Her eyes shone green. Twigs and leaves fell from her hair.

  “Come find me,” she whispered with two voices.

  The Antiev God of the Hunt breathed his last. Mari released his face, leaned back onto her heels, and wept. She did not know if it was her own sorrow or Amees’s that overcame her. It didn’t matter, for it was real, and it was necessary. She allowed the tears to fall until her insides hollowed. Until there was room for the Lion once more.

  Your mercy renders you vulnerable, Endarius warned inside her mind as her body changed, fur sprouting, muscle thickening, and bones reshaping.

  “Then let me be vulnerable,” she said, though it came out as a growl. “There are times for mourning, and there are times for hunting.”

  And what of now?

  Mari wiped the tears from her face and paced two circles around Rihim’s body before facing the tower doorway. Resolve hardened her heart, and she pushed her pain away.

  “My friends are in danger,” she said. “We hunt.”

  CHAPTER 47

  RAYAN

  The soldiers, the paragons, and the petty nobles brought over from Gadir: None of them mattered to Rayan. Light gleamed across his blood-soaked blade as he carved his way through his foes, his eye on one single man. The betrayer. The murderer of hundreds of loyal defenders of Thanet. The man’s name was on his lips, a war cry, a challenge.

  “Jase!”

  Rayan saw him among the seats, once proudly lurking at the Heir-Incarnate’s right hand but now cowering among frantic soldiers pulled in all directions. Vagrant was a murderous display of blood and gore shredding through dignitaries and their bodyguards. Keles followed in his wake, and in her dark armor, she was his perfect shadow. Arn and Stasia swept through the other side, bringing down even paragons who attempted to slow their pace.

  Wood groaned beneath Rayan’s feet as he sprinted across the long benches. Some men fled, others shouted and swung weapons that shattered against his shield. Faith burned bright in his chest. There would be no stopping him. There would be no delay to this needed justice. A wall of five soldiers did their best, swords and spears up to greet him while Lord Mosau cowered behind.

  “Even now you flee?” Rayan bellowed, his legs churning faster. He held his shield aloft, trusting its brilliance. Rainbow light flared across its surface, blinding the men. Their swords and spears swung wild, easily dodged or parried, and then he was among them. His training took over, a momentary calm to his vicious chase. Back and forth, an alternation of attack and defense. Drive his sword through a man’s chest, then pull back, his shield braced to turn aside a spear’s frantic thrust. Step in, cutting open another’s throat with a strike much too fast for him to parry, though he did his damnedest to try. Step out, reassessing so his shield and sword were there to block the panicked hits of his foes.

  The opening and closing of a butterfly’s wings, in time with the beat of his heart and the drawing of breath into his lungs. No moments of weakness. Just steady, determined movements leading to victory. He was stronger. He was more skilled. The outcome was inevitable, should he not fail, and he would not fail, not with so many relying on him. Not while his island remained conquered.

  The last of the five soldiers flung aside his sword and fled when Rayan pulled back after a killing slash. Rayan let him go, his single focus on the man they protected… a man who had dropped down to the arena below and was currently dashing into the nearby tunnel.

  Such cowardice, he thought. He sheathed his weapons, knelt at the smooth wall’s edge below him, and then lowered to a drop. He winced upon landing. Lycaena might bless him with strength, but she would not smooth the ache in his old knees from such a fall. He clenched his jaw, ignored the pain, and turned to the tunnel. No sign of Jase.

  Rayan glanced about the chaos, at his friends battling the disorganized mass of imperial faithful. He held trust they would win. He felt it in the air, in the panic of the defenders and the rage of Thorda’s elite. They did not need him, and so he ran into that tunnel. He let instinct guide him. Instinct, or perhaps Lycaena’s gentle hand. Sometimes he passed stairs leading upward, other times closed doors to what appeared to be jail cells. The tunnel narrowed, the lit sconces growing farther apart. Shadows lengthened, but he ignored every turn and side tunnel leading to who knew where. Only Jase mattered, and Lycaena would guide him to his prey.

