CROWN OF DRAGONFIRE

FLAME OF REQUIEM, BOOK TWO

by

Daniel Arenson

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE: TASH

CHAPTER TWO: MELIORA

CHAPTER THREE: TASH

CHAPTER FOUR: MELIORA

CHAPTER FIVE: VALE

CHAPTER SIX: JAREN

CHAPTER SEVEN: ISHTAFEL

CHAPTER EIGHT: MELIORA

CHAPTER NINE: ELORY

CHAPTER TEN: MELIORA

CHAPTER ELEVEN: VALE

CHAPTER TWELVE: ISHTAFEL

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: MELIORA

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: VALE

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: ISHTAFEL

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: MELIORA

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: ISHTAFEL

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: VALE

CHAPTER NINETEEN: LEYLEET

CHAPTER TWENTY: ELORY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: MELIORA

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: JAREN

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: LUCEM

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: VALE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: ELORY

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: VALE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: MELIORA

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: JAREN

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: VALE

CHAPTER THIRTY: ELORY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: LEYLEET

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: MELIORA

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: ELORY

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: TASH

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: VALE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: MELIORA

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: VALE

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: ELORY

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: TASH

CHAPTER FORTY: JAREN

AFTERWORD

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

KEEP IN TOUCH

TASH

Tash lay in the palace gardens, pleasuring the lords of the court, when the sky burned and the severed wings fell at her feet.

"More wine, my lord?"

"Grapes, my sweetness?

"Smoke some hintan with me, master?"

The day had begun like many others. All morning, Tash had been working in the gardens, moving between the seraphim, offering all the pleasures of the empire—pleasures of fine food, drink, and hookah . . . and the pleasures of her lips, her stroking fingers, her warm flesh. The seraphim were tall, beautiful beings, demigods fallen from the sky, their swan wings purest white, their halos golden, and she was but a mere mortal, a slave . . . yet a slave who knew all the secrets of what they desired.

A slave Tash was, but one unlike the multitudes who toiled across the empire. Her head was not shaved; she sported long brown hair that flowed down to her hips. Instead of manacles, golden links surrounded her ankles and wrists. Instead of ash, perfume clung to her soft skin. Instead of rough burlap, she wore fine silken trousers, the fabric soft as summer sunset, and a top that revealed more than it hid. She was a pleasure slave, chosen from the pits of despair for her beauty, her coquettish lips, her knowing eyes, her tongue that could whisper sweet nothings and raise flesh to heights of unbearable pleasure. In a land of pain, she used her gifts of pleasure. Among a chained, broken people, she found her servitude in a gilded cage.

She looked around her. While most slaves labored in Tofet, a desert of sand and rock and whips, she served in wealth. The garden rustled with irises and lilies and jasmines, with fig trees, pomegranate trees, and date palms. Behind them soared the palace of Saraph, a towering ziggurat, framed by idols of gold, topped with a great platinum eye. Before them rose a portico of marble columns, and beyond sprawled the city of Shayeen, a realm of temples, bathhouses, theaters—a city of leisure and splendor for the fallen gods of lost Edinnu. The land of Tofet, where most of the slaves toiled, lay hidden beyond the horizon.

"Tash, darling!" cried a drunken seraph, waving an empty goblet. "More wine, my dear."

Tash giggled at the pink-cheeked man, a young lordling from the city garrisons. He lay on a blanket between the flower beds, his wings spread out around him. He had doffed his breastplate, and droplets of wine ran down his bare chest. His halo was pale in the sunlight, barely visible; it had been fading with every cup.

"Tash!" he cried to her. "Wine!"

She swayed toward him, deftly making her way between the other seraphim in the garden, dodging their reaching hands. Harps played, the peonies and jasmines rustled, and marble statues of cherubim pissed water into koi ponds. When Tash reached the drunken seraph, she poured him more wine from her jug. As the crimson liquid flowed, he reached out and pinched her soft flesh. She squealed as she had been taught, feigning delight.

"There's wine spilled on my chest!" said the lordling.

Tash stroked the seraph's long golden hair. "Let me drink it, my lord."

She leaned down, stared up into his eyes, and licked the wine from his chest. Across the gardens, the other seraphim saw and hooted. The young lord pulled her head up, and he kissed her roughly, his tongue seeking, and she kissed him back.

When I serve them here, I do not bear a yoke across my shoulders, she thought. I do not cry in agony as flaming whips tear into my skin. I do not suffer in the desert, breaking my back under baskets of bricks. So let me service these lords and ladies, for the day I can no longer bring pleasure . . . there will be nothing for me but pain.

As she left the lordling to his cup, making her way toward another seraph, Tash fingered the iron collar around her neck. Perhaps she wore no yoke, no chains, no burlap. But like all Vir Requis slaves, six hundred thousand of them here in this cruel southern empire, she wore the collar.

Tash winced. The curse of Requiem.

Ancient runes were engraved into the collar, keeping her magic at bay—the magic of starlight. Once, Tash knew, hundreds of years ago when the Vir Requis had lived free, they could summon the magic of the Draco constellation. In their land of Requiem, they could grow wings and scales, breathe fire, and take to the sky as dragons. They had been a mighty nation, a kingdom of magic, starlight, and dragonfire.

But those days had ended.

The cruel Ishtafel had crushed Requiem, felled the marble halls, slaughtered a million souls, and brought the rest here to captivity. Tash could feel the magic inside her; she had been feeling it all her life. Yet it tingled just beyond her reach, the collar's dark magic forever imprisoning the dragon inside her. And so she remained a human—a young, slender woman with quick hands, a quick tongue, a quick mind. A woman who would forever serve her masters, who would never find her sky.

"Sweetness!" called another seraph, a soldier with flowing blond hair and gleaming eyes, the pupils shaped as starbursts. He patted his lap. "Come, little one. Sit! Feed me grapes."

As she made her way toward him, Tash raised her eyes and gazed at the sky. They said that in Requiem far in the north, the sky had been a thing of many colors—sometimes golden, sometimes deep blue and purple, sometimes strewn with clouds in all the colors of fire. But here in the south, in the empire of Saraph, the sky was always a cruel pale blue, almost white, the sun large and viscious. A sky she would never reach. The seraphim had wings of feathers, and Tash had wings too—the leathern wings of a dragon, hidden inside her, forever bound deep within. Wings that could never spread wide, never glide upon the wind.

I still dream of you, Requiem, she thought, looking up toward that sky. I still pray to find your sky.

She had reached the seraph, and she had just settled down on his lap when the chanting rose from the city and the sky burned.

"Remember Requiem! Remember Requiem!"

Six hundred thousand voices crying out as one.

"Requiem!" they cried. "May our wings forever find your sky!"

Across the garden, the seraphim froze.

Tash leaped off the soldier's lap. Her entire body trembled.

"Remember Requiem!" rose the chant from beyond the palace gardens. "Remember Requiem!"

The seraphim leaped to their feet. Drunkenly, they spread their wings and soared into the sky, their cups—and Tash—forgotten. The gardens shook as the chant kept rolling.

"Remember Requiem!"

Tash could barely breathe.

She ran, leaping across the grass and over fallen mugs and puddles of wine. She raced up a staircase and onto the marble wall that framed the gardens. Heart thrashing, she gazed upon Shayeen, the City of Kings, the capital of Saraph.

Stars above . . .

Thousands of slaves—hundreds of thousands—were marching through the city, raising candles, chanting for Requiem. The slaves of Tofet—heads shaven, ankles hobbled, backs striped, necks collared. They marched together, calling out for freedom, and at their lead walked a tall slave, a woman in burlap, her head shaved.

