Chapter One

Glory

Ira

In all but form, his humanity had vanished. Though he looked human, though he stood as a human, his presence lacked an essential humanness. He was a vision in a dream—recognizable but not quite right.

Ira’s gaze lingered on his black hair, darker than any void. She followed the scars across his throat, still as bold as ever. His shoulders rose and fell with each heaving breath, streaked with water. Dark lines traced the length of his arms like diseased veins. Shadows fell over his legs, thick and trembling from some unknowable journey.

She avoided his face.

One glance had told her it was the same as before his great descent into obscurity, and yet nothing about it was familiar. The gold-ringed eyes glowed with untamable malice, delighted by success and subjugation. A fiendishness possessed him. It imbued the lines of his features with the uncanny.

He was a demonic approximation of the man who had died.

“Fogosombre?” she breathed, approaching with silent footsteps. He stood at the mouth of the stairwell. The iron doors, which usually guarded the entrance to the Pool of Iniquities, had been blown wide on shattered hinges. Behind him, a great, impenetrable darkness reigned, swallowing any and all moonlight that attempted to penetrate the veil between the living and the deceased.

“Take me,” he said. His voice rumbled like the tremors that had shaken the basilica only minutes ago.

Reaching forward, Ira took her husband’s hand. His touch was cold as ice, his skin rough and hard. She remembered the heat that once radiated from him, and wondered if that was a relic of the past. The moment their hands met, he pulled her close and draped his arm over her shoulders. She stumbled beneath the sudden weight but managed to stay upright.

Master Tais, who had been lingering against the wall of the corridor, struck up the courage to move at last. He lunged forward, proffering his hands.

“My king, do you—” he began, but Fogosombre cut him off.

“Don’t touch me,” he spat, his incensed gaze halting the master in his tracks. “I do not need your assistance.”

“My king,” Tais said, sputtering. “I have been nothing but loyal in your absence, doing everything I can to keep my beloved queen comfortable as we awaited your return—she will confirm as much.”

He looked expectantly at Ira, who grimaced.

“Yes,” she said. “While Master Tais has numerous shortcomings, he has never once faltered in fulfilling his promises.”

Encouraged, Tais nodded emphatically. “You see,” he said, turning back to Fogosombre. “You have nothing to fear from me—”

“I do not fear you,” Fogosombre growled. His own flare of anger overwhelmed him, and he slumped against Ira. Again, she stumbled, wrapping both arms around his frigid chest to keep him aloft, and managed to stay on her feet. “This feeble, cursed body. I swam endlessly through the realm of waters.”

Is that what awaits in Vaspoena?

Ira had always envisioned the punishing afterlife as a black void, nothing but senseless isolation. Her husband’s words made it sound more like an ocean. Perhaps he would discuss it in greater detail later, when matters were less pressing.

“Then what shall I do?” Tais asked, palms pressed together. “How may I serve?”

“Wait here.”

“W—wait? But the enemy is at our door.”

“Yes,” Fogosombre said. “The Pool is unguarded.”

Ira glanced back at the stairwell descending into the ground. She could not see even the first step, so complete were the shadows covering it. Had it always been that way? It felt too dark somehow. Light from the breaking morning streamed through the high windows in the north-wing corridor, and yet none of the beams reached more than a foot beyond the doorway.

“As you wish, my king.”

“I am no king,” Fogosombre said, voice echoing across stone. “Kings are of men, and I transcend.”

Fogosombre trudged forward, dragging his bare feet across the stones. Ira moved with him, her teeth clenched as she struggled to hold his weight. He was far larger than she, his back hunched as he rested on her shoulders. The icy waters that had clung to his skin now dampened her dress, causing the fabric to cling uncomfortably. It would only get colder once they were outside, where the snow continued to fall.

They passed the corpse with the battered face lying in the middle of the corridor. She eyed the body silently. It was a soldier, judging by the clothes. One of hers. Unfortunately, that meant the prisoner, Otohiko, had probably escaped. Never would she have guessed he had the gumption to crush someone’s skull. He’d always been so gentle, despite his imprisonment. The hope of freedom could bring out the desperation in anyone. If he had escaped, she didn’t have time to look for him. He would die like all the others.