  The sound of battle quieted. There was only his footsteps echoing within the cold, dark stone. His footsteps… and those of someone ahead. Rayan ran faster, legs pumping, heart pounding, only to quickly skid to a halt. There, a side tunnel without a single sconce to light it. He drew his sword and shield. In such deep darkness, the light of their glow was nearly blinding.

  Jase Mosau held a hand to his eyes and winced against the light.

  “Did you think to hide from me?” Rayan asked as he closed the distance between them.

  “From one of the madmen who would destroy our island?” Jase said. “Yes, I would hide.”

  Rayan paused at arm’s length and pointed his sword.

  “Draw your blade. I will not cut down a defenseless man. That is your sin, not mine.”

  The lord’s hand drifted to the thin blade sheathed at his hip, but he did not draw it.

  “Galvanis’s fury at this debacle will be tremendous,” he said. “Do you understand the suffering you have unleashed upon our people? Are you so simple as to believe our little island, our speck of dirt in the ocean, can withstand an empire whose population numbers in the millions?”

  “The waters of the Crystal Sea are vast, now draw your sword.”

  “But not vast enough! Our gods are slain. The royal family is dead but for a lone child without any official backing. Abandon your pride, Rayan, and look at this war for what it truly is! Hopeless. Pointless. The sooner we bow our heads and offer the God-Incarnate the prayers he seeks, the sooner we may live our lives in peace.”

  Rayan’s grip on his sword tightened. The light across the blade shimmered red and gold.

  “You would have us debate?” he asked. “You would argue justification for the deaths of those who trusted you?”

  Jase’s face hardened. His eyes narrowed in the swirling light.

  “Galvanis told me of Thanet’s fate, of its future, and it is—”

  Rayan cut him open, one side of the neck to the other, so not a single word might follow. The dying lord garbled something unintelligible through the bleeding gap in his throat. He clutched at it, as if he might stem the flow. Rayan watched, silent. Feeling nothing but grim satisfaction. Jase collapsed. He died having never drawn his sword.

  “I pray whichever god takes you shows you no mercy,” Rayan said. Perhaps what he had done was ignoble, but he did not care. Such traitors deserved no better, and he would not listen to a coward’s drivel. Better to silence him forever. Perhaps with his tongue stilled, he would not add new sins to torment himself with in the eternal lands beyond.

  Rayan lifted his sword, still needing its light. Curiosity tugged at him. Just where had Lord Mosau been running? In the distance he saw the tunnel curve, and along that curve flickered a hint of burning candlelight upon the wall. He walked it, for it wasn’t far, and rounded the curve.

  An enormous set of doors awaited him, lit by four sconces burning along the top. Its surface was layered with gold, the malleable metal molded so the left side was shaped like Lycaena with her wings spread. On the right, carved to stand on his hind legs with paws up, roared Endarius. Rayan touched one of the enormous handles. A shiver ran through him at the sound of creaking metal. What was this place? What secrets were hidden behind such a door far below Vallessau’s castle?

  Echoing footsteps turned him about. He readied his sword and shield as his throat tightened and his stomach twisted uncomfortably. He need not see the man to know who approached. The aura of divinity rolled off him in waves. It felt like a sickness approached. It felt like fire, and rot, and a starving blade.

  “You found the vault,” Galvanis vin Lucavi said, rounding the curve. His drawn sword rested comfortably across the back of his shoulders. There was no rage in the Heir-Incarnate’s voice despite the chaos of the night. He sounded remarkably calm, perhaps even amused.

  “I have no interest in whatever treasures it holds,” Rayan said. It took tremendous concentration to keep his voice steady. “I would return to my friends, if you’d so kindly make way.”

  A smile spread across the man’s too-perfect face. His skin, pale as the moon, took on the hue of the flickering sconces.

  “Do not play the fool, Paladin. I expect better of you. Even if you were not guilty of a thousand sins against my empire, I would take your head for robbing me of such a useful tool as Lord Mosau.”

  Rayan braced his legs and tightened his muscles. He had fought paragons before and withstood their strength. This fight would be no different, he told himself. He must only survive. The others would come searching for the Heir-Incarnate. Once Cyrus and the rest arrived, they could outnumber him and bring him down. They could score a victory no nation had ever accomplished in the entire history of the Everlorn Empire.