The woman had a halo and swan wings.

Tash narrowed her eyes.

A seraph slave?

"Meliora!" the marching slaves cried. "Meliora the Merciful!"

Tash gasped and covered her mouth.

Meliora?

Tash narrowed her eyes. As the procession of slaves marched closer to the palace, Tash got a closer look. She had seen the Princess of Saraph before, daughter of Queen Kalafi. Many times, walking through the palace to a lord or lady's chamber, Tash had paused to kneel before the princess. Gone was Meliora's long golden hair. Gone was her muslin kalasiri dress strewn with gemstones. Gone were her cosmetics, her jewels, her aura of youth and health. But even marching along the city boulevard, barefoot, ankles shackled, head shaved—Meliora had the same noble face, the same halo, the same sunburst eyes.

"Meliora the Merciful!" cried the slaves.

Tash stood on the garden wall, the wind billowing her harem pants, watching as her people—myriads of Vir Requis in chains—chanted for freedom. She watched as a leader rose among them, Princess Meliora, daughter of the queen of Saraph, daughter of a common slave—a leader who shouted for Requiem.

Hope rises.

And Tash watched, eyes damp, as the wrath of Saraph descended from the sky.

The firehorses galloped across the sky, their brimstone hooves like thunder, their flaming wings spreading wide. Behind them streamed the chariots of fire, and within them the seraphim shone. Thousands of the deities, cast out from Edinnu, covered the sky.

And above them all he rose—King Ishtafel. The lord of Saraph, the blood of his slain mother still on his lips. The destroyer of Requiem. The cruel god of light. He flew in a chariot of fire, his wings spread wide, and from the city she ascended—Meliora, transfigured into a dragon of silver and gold, her scales gleaming like pearls, feathers ruffling upon her wings and tail. She blasted white flames, a dragon of light, a savior of Requiem, and Ishtafel plunged toward her, wreathed in fire and brimstone.

Tash watched, tears on her cheeks, as Ishtafel drove his spear into the feathered dragon, as Meliora lost her magic, as she fell in human form. She watched, weeping, as Ishtafel pulled the bleeding Meliora onto the palace balcony far above the gardens, as his sword lashed, as the blade cut through Meliora's swan wings.

Requiem fell. Hope fell.

And with hope fell the wings—gliding, almost peaceful, their white feathers stained red. The severed wings of a seraph, of Meliora's lost divinity. The wings glided down and landed at Tash's feet. Above her, on the balcony, Ishtafel roared to the crowd and Meliora screamed no more.

Tash's heart seemed to shatter within her.

Trembling, the screams washing across her, Tash lifted a fallen feather—a long white feather from Meliora's wing. A piece of the savior.

As the sky burned, Tash fled the gardens. Feather clutched to her chest, she ran into the ziggurat. She raced along gleaming corridors, jeweled columns at her sides. She bounded down stairways, plunging deeper and deeper underground, entering the bowels of the city, the shadowy underworld where few seraphim ventured. Yet the screams still echoed above—echoed in her ears, over and over. The screams of the dying, of thousands of her people falling to the spears of the seraphim, those seraphim Tash served.

Tears blinded her.

My people die yet I flee into shadow. They march for freedom yet I burrow underground.

The grief, the terror, the guilt tore at her, and her heart thrashed, and her head spun.

Finally, dizzy, Tash stumbled into her home—the glittering cavern beneath the ziggurat. The pleasure pit.

Here was a place of smoke, shadows, flickering lights. Her little kingdom to rule. Curtains of beads and silk hung from the ceiling. The walls were roughly carved, no finer than the walls of a cave, peppered with alcoves full of candles, incense sticks, and gleaming crystals. The other pleasure slaves—Tash's girls—lounged upon tasseled pillows and rugs, smoking from hookahs. The hintan—a pleasurer's favorite spice—bubbled in the glass containers, gleaming green, while purple smoke rose from the slaves' lips. Two male seraphim were here today, lying on a rug, moaning as perfumed slaves pleasured them with spice, wine, and flesh.

Tash was a young woman, among the youngest in the pit, yet she ruled over the others, for she refused to surrender to the spice. Her mind was clear, her instincts sharp. With her wits, she had risen to rule her domain of shadows.

Let there be some safety here, she thought, gazing upon her girls. Let this be a haven even as the world shatters above.

She walked through the chamber, navigating between the curtains of beads, the bubbling hookahs, and the pleasure slaves who lay everywhere. The candlelight shone, the beads jangled, and the giggles of the slaves rose like music. But still those screams echoed in Tash's ears, and she could not forget the raining blood.

She thought of Elory, the young girl who had come here from the bitumen craters, who had vanished from the pleasure pit days ago. Tash had thought the girl insufferable at first, naive and dulled by the sun of Tofet, yet as she had taught Elory the ways of lovemaking, Tash had come to like the girl.

Are you still alive, Elory? Did you find safety up in the cruel world, or did—

The door to the pleasure pit banged open.

Tash spun around and felt the blood drain from her face.

Her heart seemed to stop.

There he stood—the new King of Saraph, the blood of his mother and sister still on his hands.

Ishtafel.

Tash hid the long white feather behind her back. Her heart, which only an instant ago had seemed frozen, burst into a gallop. Cold sweat washed her. She had just watched this seraph, the man who had destroyed Requiem, cut the wings off Meliora, and now he was here, bloodlust in his eyes.

Tash raised her chin. I cannot let him hurt any others. I cannot let him hurt my girls.

"My lord!" She rushed toward him, placing herself between him and her fellow pleasure slaves. "Welcome to the pleasure pit! I am Tash, and I would be glad to—"

He grabbed her, snarling, lust in his eyes—no longer bloodlust but lust for her. Not the playful, sometimes even wild lust of the other seraphim who called upon her services. His was a violent, cruel thing, the lust of a predator, of a conqueror.

"My lord, I would be happy to please you—" she began, heart thumping.

"Silence."

He ripped her clothes, and he did not let her do her work. She would not be pleasuring him today, would not pour him wine, giggle at his jokes, kiss every part of his body until he went mad with desire. No. He wanted her to give him nothing; he wanted only to take. And he took from her. He took all of her, clutching her with bloody fingers, laughing, drooling onto her, a rabid beast, a demon above her. She shut her eyes, shuddering beneath him as his fingers bruised her, smearing others' blood across her pale skin. Tash had made love to countless men, yet she had never had a man take her like this; he was not a man, she thought, not a sentient being but a charging bull of fire.

Finally he pulled out from her, and he shoved her aside.

He left her there on the rug. He left her as he had left Meliora—wingless, a broken thing. He left her as he had left Requiem—shattered.

She lay there in another person's blood, clutching her feather.

Remember Requiem, Tash thought. Remember Requiem.

Slowly, as a flame in old embers, a rage kindled in Tash. She had seen a nation march. She had seen a leader rise among them—Meliora the Merciful—only for Ishtafel to cut off her wings.

When Elory had spoken to her of her dreams—dreams of old Requiem, of Requiem rising again—Tash had scoffed. But something had happened this day. Something Tash knew she would never forget. She held her feather so tightly she crushed it.

Remember Requiem.

"Tash, are you all right?" whispered one of her girls, a slave with long red hair.

Tash rose to her feet, a deep ache between her legs, searing up her belly. She clutched the feather as if drowning at sea, clinging to a rope.

"No," she whispered. "I'm not all right. None of this is all right."

And then she heard it.

