests. His gilded shins and sabatons glistened in the light streaming through the glass wall across from him. The wall behind him, however, was made of stone etched to appear like the surface of a shifting grey ocean. Giant runes were etched into it. Glyphs of some language older than the land Chambers was born on. His face was missing a nose, his eyes a dark green that would make the deepest emerald look pale. His lips were pulled taut, framing his interlocked teeth. Each one a shard of black-iron. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. A man stood next to his throne, dark ink highlighting his eyelashes and painting smaller glyphs on his cheeks. A white robe draped over his shoulders, leaving his chest and stomach bare. ¡°What else did you observe of the Shadefall?¡± the man asked, translating for the Sentinel of Iron. What else? The Shadefall spread slowly compared to something like clouds, even those in a place like the Dunes of God¡¯s Hand. But for the damage it caused, that crawl was worse than a raging wildfire. One did not observe the Shadefall spread moment by moment. They would have to watch the ground along its edge until the blackness moved over the course of a day. In which time, Harbingers would slaughter whoever lingered close enough to observe. Maybe even an Unholder, if one was exceptionally unlucky. ¡°I watched men die,¡± Chambers said. ¡°Soldiers ventured into that darkness and never returned. The only one who did come back had missing eyes and disappeared the next day.¡± The Sentinel of Iron¡¯s teeth parted, saliva dripping from the crooked fangs. A low growl followed, his gaze so intense it made Chambers¡¯ heart cramp. ¡°The Blacalorians didn¡¯t kill him?¡± the robed man translated. ¡°The survivor?¡± Chambers asked. ¡°No. They tried questioning him, but he was unable to talk, or move.¡± ¡°If the Shadefall is spreading again, Lordkeep,¡± a low, melodic voice said from behind. ¡°Then we¡¯re going to need a Nightfinder.¡± Chambers turned around, meeting her empty obsidian eyes. She sat with crossed legs, her elbow resting on her knee, chin in her palm. Her snow-white hair was straight as a curtain, reaching down to her back. A slight smile curled the end of her pink lips, her dark eyebrows raising. Her throne was made of glass, the backrest shaped like a colossal diamond. Her dress was an iridescent white with a slit running halfway up her thigh. Her body was sheathed in silver, a skirt of blades hanging around her hips where her dress met armour. The symbol of a tiger¡¯s head was emblazoned over her breastplate, its mouth open and teeth bared. ¡°There hasn¡¯t been one in Candor for¡­ ten years now, Lordkeep?¡± Chambers asked, glancing at the giant in the throne. A crown of black iron and gold glistened atop his hood, gems shimmering within it. Four gems, Chambers counted. Each worth more than a city. Dark tree branches weaved between the spines of the crown, autumn leaves sprouting from them. ¡°Yes,¡± the Lordkeep mused. ¡°But I have sensed his return. Two weeks ago.¡± Chambers frowned. That was sooner than anticipated. Had he learned about the Shadefall? It seemed to be the only answer. No sane man would leave New Eden. ¡°The Nightfinder has returned?¡± Thorley asked, wooden gauntlets clenching. ¡°But we killed the Starforger.¡± ¡°Darkness emerges sooner or later,¡± the Lordkeep said, raising a hand as if willing Chambers to lift off the ground. ¡°But there will always be a dawn to face it from the east.¡± There will always be a dawn to face it, eh? An idea old as time. One Chambers had come to loathe. There were no suns among men. And those who existed were long dead, nothing more than idealized memories that were used to inspire and dictate. ¡°Are you certain the Nightfinder has returned?¡± the Sentinel of Glass asked, her chin lifting from her palm. Chambers stopped himself from counting her armour¡¯s curved shoulder plates. Counting calmed him, but now wasn¡¯t the time. He needed to think. The Lordkeep gave a slow nod. ¡°I can sense a monster before it sees me.¡± Chambers raised a hand to his mouth, pretending to ponder as he stifled a smile. A monster? The Lordkeep himself calling a man a monster? What was he? So long as he¡¯s here, Chambers thought. We can make it work. An itch began to spread up the back of his hands. He clenched his jaws. It couldn¡¯t wait any longer. ¡°Is one man really enough to stop the Shadefall?¡± Chambers asked. ¡°Oh, he won¡¯t be alone,¡± the Sentinel of Glass said. ¡°I¡¯ll find him.¡± The Lordkeep raised his sceptre, the slit in its eye pulsing. ¡°Find him, Raina. Tell him what we know.