  Easy to think, hard to believe. Merely standing in the man’s presence unnerved Rayan. Galvanis radiated power. He moved with such ease it was as if his hundred pounds of thick plate armor weighed nothing at all. And that sword, it should have been unwieldy at such a size, yet he lifted it with a single hand and pointed its tip with nary a tremble.

  “Take the first swing. Consider it my gift.”

  Rayan hesitated. Every extra second brought his friends that much closer. He smiled behind the skull mask of his helmet.

  “If you insist.”

  He lunged forward, but not with his sword. His shield hit the extended tip and then slid below it. His arm flexed, shoving the weapon upward to grant an opening for his own gleaming blade. The man’s armor was thick, but Rayan’s blade was blessed by his goddess, and he trusted it to cut through the steel. And cut it did, parting the metal like warm butter until it hit flesh.

  Flesh that did not give. Flesh that sparked with golden light and did not bleed when Rayan slid the blade across it before withdrawing.

  “Now do you understand?” Galvanis said. “You could never win.”

  He backhanded Rayan with his gauntlet. Even with the protection of his helmet, his vision swam and his ears rang from the blow. He staggered, then gasped as Galvanis jammed the hilt of his sword right into Rayan’s gut. The lower edge of his platemail bent from the impact. Another retreating step, except there was nowhere to go. His heel brushed the wall.

  With Rayan trapped, Galvanis lifted his sword with both hands, readying it for the killing blow. The wiser course was to dodge aside, even in the limited space, but Rayan had to know. He had to try. When that enormous sword came crashing down, Rayan thrust his shield up to meet it. Let strength meet strength, his faith in Lycaena clashing against the faith of Everlorn and their God-Incarnate. A song to the goddess rang in his mind. Brilliant light flared across its surface, and for one single moment he dared believe he could win.

  Gold shimmered across Galvanis’s enormous sword, just a flash, and then raw power blasted into his uplifted shield. It rocked through him like a thunderclap. Pain exploded in waves across the entire left half of his body. His knees buckled, and he screamed, and screamed, as his every muscle locked tight. After an eternity, the blade withdrew, granting him a single gasp of air.

  This is madness, Rayan thought. If this is the strength of the son, what then of the father?

  No time to think on that. One foe at a time. His shield held through only a gift of Lycaena herself. The same could not be said for his arm. It hung limp at his side, the pain radiating out from it making it hard to focus. His collarbone had shattered, likely his wrist and elbow, too.

  “You lived,” Galvanis said. “I am impressed. Gods have broken before my full might unleashed.”

  “You flatter me,” Rayan said, and coughed blood.

  Galvanis closed the gap between them with his sword pulled back for a lunge. His elbow slammed Rayan’s shield aside. His shoulder bent low, its armor pinging Rayan’s frantic swipe away. The forced movements of his damaged limbs flooded Rayan with pain, and he had the briefest second to appreciate the precariousness of his situation before the Heir-Incarnate thrust his blade with the speed and savagery of a biting serpent.

  His platemail was no protection. It didn’t even slow the blade as it sank into Rayan’s stomach, pushed through the guts, and scraped along his spine. Rayan doubled over, or at least tried, but the sword held him in place. His own armaments clattered to the ground, for he lacked the strength to wield them. His each and every breath was a struggle. The Heir-Incarnate watched him, strangely silent.

  “You will never win,” Rayan said. He forced the words out despite the horrid agony from his abdomen. The sword drove deeper, making a mess of his innards. He tried not to imagine what it would feel like when Galvanis finally pulled the weapon free. “We will… remember. Lycaena. Endarius. We will rise up. Year after year. However long… it takes.”

  Galvanis closed the distance between them, the sword held steady in one hand. With his other he cupped Rayan with an embrace, as if they were dearest friends. His voice softened to a whisper.

  “You poor fool,” he said. “Let me usher you into your heaven with a secret. When the six hundredth year arrives, and the ceremony commences, we shall spill the blood of your faithful and the faithless alike to grant power to the transition. I will become God-Incarnate, and take into me that essence and faith to become perfected.”