The chanting—not just in her memory but true voices, calling out, again and again.

"Free Meliora! Free Meliora!"

The voices of her people. The cry of Requiem.

We rise up.

Tash balled her fists.

And I will rise with my people. With Requiem.

Tash tightened her lips and left the pleasure pit. She made her way along the dark corridors, up the stairs, and back to the surface of the world. She walked along a portico, a wall of frescos to one side, columns to the other, affording a view of the city beyond.

"Free Meliora!" the slaves cried. "Free Meliora!"

Requiem cried out . . . and Saraph answered.

Fire streamed above, and there he flew—Ishtafel, rising in a chariot of fire, laughing, slick with blood, and the pain in Tash flared. A hundred thousand seraphim or more flew with him, their chariots covering the sky.

Tash stared from between the columns, feeling the world collapse around her.

Blood flowed across the city of Shayeen that day.

Fire rained.

Shrieking, laughing, praying to their gods, the seraphim descended upon the children of Requiem with spear and arrow, decimating the slaves, and a forest of the dead rose, corpses upon pikes.

Requiem shattered.

The screams rose, then tore, then fell silent.

Tash knew that all her life, she would remember the slaughter she saw here. She knew that if Requiem survived, her people would forever remember this day, the decimation of the slaves, the massacre of sixty thousand souls, their voices forever silenced, their light forever darkened. And she knew that she herself could never return to that glittering pit, to the smoke of hintan and incense, to the kingdom she had carved beneath the mountain.

Once Tash had thought herself merely a pleasurer, a queen of the glittering goddesses of the underworld. That life had ended. This day she was a daughter of Requiem.

The fire seared her tears dry, and Tash forced herself to stare at the slaughter. At the blood on the streets of Shayeen. At the piles of dead. At the seraphim who still dipped from the sky, thrusting spears, slaughtering the fleeing children of Requiem. She forced herself to see this, as King Benedictus in days of old had seen the slaughter at Lanburg Fields in Requiem's ancient war against the griffins, as Queen Lyana had seen the phoenixes descending upon the marble halls of Nova Vita, Requiem's lost capital.

I'm not a warrior like they were. Tash touched the collar around her neck. I have no legendary sword to wield, nor can I become a dragon and blow my fire. She reached down between her legs, feeling the pain Ishtafel had left. But I still have this weapon, this weapon I've always fought with. And I will fight for Requiem. For our savior.

She looked at the white feather in her hand. It was nearly as long as Tash's forearm. Meliora's feather. The feather of the great Princess of Saraph . . . and the great leader of Requiem.

Tash turned away from the city.

She faced the towering wall across from the portico. A fresco appeared there, several times her height, showing the fall of Requiem. Painted dragons fell while seraphim fired their arrows, and above them all flew the tyrant.

"You cut off her wings," Tash whispered. "You hurt me. You slaughtered thousands. You did not think slaves could fight you, Ishtafel, but I will fight. I remember Requiem."

MELIORA

She lay in darkness, alone, her phantom wings aflame.

How long had she languished here in this prison cell? Meliora didn't know. There was no night or day here, no way to tell the passage of time. A guard arrived sometimes, slid open a small metal square on the doorway, and shoved in a bowl of gruel and a cup of water. Whether she had three meals a day or one, Meliora could not tell. She could have been in here for days, perhaps weeks.

And still her wings burned.

Their fire lit the cell with a hot, red light, crackling, illuminating brick walls, a craggy floor, and a ceiling coated with spiderwebs. A chamber so small Meliora had no room to lie down, only curl up in the corner. She kept reaching over her back, trying to extinguish those flames on her wings, but felt nothing. Her hands passed through them.

Missing. Gone. She shuddered. Ishtafel cut them off.

Meliora could still feel them there as they said soldiers sometimes felt missing limbs. Yet the wings had fallen from the balcony, and the firelight did not come from burning feathers. It came from the halo on her head.

Wincing, Meliora reached over her head again, then pulled her seared fingers back. The fire crackled with new vigor. She ached for a mirror, ached to see what burned above her head. Her old halo, a thin ring of soft light, was gone. Instead flames now seemed to wreath her brow, a crown of dragonfire.

"Who am I now?" she whispered in the shadows. "What am I?"

Her mother was Queen Kalafi, a seraph fallen from Edinnu, but did the holy ichor still flow through Meliora's veins? She had thought herself a noble seraph princess, pure and fair, yet her long golden hair was gone; only stubble now covered her head. Her wings, once curtains of white, were gone too. Her halo was a thing of flame that burned her own fingers. Who was she now?

"A child of Requiem," she whispered.

She closed her eyes, and she thought of Requiem. She had grown up seeing that ancient kingdom of dragons. All her life, she had gazed upon Requiem in frescos, mosaics, paintings, engravings on great palace walls and temple columns. All her life, she had heard of a kingdom of reptiles, of ruthless enemies that Ishtafel had conquered.

And all her life, Meliora had dreamed of that distant, fallen land—and in her dreams, Requiem still stood, and she flew among the dragons, one of their number, not beastly but noble and proud, and the stars of the dragon shone above her.

Perhaps I've always known that I'm a child of starlight.

That land of marble halls and birch woods had fallen, but Requiem still lived. It lived here in Saraph—in the land of Tofet beyond the City of Kings. It lived in the thousands of huts. It lived in the small home of her father, the priest Jaren, and her siblings, Vale and Elory. It lived in the hearts of the slaves who had marched behind Meliora into the city, stood before the palace, and cried out for freedom. And it still lived within Meliora—a memory of starlight, a torch of dragonfire she vowed to keep carrying.

She could feel the magic deep inside her, warm, tingly. She tried to summon it again, to become the dragon. As a dragon, she could shatter the prison door, storm through the halls, burn all in her path. Breathing deeply, Meliora let the magic flow through her, rising, filling her like healing energy. Scales began to rise across her body, pearly white, and her fingernails lengthened, and—

The collar tightened around her neck.

Meliora gasped in pain, and her magic petered away.

Her scales vanished, and she fell to the floor, trembling, bile in her throat. She clawed at her collar, but it was forged of solid iron, engraved with runes of power. No saw or blade in the empire could cut through this collar, no fire could melt it—certainly not her fingernails.

But there is a key that can open it.

Coughing, weak from her wounds and hunger, Meliora reached into the pocket of her burlap shift. She pulled out the ancient relic she had snatched in the battle—the Keeper's Key.

Or at least what was left of it. For hundreds of years, the Keeper's Key had hung around Queen Kalafi's neck, allowing the royal family of Saraph to remove the collars from choice slaves. Only a few Vir Requis were ever allowed to become dragons—to dig in the tar pits, to haul heavy stones, and sometimes to entertain the people in the arena in mock battles from the old war.

But Ishtafel had crushed that key in his palm, forever sealing the Vir Requis—and her among them—in their human forms. Meliora examined the remains of the key. It lay in her palm, crumpled into a ball of crimson metal. The old runes upon it, written in gold, were barely visible, only a few squiggly lines.

Once again, Meliora tried to unbend the key, to tug the metal back into its long slender form. But she could not; she didn't have Ishtafel's strength, and even if she did, would she simply snap the key when trying to straighten it? As she had countless times, she brought the twisted ball of metal to her collar, hoping against hope that this time—finally!—it would work. The few crumpled runes on the key—whatever was still visible—gave but a soft glow, then fizzled away. The collar remained locked.