¡± The Sentinel of Iron gave a low growl. ¡°I will travel to Blacalorse to confirm that the Shadefall is spreading,¡± the robed translator said. The itching intensified. Just keep your sleeves together, he thought. So long as it was just in his hands, they wouldn¡¯t see it. Then again, was it even possible to hide from something like the Lordkeep? Chambers glared at him. ¡°Such little faith for a merchant who travelled through the Red Desert and the Deadwoods to relate what¡¯s happening?¡± ¡°There¡¯s no such thing as too much caution,¡± the Sentinel of Stone said, scratching the corner of his scarred lip. ¡°As for me, Lordkeep, I will leave for Aschyth to ensure the Unholder there isn¡¯t awakening.¡± The Lordkeep gave a nod. ¡°Go forth, Sentinels. Pray your paths remain enlightened. Chambers, you are dismissed.¡± And he slammed the base of his sceptre, the glowing slit in its eye widening. Chambers turned, passing the Four Sentinels on his way out, boots rustling along the white carpet that ran like a river down the centre of the giant hall. Core Guardians flanked him along the way. T-shaped openings allowed them sight and breath through their flaming orange helmets. Their black hoods were drawn, chains around their necks holding capes in place. Each carried a double headed axe twice Chambers¡¯ height, the blades like frozen tongues of flame. Various shapes, but all the same size. He walked on, heart pounding, the first burns beginning to open on the back of his hand. The giant doors at the end of the hall groaned open, just wide enough for him to walk through. Then they ground shut with a clang, leaving Chambers in dull torchlight. Just in time. The itch spread up his arms, then shoulders, into the sides of his neck. He glanced at the back of his hand, the tan skin he¡¯d worn turning dark and peeling open like burning paper. 2: Enter the Nightfinder - Part I Year 1257, Month 4, Day 25. The fields surrounding Claye were still white. Spotless. Emptied of the bodies and blood that had once painted the wheat. Verac could almost taste it. The memories were still laced with the metallic bitterness of blood. But now, the wheat swayed peacefully. Forever ignorant of the blood that soaked their soil. Verac plucked a stalk, bending it in half. He twirled it between his fingers, the golden head of grain shimmering in the morning light. He scanned the field, wind rippling over it like golden water, sprawling up to the city walls. The wooden gates were wide open, men driving in and out on carts pulled by one or two tree-horns. Just another day in the field. Even those who were old enough to remember had forgotten. They had to forget. But the memories still loomed over the fields like clouds. Verac walked on, boots clomping against the dirt path. Hardened beneath the decades of man and beast walking over it. Much like the hearts of most people. He held his hand out, letting the heads of wheat brush against his fingertips as he walked. Men and women worked the rows he passed, laughing as they tended the soil, smiles slipping from some faces when they saw him. Those old enough to remember. He held the collar of his white cloak together, a sharp wind flapping the edges of the hood around his face, wheat rustling on either side. The creaking roll of a wagon grew behind him. ¡°Woah,¡± a man bellowed. Verac turned around. A wagon drawn by a pair of tree-horns had stopped a few steps behind him. The animals snorted, mist leaving their dark nostrils. They were like massive deer, their horns spreading like tree branches, patched with green moss and pale blue lichen. The animal on the right had half a horn missing, the breaking point sharp as an arrowhead. The man atop the wagon met Verac''s gaze, his eyes narrowing beneath peppered brows. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. He leaned forward, clutching the tree-horn¡¯s reins. He wore a dark green coat with a fur collar that framed his short neck and draped down either side of his half-open top. Leaf-shaped earrings made of gold hung from his ears, and a chain rested against his open, hairy chest. ¡°Are you¡­¡± the man started. Verac clenched his jaws. The same question they all thought to ask, but none of them wanted to. It¡¯s always easier to ignore the first spark of fire than contemplate the blaze. ¡°You¡¯re an Innan?¡± Verac asked. The man grunted. ¡°For now, at least.¡± Verac gave a slow nod, staring out at the wheat fields. ¡°This place hasn¡¯t changed as much as I thought it would.¡± ¡°Nothing has,¡± he said. Nothing. The word echoed as if it had taken on a voice of its own in his head. Nothing. After ten years of peace. Of dreaming. Ten years of forgetting, and nothing had forgotten him. ¡°Are you a Nightfinder?¡± Verac closed his eyes, turning back to the Innan. One of the tree-horns shook its head, ears flopping. Verac sighed. ¡°Yes.¡± The man took a deep breath, cheeks puffing as he exhaled. ¡°It¡¯s only been ten years.