“You know Tais won’t stay there,” Ira muttered as they neared the double doors that led out of the wing. “He is too much of a coward. He will find some place to hide.”

“I’m sure he will.” Fogosombre grunted. It was obvious his return to physical form was more taxing than he’d foreseen or cared to admit. She wondered if he could yet feel the cold on his bare skin. “But he need not wait for long.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“You will see for yourself.”

Ira shifted her hold on Fogosombre and reached out a hand. Her palm pressed flat against the wood and iron. She pushed. The ancient door creaked, resisting her as it swung open. Ira bared her teeth. Why had she not brought Infernum to help her? The Omen could have easily held the king upright; they were nearly the same size. She was not prepared to lug her husband out of the basilica.

A low hum resonated through the corridor.

With the door propped open against her back, Ira peered down the length of the north wing. Master Tais stood framed by the darkness, his pale robes shining starkly against the open stairwell. Fear was plastered over his features, his eyes round as coins. As the reverberating hum died, he slowly turned to face the oppressive void in his wake.

The shadows moved.

Ira could not say exactly how. She thought she saw the blackness shifting as if uncurling from the stairwell. As a shiver of trepidation ran through her, she recoiled, and the door to the north wing swung shut.

Tais screamed.

“What was—” she began, but Fogosombre chuckled, a threatening ticking that escaped his mouth. As the master’s muffled screams echoed in the morning air, her husband seemed to regain some of his strength. His weight on her shoulders lessened, though his legs still couldn’t support him fully.

“Time to leave,” he whispered.

The ground jolted beneath their feet. A roar of crumbling stone arose. It drowned out all other sounds, including Tais. Ira lost her balance. She fell to the stone tiles on hands and knees. Fogosombre managed to brace himself against the wall, grinning triumphantly with closed eyes as the basilica shook. She watched his chest expand as he breathed in deeply, as if he were absorbing the sudden chaos.

“What is it?” Ira screamed, but he would not answer.

She scrambled to her feet. Fighting to keep herself upright, she stumbled over to Fogosombre. He didn’t seem to have heard her question, still basking in the chaos. How could he be so calm when it felt like the mountain could swallow them whole at any minute?

“Come,” she said, draping his arm over her again. “This way.”

She led them into the west wing, where tumult truly reigned. Having endured two violent tremors, the Magistrata had thrown open nearly every room along the corridor. They ran in all directions, hauling chests, books, and wares with panicked haste. The aging structure had fallen victim to the quakes in several places, piles of rubble collected beneath holes in the walls and ceiling. Ira dragged her husband past an open door to the kitchens and spotted orange flames growing inside while several cooks struggled to extinguish them.

Suddenly, the chaos succumbed to stillness.

Several Magistrata had noticed the queen. Their eyes lingered on the hulking form she supported, mouths agape as they gazed upon their king. Ira knew the disbelief behind those stares, the shock that paralyzed them. Each had been told of the late king’s demise, how he’d been burned on a great pyre alongside the fallen prince. Fogosombre was gone, replaced. Usurped by the armies from across the Great Ocean.

Yet here he stood, naked and weakened but unmistakably alive.

What else could they do but bow?

Panic momentarily forgotten, the Magistrata dropped to their knees in reverence. It was as if Deus himself had materialized before them. As Ira led the king through the west wing, she saw tears of adulation and heard muttered prayers. How fortunate that when the soldiers of New Faron descended upon the basilica, the Dead King should rise. Surely it was a sign that he would save them. Who could defeat a man who had conquered death?

Someone approached the king and queen with a bundle of clothing. The young Magistrata dropped to his knees to humbly dress Fogosombre. With averted eyes, he pulled up the under garments, laced the trousers, and cuffed the sleeves. Another Magistrata brought the king boots, and still another presented a thick black cloak for his shoulders.

Their subservience was admirable.

More violent tremors rocked the basilica. Walls cracked and stones fell as Ira pulled Fogosombre through the corridor. Some of the Magistrata followed, including the three who had dressed the king, but none dared help her. These tremors were sustained, unceasing as she forged down the passage as quickly as she could. The effort needed to keep the large man upright was taking its toll. Ira’s muscles strained and perspiration beaded on her upper lip, but she had to keep going.

I will not die.