Meliora sighed and returned the crushed key to her pocket. If only she had grabbed the key from Ishtafel in time! She had flown so close. She could have burned him, stolen the key, freed the slaves, led a nation of dragons home to Requiem. Yet now she lingered here in a prison cell. Now the slaves cried out in agony, suffering under an even crueler tyrant.

"Perhaps I should have married him," Meliora whispered, eyes stinging. "Perhaps I should never have raced Ishtafel in the chariots, tried to save Elory from his clutches, led the slaves in revolt. Perhaps I should have birthed his heir, been a mother to our child of pure blood. My own mother would still be alive, and I would still be a princess, still have my wings."

But no. That would have been only an illusion. That would have been just as much a prison cell. Meliora knew the truth now—knew that her father was Jaren the slave. Knew that she was half Vir Requis.

"I will not forget you, stars of my fathers," she whispered in the shadows. "Not for all the palaces and gold in the empire. Requiem! May our wings forever find your—"

The lock on the cell door clattered.

Meliora froze, then scuttled backward, leaped to her feet, and hissed.

The heavy stone door creaked open. Torchlight flooded the chamber, brighter than her halo, crackling and casting out sparks. Meliora winced, staring at the dark, towering figure who stood in the doorway, wings spread out, head haloed with golden light.

"Hello, sweet sister," the figure whispered, voice smooth and deadly like a steel blade, and stepped into the chamber.

Meliora sneered. "Ishtafel."

He smiled thinly and stepped closer, the heat of his torch singeing her body. While she was covered in scratches, bruises, and dried blood, clad in rags, Ishtafel looked more resplendent than ever. Rubies shone upon his gilded breastplate, the metal forged to mimic the shape of his bare torso. His hair hung down his back, lush and golden. A crown rested on his head, mimicking his halo, and a lush cape of samite hung across his shoulders.

"My, my, but aren't you a wretched sight." He tsked his tongue. "Filth does not become you, sister. You were fair once."

"And I thought you noble once," she said. "Yet I saw the filth within you. I saw the blood of Mother, the blood of Requiem upon your hands. The blood of my own wings. You stand before me in gold, but you are covered with more filth than I ever will be."

He raised an eyebrow. "And so sweet little Meliora, the princess who once could speak of nothing but puppies and cupcakes, now waxes poetic about righteousness and evil. This cell has made you a philosopher."

She shook her head. "Not this cell but truth. I am no longer that innocent princess, it is true, not because I languish in the underground but because I know who I am. I know that dragon blood flows through me."

Sudden anger twisted his face. His eyes narrowed, the golden irises blazing around his sunburst pupils. His lips peeled back, baring his teeth like a rabid wolf over meat. He lashed his hand, slashing his fingernails across her cheek. She yelped. Ishtafel pulled his hand back, examining her blood on his fingertips. He licked a drop.

"True." He smacked his lips. "I do taste the dragon filth. But I also taste the ichor of the Thirteenth Dynasty, the pure, golden blood of my own lineage. Mother is dead. No other women of our family live. And that blood must be preserved." He grinned and licked his lips, smearing her blood across them. "Now that you've had time to languish in darkness, and now that your slave friends are broken, you will come to my chamber. You will clean up. You will wear gowns again. You will feed upon the fine fare your slaves grow. You will wed me, as planned, and you will bear me an heir."

She snorted. "So you would have an heir tainted with slave blood?"

"I will not." His grin grew wider. "You will bear me a daughter, Meliora. And she will bear me a daughter too, on and on, until the dragon blood is bred out of our line. We are immortal, my dear, and we can wait. We have time. In a few generations, the dragon blood will be gone from our family, and the Thirteenth Dynasty will be pure again. I spent five hundred years battling our enemies, burning out the impurity from the world. I can spend five hundred more breeding out the impurity from my family."

"You are insane," Meliora whispered.

He shook his head. "I am a god, sister. And gods strike down their enemies." He reached out his hand to her. "But you need not suffer. I have punished you, sister. I have punished you justly, and you have suffered for your sins. But you will find me a merciful god. Return with me to the palace, wed me, grow my daughters in your womb, and you will return to your puppies, your cupcakes, your days of careless wonder. Once more, you will sleep on a bed of silk, giggle in the gardens, and enjoy a life in the splendor I have built."

She stared at him, eyes narrowed, and shook her head slightly. "I don't know who you are." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "I don't know where my brother is. Where is the brother who would run with me through the gardens, teach me to fish, teach me the names of birds? Where is the brother who pretended to drink tea from my toy cups, who taught me to spit off the balcony, who always laughed at the stupid jokes I read in my books?" She took a step back from him, and her back pressed against the wall. Her phantom wings flared—the wings he had cut off. "He is dead now."

"He is very much alive, I assure you." He reached out and took her hand. "Perhaps we both have changed. Yet one thing remains: our duty to Saraph."

She tugged her hand free. "My duty is only to Requiem. I will not become your wife, and I will not bear your heirs, and I will not return to who I was. That princess too is dead, as dead as the man you once were. I would rather choose a life of chains, true to myself, than a life of lies in a palace."

Once more rage flared across his face. His halo crackled, and his eyes blazed. "You will have no chains, sister, only a cell. Only darkness." He laughed. "We are immortals, Meliora. Enjoy the next hundred years in darkness. I will see you next century . . . and maybe then you will change your mind."

He stepped outside the chamber.

Meliora leaped toward him, shouting.

He slammed the door shut, knocking her down. She fell onto the stone floor, banging her elbows, and the door's lock clanked shut, leaving her in darkness.

She pounded at the door, screaming. "Ishtafel! Ishtafel! Wait!" She fell to her knees, and tears burned in her eyes. "I changed my mind! Let me out! Let me out . . ."

Yet he would not answer.

He would not return.

She had been in this chamber for only a few days, and it felt like an eternity. A hundred years of solitude awaited her.

Will he really leave me here for a century? When I emerge, Elory, Jaren, Vale . . . my family . . . they will be gone. And who will I be? A creature driven mad, a sniveling wreck.

"Ishtafel!" she cried, scratching again at the door until her fingernails bled. "Ishtafel!"

Nothing but silence answered her, and Meliora pressed her head against the door. Her halo of dragonfire crackled above her head, searing the stone.

I am dragonfire.

I am a daughter of Requiem.

I am free.

Meliora curled up on the floor, hugged her knees, and closed her eyes. She imagined herself as a dragon of gold and silver, feathers ruffling in the wind, gliding in the sky of her home.

TASH

She walked through the labyrinth beneath the ziggurat, holding her hookah of bubbling spice, a warrior of Requiem armed with smoke and gemstones.

Her anklets jangled with every step, the gold embedded with topaz. A ring shone on her finger, a gift from a sailor on a hot night last summer. Her only armor was her silken trousers and top, and she held her hookah before her like a sword. The green liquid inside bubbled, heated by embers in a hidden chamber, and purple smoke rose from the nozzle, dancing around Tash like demons of forgetfulness. It had been three years since Tash had danced with that demon; she had tamed it, used it as her familiar, her secret assassin.

I will fight for you, Requiem, the way I can. Fate made me a pleasurer. I will fight with pleasure instead of steel or dragonfire.

The dungeons beneath the ziggurat were deep, a place of many hidden kingdoms. Not only the pleasure pit hid here underground, but many other domains—the cisterns that stored water for the city of Shayeen, armories full of lances and shields, stores of grain and salted meats, glittering halls full of treasures . . . and the city dungeons. Here in the darkness languished the prisoners of the Thirteenth Dynasty. Here in the darkness waited hope.

"I will find you, Meliora," Tash whispered. "You don't know me, but I fight for you."