¡± Verac nodded, running his tongue over his lips. ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°Did you receive a message?¡± Verac clenched his gloved right hand into a fist, a throb pulsing in his spine. Again. ¡°Yes,¡± he snarled. The man nodded, scratching the back of his head. ¡°May Scirtotig help us,¡± he muttered, his beady eyes widening. ¡°Well, get on the wagon. I¡¯ll take you into Claye.¡± 3: Enter the Nightfinder - Part II ¡°We don¡¯t get visitors much,¡± Schal said, tossing a log into the fireplace with a pop of sparks. Verac stared into the flames, red hot embers poking out beneath them. The warmth softened his icy skin, the tip of his nose aching and tingling with the urge to sneeze. He lifted the wooden bowl to his mouth, slurping the warm soup inside; corn and regal-meat. ¡°Maybe if you stopped killing them,¡± Verac said, chewing a piece of meat, ¡°more would come.¡± Schal chuckled, turning to him and dusting off his thick hands. ¡°You¡¯re mistaking Claye for Whicalorse.¡± Verac wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaning forward and placing the empty bowl on a table. It was jagged along the edges, a detailed map of the town etched into it and covered with some sort of glass. Or crystal. Hard to tell when everything was so opulent. ¡°You share a culture,¡± Verac said. ¡°We share a language.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the difference?¡± Schal raised a brow, dropping into a chair beside with a gruff sigh. He folded his muscular, weather-spotted arms, sleeves rolled to his elbows. ¡°You obviously haven¡¯t been there in a while,¡± he muttered. ¡°What brings you back?¡± Verac blinked, tucking his chin down. What brought him back? The same thing that revives any monster buried and forgotten about. The same thing that saved and damned men equally. The same thing he¡¯d finally started losing a grip on. Hope. He gazed into the dancing flames. ¡°I¡­ I¡¯m looking for someone.¡± Schal coughed. ¡°I heard you went to New Eden after your master died.¡± Verac drew a deep breath, fingers clawing into his leather-padded knees. ¡°I did.¡± Schal snorted. ¡°No man leaves New Eden. Not even to be Arqing over the whole world.¡± Verac tucked a hand beneath his cloak, untying a pouch from his belt. Schal leaned forward, eyes widening with a gleam as Verac lifted a single gold coin. ¡°Is that¡­¡± ¡°Edenian gold,¡± Verac said, flipping the coin to him with a shiny clink. ¡°Some things are worth more than the world.¡± The old man caught the coin against his chest, raising it between two fingers. He turned it side to side, a grin lifting his eyes. ¡°Who in the six corners is worth leaving New Eden for, boy?¡± Verac glared back into the fire. ¡°Someone greater than it.¡± Schal waved a hand. ¡°Bah. No one¡¯s greater than a place like New Eden.¡± Something cold entered Verac¡¯s chest. As if a frigid wind had swept through the gaping hole where his heart once was. ¡°When you live for wealth, Innan, I agree,¡± he said. ¡°When you live for others, nothing can replace them.¡± Schal held the coin up in one hand, the other draped over his armrest. ¡°I hope you don¡¯t mind my keeping this. Things are getting tougher since Kenelm was made Highduke of Whetalon.¡± Verac frowned. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Oh. Right,¡± Schal said, his hand falling as he stared up at the arched ceiling. ¡°It¡¯s the same story as Whicalorse. Probably the same thing that¡¯s happening in Blacalorse.¡± Verac leaned forward, the white and brown fur blankets on the lounger rustling. ¡°What happened?¡± Schal glanced at him sideways, his nose wrinkling. ¡°Harbinger.¡± The pulsing in Verac¡¯s spine returned. Throbbing like the phantom of an old wound. He tucked his chin down, leaning back in his seat as his heart spiked. A ball of iron grew in his stomach, throat aching as if he¡¯d just swallowed it. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. A Harbinger. Here? This far from the Shadefall? ¡°How long has it been there?¡± Schal glanced down, mouth twisting to the side as he frowned. ¡°Not sure. It¡¯s been about two years since I heard about it.¡± Since he heard about it. It could take decades for a Harbinger to be discovered. Maybe you and Claye missed it? He thought. Amidst the chaos, the blood and shadow, to miss a monster living underground was only human. Verac placed his hands on his face, rubbing them up into his hair. ¡°What¡¯s the Highduke doing?¡± Schal shrugged, opening his palms. ¡°Everything and nothing.¡± ¡°You like your ambiguities, don¡¯t you?¡± Verac said. Schal sighed. ¡°The Arqing delegated oversight of trade to Whetalon, only Regari knows why. So the Highduke took it upon himself to export double the amount of food we used to.