  He twisted the blade, not much, just enough to ignite a tremendous new wave of agony.

  “All the faithful. All the faithless. Thanet shall be sacrificed to foster this rebirth, giving purpose to your heathen island. No witnesses shall remain to remember you. Your heroes? Your god and goddess? They will fade away, their names forbidden to be whispered even by the soldiers who commit the deed. Thanet shall be forgotten, a footnote in the empire’s grand history. You die for nothing. You save no one.”

  Rayan reached for that perfectly beautiful, perfectly terrible face. His hands were weak, and shook. Horror turned his vision white. No. This… this couldn’t be what awaited them all. Massacre and bloodshed on so enormous a level could not be kept hidden.

  “Word… will spread,” he choked out.

  “Indeed,” Galvanis said. He grabbed Rayan by the throat. “Whispered tales of the stubborn island of Thanet, whose people refused to bend the knee and honor the God-Incarnate. Ignorant savages, too simple and foolish to learn… and so we put them down like animals.”

  He ripped the sword free. Rayan did not feel it. He did not feel anything. He merely heard a wet splatter. Pain was everywhere, and his vision faltered. The Heir-Incarnate’s words floated over him.

  “Do not worry, though. Your island will not remain empty. Boats from Gadir will come bearing faithful citizens of Everlorn to rebuild atop your graves. In time, we will convince their great-grandchildren that their ancestors were the first, and you were never here at all.”

  Rayan wished to deny him. He wished to curse the empire, the God-Incarnate, and his wretched son, but no words would come. He was on his back. He did not remember falling. Footsteps, heavy and plated. The sound of doors opening on hinges long since rusted.

  “Farewell, Paladin. You were a noble foe, even if an unworthy one.”

  CHAPTER 48

  KELES

  The tunnels were dark and numerous, a veritable rat maze to anyone unfamiliar with them, yet Keles and Cyrus had no choice but to rush through in search of wherever her uncle had chased Lord Mosau. The faint blue glow of her sword was a torch, and she held the naked blade aloft as she prayed.

  Please, Dagon, Lycaena, anyone, show me the way.

  Cyrus ran a step ahead of her, and she wondered if he could sense her uncle when she could not. The gifts available to him, she still did not fully understand. He was becoming something more, something inhuman. But then again, so was she.

  “Hold,” she said, skidding to a stop at a junction. “I see something.”

  That something was a body. It lay a dozen feet down the turn, barely visible in the sapphire light that shone from Keles’s drawn sword. His throat was cut from side to side. She recognized the man upon inspection, as did Cyrus.

  “It’s Jase,” he said. He shook his head at the corpse. “The bastard deserved worse.”

  It should have encouraged her to find her uncle’s target dead, but instead it only heightened her worry. She’d spotted Jase fleeing during the chaos, followed by her uncle. So if Jase was dead, where then had Rayan gone?

  “Rayan must have been the one to kill him,” she said. She pointed at bloodstained boot prints that continued down the tunnel. “We follow.”

  Her cautious steps quickly turned to a run. The path ended abruptly at a tremendous door lit with two sconces. Before them, in a pool of his own blood, lay her uncle.

  “Rayan,” she said, sliding to her knees. He was breathing, still breathing, that’s all the mattered. She ignored the tremendous wound in his gut. She ignored the way his eyes did not focus on her properly when she tilted his neck and removed his helmet. His lips moved, struggling. His eyes focused. Recognizing her, she believed, at least until he spoke.

  “Lara?” he asked, and lifted a trembling hand for her face.

  “No, Uncle,” she said. She swallowed down a lump in her throat. “It’s me, Keles.”

  “Keles,” he said, as if the name were a strange delight to him. He breathed in sharply, and his eyes widened. “I see.”

  His head lolled. Keles pulled him up, one arm clutching his hands, her other propping his back. His eyes blinked slowly. He did not speak, nor look at her.

  “No,” she said, letting him back down. “No, no, not yet, you can’t leave me yet, please, I’m back now, I’m back.”