She thought back to that day in the gardens, seeing the march through the city. She had sat upon the lap of a seraph, giggling at his jokes, feeding him grapes, serving the masters, and she had seen six hundred thousand slaves marching for freedom, unafraid. She had seen a leader walk before them, rise as a feathered dragon—Meliora the Merciful. The shame of that day still burned through Tash. Her people had fought, bled, many died, fighting for freedom, fighting for Meliora.

And I just watched. I just fled.

And she remembered Ishtafel clutching her, fingers still bloody, thrusting into her, mounting her, taking her like a rabid dog takes a bitch.

Someday I will kill you, Ishtafel, Tash silently swore. Perhaps you are a god of light, but I serve the stars of Requiem, and their light is soft, cold, impossible to see in the sunlight, yet stronger than you know.

She reached into her pocket with her free hand, and she felt the feather there—the feather from Meliora's wing. A token of hope.

She walked down a staircase, hookah bubbling, heading deeper underground than she'd ever gone—deeper even than the pleasure pit. She reached a craggy corridor lined with torches. Muffled screams rose from ahead, and footsteps thumped. A deep voice laughed, a whip lashed, and a scream rose again.

Tash paused and gulped. Cold sweat trickled down her back.

The dungeons.

She forced herself to take a deep breath, inhaling just a little of the lavender smoke. She would be brave. She would be brave like the great heroes of Requiem. Like Issari, the Priestess in White, who shone in the sky. Like King Benedictus who had fought the griffins. Like Queen Fidelity the Wise who had fought the cruel Templers and rededicated the halls of Requiem.

Tash was no noble heroine like them. She was not tall, not proud, not a warrior in armor, not noble. She was only a pleasurer, no better than a whore, clad in the garments of her shame. But Meliora was pure. Meliora was noble. And Meliora needed her.

Tash raised her chin and walked on.

She reached an iron door set into a stone archway—the entrance to the dungeons. Two seraph guards stood here, wearing steel armor, holding spears and shields. Their eyes cast their own light, gleaming through the holes in their helmets.

"What are you doing here, slave?" one guard said, spitting out the words. She recognized this one—a fool named Erish.

Tash raised an eyebrow. "Slave? You called me nicer names last summer, when you guarded the hunting expedition the nobles took me on. Something about . . . sweet teats?"

She could not see through the man's helmet, but she swore that he was blushing. "Damn pleasure slaves got dirty tongues."

She thrust her tongue out at him. "That's how you like my tongue. I know." She reached into her pocket, struggling to hide her shaking fingers and the thrashing of her heart. She pulled out the rolled up scroll and held it forward. "I carry Ishtafel's seal. He's given me a pass to enter this dungeon. I bring . . . a special surprise, a gift for the man who guards Ishtafel's sister."

The guard grunted and grabbed the scroll. "Let me see that."

Tash's heart hammered as the guard examined the wax seal.

Please, stars of Requiem, let him believe me. Let him open the door.

A few weeks ago, Elory—a slave from the bitumen pits—had entered the pleasure pits, had come under Tash's tutelage. For long hours, Tash had taught the girl the ways of lovemaking—how to drive a man wild with a nibble to the earlobe, a kiss on the neck, a stroke at just the right places. And while Elory slept, exhausted from her lessons, Tash had spent long hours studying the scroll Elory had brought into the pleasure pit—the scroll bearing Ishtafel's seal. Slowly, whittling away in the shadows, Tash had copied that seal, engraving its shape—an eye within a sunburst, surrounded by runes—into one of her rings. She had melted a hundred candles, made hundreds of wax seals of her own, always tweaking, adjusting the marks on her ring . . . finally coming up with her own imperial seal.

Elory was gone now, but that seal remained, engraved into the ring in her pocket . . . its mark upon the scroll the guard now held.

The guard stared at the seal, eyes narrowing. At his side, his fellow guard tightened his hands around his lance. A vision flashed through Tash's mind—the seraphim flying in their chariots, descending upon the city, thrusting those lances into thousands of slaves.

Please, stars of Requiem. Please, Issari, the Dragon's Eye. If you can hear me from underground, far in a foreign land . . . grant me aid. Let me fool them. Let me fight with trickery if I cannot fight with dragonfire.

Finally the guard broke the seal, tugged the scroll open, and read—the words one of Tash's girls had written, the only one among them who could write.

Please, stars of Requiem, let Erish be somewhat literate . . . or illiterate and ashamed to admit it.

Finally Erish the guard grunted and rolled up the scroll. He snorted and glanced at his comrade. "Checks out. That gift to Gron?" He thrust his chin toward Tash. "Her sweet teats."

The other guard's eyes widened. "Why don't we get a gift?"

Erish groaned. "Because we're only gate guards, that's why. Lowest on the totem, as always. Cell guards always get all the perks."

"Sorry, boys." Tash reached up to pat their helmets, one guard at a time. "Maybe you'll get lucky next hunting trip you guard."

They grumbled, but they pulled the iron door open, revealing a corridor lined with prison cells. Tash sauntered through, carrying her hookah. The door shut behind her, sealing her in the palace dungeons.

Most prisoners in the empire were executed—sometimes inside the bronze bull, sometimes by a simple beheading, sometimes crucified on the hills or nailed to the ziggurat's crest. Here, underground, languished the greatest enemies of the Thirteenth Dynasty, those not allowed the mercy of death. Rebels. Traitors. Immortal seraphim doomed to languish in the darkness, lingering for eternity in their cells, driven mad—some had been mad for centuries. The doors were heavy stone; they looked less like the doors of a prison, more like the doors of tombs. Screams rolled through the hall, muffled, a sound like ghosts. Here rotted the living dead.

"Where are you, Meliora?" Tash whispered.

A third guard stood here, keys jangling from his belt. The brute spun toward her. Most seraphim were noble, beautiful beings, their bodies chiseled, their faces fair. This man was an exception; years of servitude underground had left him pale, and his hair was such a fine blond it was nearly white. His back was stooped, his gut large. Seraphim were children of the sun; in darkness they withered.

"What—" the guard began, then bit his tongue. His eyes traveled down and up again, taking in Tash's body like a thirsty lion laps up water.

She smiled and curtsied. "Good day, sir! I am Tash of the pleasure pit. My lord, King Ishtafel the Glorious, Great in Graces, has sent me here as a gift to you. He knows that you guard Meliora, his sister . . ." She made sure to note which cell the guard's eyes flicked toward. ". . . and he has commanded me to come here bearing gifts."

The guard frowned, his shelf of a brow pushing low over small, far-set eyes. "What gifts?"

Tash placed down her hookah between them. Heated by the embers, the spice bubbled, filling the corridor with its intoxicating, spicy-sweet scent. "This gift." Maintaining eye contact, she doffed her top and trousers, letting them fall to the floor, exposing her nakedness. "And this."

The guard's eyes widened. Saliva dribbled down his chin. He reached out to her breast.

Tash slapped his hand away with a gasp, all coy indignation. "Not yet, sir!" She smiled coquettishly. "Enjoy some spice with me first."

"But—"

"Listen to your pleasurer!" She stepped closer, stood on her tiptoes, and whispered into his ear. "Let me do my work. Just follow my every command, sir, and I promise you a night you will never forget. You will soon scream with pleasure louder than these prisoners scream in pain."

His sunburst pupils dilated, and his breathing grew heavy. "I . . . spice?"

Tash nodded, letting her lips touch his ear. "Hintan. The Treasure of the Desert. The Green Spirit. Have you never tried the spice, my lord?" She held up the hookah's nozzle. "Try it, my lord! Breathe deeply. Let its magic fill you."