¡± Verac dug his fingers into his scalp, the right hand leaving aches beneath its tips. ¡°Why on¡­¡± he paused, hands dropping from his head. ¡°What kind of Harbinger is in Whetalon?¡± Schal groaned as he stretched an arm. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I doubt many people see that thing and live to tell about it.¡± Verac tapped his boot against the wood floor, the drum echoing through the massive room. If the Highduke was starving his own people, there was only one answer. ¡°It¡¯s a Devourer,¡± Verac snarled. Schal pursed his lips. ¡°Maybe. It makes sense, now that you say it.¡± No. It was the only thing that made sense. He glanced at Schal as he lay back in his seat with eyes closed, gold earrings gleaming in the firelight. ¡°You¡¯re an Innan. Why aren¡¯t you doing anything?¡± Verac said. Schal opened an eye. ¡°I¡¯m half the Innan I once was, Verac. My influence over the Cultivators is dwindling. Fast. The younger Innan are more vicious with their tactics. They¡¯re willing to do more and go further to settle trade routes¡ªand even to take their produce outside of Candor. My farmland is a garden compared to theirs, and my crops are nothing more than weeds in the new market. I have fewer Cultivators working my farmland than some Innan have working in their households.¡± Younger Innan. Youth and power were rarely a good combination. Like giving a sword to an ape. All they¡¯d be fixated on was their pockets: how high their homes were built and how many horses were in the stable. He glanced around the room. The wood beams wrapped in silk. The curtains braided with gold. The ceiling arching high enough to fit another room above them. The carpets were dyed with some exotic red and purple spices imported from Firecalorse. A storm-wood chandelier hung in the roof¡¯s zenith¡ªthe heads of a bull, a lion and an eagle carved out of it, all pointing away from each other, their eyes and gaping mouths holding empty lamps. No different from this Innan, I suppose. He sighed. If there was no one else to do it, then there was only one thing to be done. That pulsing lingered in his spine, as if something were trying to tear out of it. Verac stood up. ¡°Where are you going?¡± Schal asked, sitting up. Verac marched to the double doors, boots thudding with each step. ¡°To Whetalon.¡± Schal grunted. ¡°You just arrived. Take the night and be on your way tomorrow.¡± Verac placed a hand on the doors, the wood laced with intricate metal vines and leaves that glittered in the firelight. You can¡¯t leave it alone, that voice said. He closed his eyes, twisting his head to the side. You need me. You need to find this monster, Verac. His eyes snapped open, breaths heaving. The doors were wide open, a hole splintering the centre where his hand had just rested. The night shrouded the fields and sprawling grass before him, trees swaying in the distance. A drop of sweat fell from his jaw, his hand shaking as he glanced down at it. ¡°You can leave¡­ if you want,¡± Schal said from behind, his voice trembling. Verac clenched his fist, placing it against his mouth. He growled into it, heart racing, breath warming his skin. It happened again. It happened¡­ again. He rammed his fist against his forehead, teeth bared. What¡¯s wrong with you? He rammed it again, and again, saliva spraying as his breaths heaved between clenched teeth. What are you? Who are you? What have you done? What have you done! His fist dropped, and he glanced up at the night sky. The dark blues painted with the glow of moon and star, clouds streaking in a circle like giant white serpents. The moon, nothing more than a crescent of light carved into the darkness, seemed to peer at him. As if watching him down there. All alone, in the dark. Because even the night needs a light in its darkest hour. Verac clutched his right hand as it trembled. The metal was hot beneath his glove, which was strange. Normally it was cold as a corpse. ¡°I have to go,¡± he whispered. ¡°This place¡­ these people. I left them with my demons. And they came to find me,¡± he glanced over his shoulder at Schal as the man raised his hands. ¡°I¡¯m not making that mistake again.¡± Schal swallowed, nodding so fast it was more of a shiver. ¡°Go. Go do what you must, Nightfinder.¡± Verac reached back and pulled his hood over his head. ¡°Tell me one more thing,¡± he growled, ¡°is the Shrine of Phaos still here?¡± 4: Enter the Nightfinder - Part III 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. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. 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?