As they neared the end of the corridor, she spied the exit. The door lay open already, a portal into the bright outside world beyond the walls of the Quartz Basilica. Snow fell in torrents, collecting on the black gravel inside the mountain basin. She swayed, determined to keep on her feet as the ground shook, bucking like a wild beast. Her arm scraped against the doorway as they crossed the threshold, and she let out a cry of surprise.

Once outside, the biting wind whipped at her face. Ira gritted her teeth, shutting her eyes against the white flakes that threatened to blind her.

“Take him!” she shouted at last, knowing that if she tried to carry him up the slope of the basin she’d never make it. The three Magistrata who had brought the king’s clothes rushed to grab hold of his arms. Fogosombre looked as though he might balk at their aid, but he recognized with reluctance that he was in no state to climb. The stairs up from the Pool of Iniquities had sapped all his strength.

Relieved not to have his weight against her, Ira stood straight. She turned, facing southward to see that the struggle outside the basilica entrance no longer raged. Vittorio Angelino and his soldiers had fought their way inside at last. No matter. They would find their efforts too little too late.

Seven Magistrata in total had followed her out of the basilica. The others likely fought to preserve their precious livelihood—keeping the archived Graylives from shattering, putting out the fire in the kitchen, and saving their scrolls with handwritten accounts of all their practices and knowledge. How pitiful, when what was to come would render all their knowledge useless.

A last figure emerged from the open doorway of the west wing: Infernum. He had given Ira the time she’d needed, and joined her now that Vittorio Angelino thought his forces had won. The Omen caught up with the group just as they reached the lip of the basin.

Without a word, Infernum plunged his sword into the ground and dropped to one knee.

“Infernum,” Fogosombre said, out of breath. He grinned like a father looking upon a favored son. “I have come back.”

A bone-chilling roar rang out across the Urse Mountains.

Ira spun, looking out over the great mountain basin. Her heart raced with anticipation. Though the ground trembled less violently this far from the basilica, the tremors could still be felt. They grew with the passing seconds like approaching footfalls. Her eyes widened, searching the landscape for movement, waiting for the glory of Fogosombre’s design to show itself.

With an almighty crack that echoed into the mountains, the north tower toppled. Dust billowed into the air as it crashed down into the Court of Atrocities. The tip of the tower slammed into the viewing deck where the Exalted Ones normally sat, and the structure crumbled. The roof of the north wing followed, collapsing inward amid the cloud of debris. Walls shattered like glass, and soon the entire north wing had been reduced to a pile of rubble.

Ira squinted, searching the haze for the force that caused the destruction. Her ears filled with the rumble of crumbling stone that masked the cry of a hundred souls meeting their end. She winced as the east wing began to fall, the sacred site succumbing to devastation. This ruinous rapture would stand forever in the histories of the Holy Order—should the institution survive much longer.

Another god may unseat Deus.

Terrorized folk fled the west wing, having finally realized what prowled the corridors of their hallowed halls. The stone walls crumpled, drowning any who had not escaped in time beneath dust and debris.

Another vociferous roar. Ira’s hand involuntarily shot to her chest as a crack raced across the dome of the Quartz Basilica. Caught in the brilliant light of the rising sun, the translucent stone glowed as if it were engulfed in white flame. As she watched, a dark limb like black smoke punctured the wall beneath the dome and swept through its pillars like a knife through water.

The dome fell slowly, its colossal mass gaining speed as it plummeted downward. With an apocalyptic clamor that shook the very trees, it met the ground. The remainder of the south wing didn’t stand a chance, upset by the shockwave that rippled through the basin.

At last, the destruction ceased. Quiet returned to the early hours atop the Urse Mountains. The Quartz Basilica was no more, reduced to a heap of ruins in a matter of minutes. Every living soul stared on in disbelief, Magistrata, servant, and soldier alike. Even Fogosombre seemed at a loss for words, though it was not shock that glinted in his eyes but elation.

Ira turned away, but just as her eyes left the wreckage, she heard the clatter of falling rock. It came from the rubble in the south wing, a mound of fallen stone sliding away as something underneath emerged. The unburying was slow at first, until the beast below unfolded. Then it shook itself like a hound, dislodging the last of the debris from its back, and took to the sky.

Ira’s mouth fell open as a shadow passed over her face. “Now,” Fogosombre said, full of vigor, “where is my son?”