He hesitated, then took the nozzle and gently puffed. At once he coughed, scattering purple smoke. "It's . . . sweet. And burning."

Tash took the nozzle from him. "Let me show you."

Smiling at him, never removing her eyes from his, she placed her lips around the nozzle. She breathed in but did not inhale. This spice inside the hookah was no ordinary hintan, not the kind even the most decadent of pleasurers smoked. Here was the distilled essence of the spice, purified again and again, powerful enough to knock out dragons. Tash breathed out, not letting any of the smoke fill her lungs. Even so, her head spun, and her fear faded under waves of joy—perhaps a good thing now.

The guard took the nozzle, and this time he breathed deeply.

"Inhale," Tash said. "Fill your lungs. It'll make the pleasure even greater."

He inhaled and his pupils dilated further. A thin smile spread across his lips, and his eyes rolled back. "It's . . . sweet. It's . . ."

Tash placed a hand on his chest. The guard collapsed and hit the ground with a clatter of keys.

She cringed. Shh!

Tash glanced behind her at the iron door that led into the dungeon, but it remained shut. The guards outside had not heard their friend collapse, it seemed, but Tash's heart beat so madly she thought they must hear it pounding. Trying to steady her trembling fingers, she pulled her clothes back on, then grabbed the guard's belt and tugged it off.

"I bet you wish I were doing this under different circumstances," she whispered.

She unslung the keys off his belt. The guard lay on his back, drooling, chest rising and falling in his stupor.

"Gimosh!" cried a voice outside the iron door.

Tash froze and grabbed the fallen guard's spear.

"Gimosh!" the voice repeated. "You remember where to stick it, don't you?" The guards outside laughed.

Tash grumbled. She prayed the brutes outside didn't enter for a glimpse of the show—a show now cancelled. She rushed toward one of the stone cell doors—the door the fallen guard had glanced at when Tash had said "Meliora."

Clutching the spear in one hand, she placed a key into the lock . . . and turned it.

The lock clacked, spilling rust.

Tash inhaled deeply, pressed her shoulder against the stone door, and pushed. The door creaked open, maddeningly loud. Tash cursed and let out a moan, feigning mad pleasure, hiding the sound of the creaking door; the hoots from outside the dungeon further masked the sound.

Finally the door had opened, revealing nothing but shadows.

"Meliora?" Tash whispered. She tiptoed into the cell. "Lady Meliora? I'm here to rescue you. I—"

A scream blasted her.

A wretched, pale creature leaped forth, lashing curling fingernails that must have grown two feet long.

Tash yelped and jumped back.

The creature hissed, its teeth gone. Only thin strands of hair grew from its scalp, and its skin clung to bones, nearly no fat or muscle on its body. Wretched wings grew from the beast's back, a few scattered feathers still clinging to them. Its one eye was gone, and the other blazed with hatred, the pupil shaped like a sun.

Tash thrust her spear, goading it back. She cried out, "Gimosh! Yes, Gimosh!"

Please don't let the guards outside hear.

The creature inside squealed, and Tash's spear lashed against its arm. With a wail, it retreated back into the cell. Tash grabbed the door and began to pull it shut.

She paused.

Her eyes dampened.

She thrust her spear through the doorway with all her strength, digging her heels into the floor, impaling the poor creature's heart. The seraph—or at least, the creature that had once been a seraph—let out a gasp . . . a sound almost thankful. It collapsed to the floor.

Tash spun away from the cell, spear in one hand, keys in the other. She gazed across the hall.

"Gimosh!" rose the voice of a guard outside the dungeon. "Gimosh, care to share her?"

Tash cursed. "Let him have his fun first!" she shouted at the door. "You can be next."

She moved across the craggy corridor, gazing at the cells. Twenty or more lined the walls, and each could contain another wretched, rotting creature. Which one did Meliora languish behind? Tash dared not call out the princess's name.

Orange light caught her eye.

Tash spun toward a cell. The light rose around the doorframe.

The light of dragonfire.

The light of Requiem, Tash thought.

More than anyone in the palace—more even than the mightiest lords and ladies—the pleasurers were the mistresses of information. Every man who visited her den spoke his secrets, and Tash knew that upon Meliora's head no longer shone a halo of golden light. Meliora the Merciful was now crowned with dragonfire.

Tash stepped toward the cell, placed her key into the lock, and pushed open the door.

Meliora stared back at her.

Many times in her life, walking through the palace to visit this or that lord, Tash had seen Meliora from a distance—a tall, beautiful seraph, her wings pure white, her halo golden, her skin fair and her eyes shining, her body shimmering with jewels. Ahead of her now stood a woman Tash barely recognized. Meliora's hair, wings, and jewels were gone, and dried blood and dirt stained her body. She wore only burnt rags. Yet her eyes were still strong, fiery with life—seraph eyes. Upon her head crackled a new halo, woven of red and orange flame.

"Tash," she whispered.

Tash's eyes widened. "You know my name, my lady?"

Meliora nodded. "I've seen you wander the palace. I know about the . . . pleasure pit. I've often—"

The lock on the iron door—the one leading into the corridor of cells—rattled.

"Gimosh! Gimosh, you done in there?" rose the voice of the guards.

Tash hissed. "We're about to have company." She shoved her spear into Meliora's hands. "Know how to use this?"

"Stick it into people?" Meliora gave her a wan smile.

"That's the gist of it." Tash knelt and lifted her hookah; the liquid spice still bubbled within over its embers.

The iron door creaked open, and the two guards stepped into the dungeon.

Tash ran toward them and lobbed her hookah across the corridor. The glass vessel shattered against one guard, spilling boiling liquid. The seraph screamed, his wings caught flame, and he fell.

Meliora raced forward and tossed her spear. The projectile flew across the hall and its blade slammed into a guard's thigh. The man cried out and fell. Eyes narrowed, lips tight, Meliora ran closer, knelt, and lifted the fallen spear.

The guard raised his own lance.

Meliora knocked it aside and thrust her spear with a cry. The blade crashed into the guard's neck and emerged from the other side.

The burnt guard on the floor began to rise. Meliora spun toward him and drove her spear down, impaling the seraph. He gave a last gasp, then fell limp.

"Bloody stars," Tash whispered, staring at Meliora. Where was the innocent, soft-cheeked princess she had known? Before her she saw a killer, the blood of her enemies staining her arms.

"Come," Meliora said. "We must hurry."

"Wait." Tears filled Tash's eyes to remember the poor creature she had seen in the cell. "One more minute."

Tash raced along the corridor, opening cell by cell, revealing the poor wretches within. Some cowered in the corner, blinded by the torchlight. Others squealed, hissed, screamed. A few wept and begged. Only one began to crawl out of the cell, a pathetic being, thinned down to bones.

"We need to help them," Meliora whispered, staring at the miserable creatures. She shuddered. "I . . . I almost became one of them."

Tash lowered her head. "We'll never make it out alive dragging them with us. We opened a door to their freedom. That's all we can do now, unless we choose to kill them. Their fate is in the hands of the gods now. Perhaps they still remember what they once were, and they will make their own way to freedom through the dark labyrinth that awaits us and them." She knelt, took a dagger from a dead guard, placed it into her belt, then took Meliora's hand. "Come, my lady. Now we will flee. Quickly now."

They ran out of the dungeon, entering the long, coiling burrows that snaked beneath the ziggurat. As they passed by a shadowy corner, Tash reached down, pulled loose a brick near the floor, and retrieved a cloak from within. The underground was full of such hidden alcoves and passages, the secrets known only to the pleasurers, those who made it their trade to please men . . . and to know everything that transpired in the palace. Tash handed the garment to Meliora.