¡± 5: By The Chthonic Forges... Another clang. Hammer against glowing iron. Tarhuntal could smell the sparks flying before he came around the corner into the workshop. The glow of the Forge dyed the cobblestone walls dull orange. Smoke clogged the air with a haze that still made him squint after so many years. He placed his hands on his girded hips. She raised the hammer again, slamming it down with finality. A hiss emanated from her hunched over form, short hair black as coal swaying as she glanced over her shoulder. One gleaming blue eye narrowed at him, her pupil sharp as a crescent moon. The sinews in her scarred shoulder tensed as she wiped the corner of her mouth with it. It was rare for her to wear anything that let those scars show. But by the heat of the Forge, it must¡¯ve been a need. How that worked didn¡¯t make much sense. Not for something like her, anyway. ¡°Chimaera,¡± Tarhuntal said, pointing. ¡°What in Kur is that?¡± Her nose wrinkled with a snarl. ¡°I¡¯m here for your Forges, Tar. Not your questions.¡± Tarhunt raised an eyebrow, folding his arms, the scales of iron that coated his vambraces shimmering in the Forge¡¯s light. He narrowed his eyes at the weapon laying across her anvil. The shaft was black-iron, its pommel still aglow from the forge. Or her. He couldn¡¯t tell. But it was the head of the spear that made him stare. A long blade the colour of a purple dusk sky standing between three dark horns curling towards it. Like the horns of a ram. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen anything like it.¡± She sniffed, flicking her hair from her face. ¡°Me neither.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t mean that in a good way.¡± ¡°Me neither.¡± ¡°Then what¡¯s with the smile?¡± She glanced over her shoulder, the scarred corner of her mouth twitching as the other corner smirked. ¡°It¡¯s a gift.¡± ¡°Like the one you took to Blacalorse?¡± She rolled her shoulders back, the dark leather of her tunic tightening. ¡°There are new fires being stoked in this place, Tar. Can¡¯t help it if I¡¯m the one making the fans.¡± Well, that was a lie. When people let the world burn, they were rarely the ones sad about it. ¡°Where are you taking it?¡± Tarhunt asked. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me Whicalorse. Or¡­ Whetalon?¡± She stayed quiet, flipping the hammer over in her hand. The red gem encrusted in the side of the hammer¡¯s head cast a sparkle to the room as the Forge¡¯s light caught it. Thirteen years. Just under a tenth of his lifespan he¡¯d known the girl for. And she was still as decipherable as Aschythy runes. ¡°When we light those fires, Chimaera,¡± Tar said, taking off his helmet and combing his fingers through thick hair, ¡°we light a memory. Oaths sworn by our forefathers and by us.¡± Chimaera slowly nodded. ¡°It¡¯s a good thing I light them myself.¡± ¡°Who lights them and how is irrelevant,¡± Tar said, tightening his fingers around his helmet. ¡°Whether or not you can spit fire doesn¡¯t change the Forge. A Chthonic always uses the Forge in servitude to the gods and the people.¡± She chuckled, raising the hammer again. ¡°Then I¡¯m certainly no Chthonic.¡± 6: Long Roads Home There it was. That old emptiness. Barely took three days. Just stepping on the same ground seemed to drain him. Like the soil itself was alive, bleeding his soul from the bottom of his feet. The morning light was golden along the horizon, the wind¡¯s howl replaced by the distant cries of a hawk. He shrugged the weight of Phaos higher along his shoulders, his right hand locked around the hilt. The fields that¡¯d been full of wheat had been replaced by rows of saplings. The young of trees felled months prior. Bark and wooden shards lay scattered across the dark soil, the natural forest line standing tall on the far edge. Towering like a wooden wall. Left to watch their own be grown and felled every few years. Verac clenched his jaws, glancing to the side. He stopped. There, atop the nearest hill, stood a lone creature amidst swaying stalks of grass. Its black fur rippled in the breeze, golden eyes fixed on Verac. As if it had been waiting for him to notice. It was strange seeing a wolf all alone, especially one that size. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. It almost looks like¡­ His spine pulsed. He shook his head, and walked on. Claye was the man to believe in phantoms. And if Zorn was still alive, he would face him again. Sooner or later. He tightened his grip on the sword, teeth baring. This time, he¡¯d make sure he stayed dead. But what are the chances? Dagny. Just the name was enough for his throat to ache. As if the memory was choking him. She¡­ was killed in New Eden. Saxa vanished. The fang awoke in his spine. Then, not even a week later, he finds out about a Harbinger that¡¯d been hiding in Whetalon for the past decade. And then¡­ He glanced back at the hill, and the wolf was gone.