"Here, my lady. A cloak and hood."

Meliora donned the garment and pulled the hood low over her head. The wool seemed to douse her crackling halo; smoke draped across Meliora's brow as the fires extinguished. To the world, she now appeared as nothing but another slave. She snapped the spear in two across her knee, discarded the bottom half, and hid the business end under her cloak.

The two kept walking together—a tall woman hidden in a cloak, and a slender young pleasurer all in silk and jewels. They made their way through the darkness, seeking the light.

MELIORA

They climbed the stairs, leaving the underground, and stepped back into the light of the world.

They stood in a small, cobbled courtyard in the shadow of the ziggurat. A path led to a narrow road into the city. In the distance, Meliora could see the obelisks, temples, and palm trees of Shayeen. She paused for just a few heartbeats, breathing deeply, savoring the touch of air on her skin, the sunlight upon her face. She had not thought she would ever feel fresh air and sunlight again.

She turned toward Tash. The young slave stood nearly a foot shorter, her jewels gleaming in the sunlight. She looked like the kind of slave Meliora would have once wrinkled her nose at—a piece of meat for the pleasures of men. Yet now Tash seemed to her a woman wiser and braver than all the soldiers in Saraph's army.

"Thank you, Tash," she whispered. "Will you return to the pleasure pits now? If you want, I'll take you with me."

"Where do you go?" Tash asked.

"To the land of Tofet. To the house of my father." She squared her shoulders. "To rebellion. Perhaps to death. To a fight I perhaps cannot win but one I will fight nonetheless."

Tash raised an eyebrow. "A life of pampered languor, surrounded by jewels, spice, endless love and friends . . . or a life of blood that will end too soon. Perhaps we both have the same choice. And we choose the same path." Tash nodded. "I go with you, to whatever end. For Requiem."

Meliora's eyes dampened, and for an instant, she envied Tash, envied that the girl was pure Vir Requis, a whole daughter of Requiem. She herself was still half a daughter of Saraph, half a shameful thing.

She nodded. "For Requiem."

They had taken just a step forward when he swooped from the sky, wings wide, and landed in the courtyard before them.

Ishtafel.

Stars of Requiem.

Meliora's heart burst into a gallop, and she hissed and reached into her cloak for her spear.

"My dearest Meliora!" He held his lance in one hand, his shield in the other. "And if it isn't the little pack rat with her collection of jewels. Such lovely ladies shouldn't stray far from the beauty of the palace."

Meliora froze for an instant, staring at him. The man who had slaughtered countless souls. Who had lied to her, cut off her wings, locked her to rot in the dungeon. Rage. Rage filled her, and her halo of dragonfire crackled to life around her head, and she tossed back her hood before the flames could burn it.

"Stand aside, Ishtafel." Meliora lifted her halved spear. "Stand aside or I will—"

He laughed. "Or you will what? Cut me, my dear sister? Perhaps I underestimated you; you have, after all, found your way out here rather quickly. But you don't truly think that you can defeat me in battle, do you? A pampered little princess against an ancient warrior who has conquered the world?"

"I am no longer a princess." Meliora stared into his eyes. "I am a warrior of Requiem."

Ishtafel hefted his spear. "I slew a million warriors of Requiem. Only days ago, sweet sister, we danced in the grand hall of our palace. Come to me now. We will dance again."

Tash drew her dagger, claimed from the prison guard, and held the blade before her.

Before her courage could abandon her, Meliora raced forward, spear lashing.

Ishtafel swung his lance in an arc. Meliora had snapped her spear in half to hide it in her cloak, abandoning the lower half in the dungeon. With his longer range, Ishtafel easily parried her thrust. Almost lazily, he drove his lance forward, nicking her left arm.

Her blood sprayed across the courtyard, pattering against Tash, and Meliora cried out.

Tash screamed, blood on her face, and tossed her dagger. Yawning, Ishtafel raised his shield, and the dagger slammed against it and fell to the ground. Ishtafel kicked it aside.

Fear flooded Meliora, but she refused to surrender to it.

I am starlight.

I am the wind.

I am dragonfire.

She could not become a dragon with her collar, but Meliora roared with her rage.

"You murdered thousands!" she screamed, lashing her spear again.

He snorted and parried. "Millions."

"You are a monster!" She leaped forward, trying to spear him, but he parried again.

He yawned. "All the best kings are, my dear."

"You—"

He drove his lance forward, and this time he cut her right arm, spraying more blood. She had barely registered the blow when he swung his lance again, hitting the side of her knee with the flat of the blade.

Meliora yowled and fell to her knees before him.

"Good." He nodded. "That is how I like you. Kneeling before me."

With another thrust of his lance, he cut her fingers. She cried out, losing her grip on her spear. It clattered to the ground, and he kicked it aside.

Meliora began to leap up. Ishtafel swung his shield, knocking the rim against her face.

Pain.

Light.

Searing fire.

Meliora fell to the ground, slamming her cheek against the cobblestones, blinded with agony. Blinking feebly, she thought she saw Tash run forth, grab the fallen spear, thought she saw the shield fly again, knocking Tash down. All was white, blinding pain . . . and beyond it a red light, crackling, hot. The light of dragonfire.

Ishtafel knelt above her, reached down, and stroked her stubbly head.

"So frail," he whispered. "Still such a weak, innocent thing, a trampled baby bird, her wings clipped. I will nurse you back to health, my sweetest sister. You will be mine. You will watch your sons become great kings—kings to crush Requiem as I have crushed her."

Her eyes burned. Blood dripped down her face, pattering against the cobblestone.

I flew as a dragon, she remembered. I soared as a great dragon all in silver and gold, coated with scales and feathers. Her breath shuddered. In my dreams, I flew with great herds of my kind, the hosts of Requiem of past and future.

Ishtafel leaned down and kissed her brow. "Soon you will be beautiful again, fed all the fineries of the empire—strong enough to grow my child in your womb."

No. No, I will never more be a prisoner. Not in a dungeon of stone, not in a palace of plenty.

Her halo crackled with the flame of Requiem.

I will find the sky. I am dragonfire.

Her flames roared, blasting outward, and Meliora let out a howl, a cry of all her pain, her rage, her memory, and she leaped up, soaring like a dragon, seeking her sky.

Ishtafel faltered, eyes widening, the flames painting him red.

Meliora had once burned in a bronze bull, and today she charged like a bull herself, ramming into him, driving her halo of fire against his face.

Her crown of dragonfire burned him, and Ishtafel screamed.

The halo of fire flowed across his face, kindling his hair, melting his skin. He burned. He screamed like a wounded animal, a primordial sound, and the flames showered back onto Meliora, scattering across her scalp.

She knelt. She grabbed her spear from the ground. She shoved it forth.

The blade crashed into Ishtafel's armor, denting the metal, cutting through, driving into his skin. Still he burned.

"Meliora!" Tash cried.

Whistles filled the air, and Meliora glanced up to see arrows falling. Tash grabbed her, pulled her back, and the arrows clattered against the cobblestones. More whistled above, and Meliora glimpsed a hundred seraphim or more diving down from the sky.

"Meliora, run!" Tash grabbed her hand and dragged her onward. "With me!"

She held her bloody spear. Ishtafel burned before her, but still his lance thrust. She cried out as it hit her. More arrows fell, and one scraped across her thigh.

"Meliora, run!"

She ran.

Arrows clattered around them, and one drove alongside Tash's hip, tearing the skin. They raced onward, holding hands, leaving the courtyard and entering a cobbled alleyway. The walls of silos, armories, and temples rose around them.

"Hurry, with me!" Tash said, pulling her through a gateway into a covered walkway between brick walls.

"Where are we going?" Meliora ran with a limp, blood leaving a trail behind her.

"The underground of Shayeen. The secret passageways of the slaves." As seraphim dived down behind them, firing arrows, Tash tugged open a wooden doorway and pulled Meliora into a shadowy tunnel.

They ran through darkness, finally entering a wine cellar, and here Tash pulled her into a second tunnel, and they emerged into a narrow alleyway in the shadow of the ziggurat. A grove of palm trees rustled ahead, and they moved under the fronds, hidden from the sky, as above the seraphim cried out and the chariots of fire rained ash.

"We go into the city," Tash said. "We take the shadow path."

Meliora ran close behind, and they circled a well and stepped onto a narrow street, the sky hidden above the awnings of shops.

"The shadow path?"

Tash nodded and flashed a weary grin. "There are eight boulevards in the City of Kings and eight thousand secret roads. Ours is the shadow path, the way of slaves between the ziggurat and the land of Tofet."

Meliora glanced around her, seeking the palace soldiers, but the street was packed with a thousand others—shopkeepers hawking spices and dried fruits, young seraphim of common birth, and many collared slaves on errands from their masters. The chariots of fire still streamed above, but the shadow path was hidden from the sky, no less a labyrinth than the one beneath the ziggurat.

Is he still alive? Meliora thought as they raced into an alleyway of metalworkers. The clanging of hammers on anvils rose from smiths at their sides. Is Ishtafel—

His scream rose in the distance, answering her.

"Find her! Find the escaped prisoner. Bring her to me alive and bring the pack rat too!"

Meliora and Tash glanced at each other silently, then looked forward and kept running along the shadow path, vanishing into the City of Kings as screams of seraphim and the fire of their chariots filled the sky above.

VALE

"Faster!"

The whips flew.

"Move, slaves! Toil!"

Burning leather slashed through flesh.

"Faster! Toil or die!"

Sweat dripped across Vale, stinging his eyes, drenching his burlap loincloth, burning the whip's welts across his bare back. Those welts ached like scorpion stingers forever digging into him. His muscles were cramping, begging for relief, and the sunlight burned his shoulders and shaved head, leaving him dizzy, gasping for breath.

"Toil!"

The flaming whips cracked. The overseers smirked as they flew above upon swan wings, whipping any slave who dallied—a handful of masters ruling over thousands of slaves.

For a day, hope rose, Vale thought, back bent. All hope has burned away.

He spilled the basket of straw into the pit of clay. Joints aching, he lifted the barrel of bitumen and spilled the tar into the mix. He climbed into the sticky pool, sloshing through it, mixing the ingredients with his hobbled legs. His feet burned, and the manacles chafed his ankles; he bled into the mix. Across the field, thousands of other slaves waded through their own pits of clay, straw, and bitumen.

"Faster!" cried an overseer, and a whip cracked over Vale's head. "Shape the bricks. Move!"

Vale nodded, back striped too many times. Another blow, he thought, would kill him. Perhaps that would be a mercy. Perhaps he should resist, let them whip him to death, join the poor souls around the pits. He raised his head, blinked out sweat, squinted in the sunlight, and saw them. A hundred slaves or more rose around the field, impaled on spikes, their flesh food for crows. Most were rotten. Some still twitched and moaned.

Poor souls? Vale thought. The dead are the lucky ones.

"Go!" cried the overseer. "Mix! Two thousand bricks a slave."

The whip lashed again, and this time it slammed into Vale, tearing his back, knocking him into the hot clay. The seraph was still shouting above him, but Vale could barely hear. He lay facedown in the hot mixture of clay, straw, and tar, and he felt like he was back there—back upon the crest of the ziggurat, a thousand feet above the city, nailed into the platinum.

I almost rose to the stars of Requiem, he thought. I was almost free from the pain.

He wanted to lie here in the mud until the pain fled again.

He still remembered the shock of Ishtafel swinging his hammer, driving the nails into Vale's hands and feet, nailing him to the ziggurat. He still remembered his body convulsing, his soul beginning to rise . . . and he had seen them. The celestial halls of afterlife. A Requiem that still stood, woven of starlight, and the spirits of the fallen awaiting him. His mother. His grandparents. The ancient kings and queens of his fallen nation.

And I saw you, Issari. The Priestess in White.

The ancient princess of Requiem, among the founders of the nation, had descended from the stars, a great healer. Forever shining in the sky, the eye of the Draco constellation, she had descended to the world for him. She had gazed at him with sad green eyes, and she had placed her hands upon him, passing her starlight into him, healing his wounds, returning his broken body to life. In his mind, she had whispered soft words.

You will live, son of Requiem.

"Let me rest," he had whispered to her.

She had wept, her tears warm, healing his soul. Your path of thorns has not ended, son of Aeternum, for you are descended from the great family of Requiem, a child of King Aeternum and all the kings and queens who followed in his dynasty. Your battle still looms ahead, Vale. We will watch you. Our light will forever fall upon you. You must find our sky.

Vale had awoken then, his lungs filling once more with air, the holes in his hands and feet only faded scars.

And so I must live. With shaking arms, he pushed himself up from the mud. My battle still awaits me, and I will fight for my priestess. For Requiem.

He rose to his shaky feet. He did not know what that battle was, what his task would be, but Issari Seran, the Eye of the Dragon, had commanded him to live. And so he would live. Whatever it took, however much pain he would endure, he would survive.

His overseer stood outside the pit of mud, smirking. "Pity. Thought you were crow food. Would have liked to see them peck out your eyes. Now form the bricks! Two thousand a man. Go!"

Vale labored in the sunlight among the thousands of slaves. In the old days, under Queen Kalafi's reign, each slave had needed to mix a thousand bricks a day—backbreaking labor that had them working from dawn to dusk. The cruel Ishtafel, new king of Saraph, had doubled that quota. With thousands of others, Vale filled baskets with the sticky mixture of mud, straw, and bitumen. He hauled basket after basket into the field, where he poured the mixture into wooden molds, mold after mold, like filling a great honeycomb. After the sun had dried the clay, he pulled out the brittle rectangles, and he placed them into stone kilns where they baked, hardening into bricks that would build homes, schools, armories, and monuments to Ishtafel across the empire.

He worked in a daze, repeating the process over and over, suffering the whip whenever he faltered, moving as fast as he could, falling, crying out in pain, rising again.

Two thousand bricks a slave.

Countless lashes.

Each slave who fell short—more flesh upon the pikes. More food for crows.

In the fields of Tofet, they labored in chains, screaming, falling, dying, some surviving. Decimated. One in ten fallen to Ishtafel's spears, more falling every day. The nation of Requiem—crying out in greater anguish than ever before, withering under a cruel sun.

When finally that sun had set, and his two thousand bricks were loaded into carts, Vale shuffled back toward his home.

In the darkness, he walked between the huts where the slaves lived. His chains clanked between his legs, and his breath rattled in his lungs, full of dust from his labor. He could not stop coughing, a raw cough that tore at his throat like his shackles tore at his ankles.

He raised his eyes to the sky, hoping against hope to see it again—the Draco constellation, the holy stars of Requiem, which he had seen only once, that night Issari had healed him. Yet those stars were gone now, if ever they had truly shone.

The wind gusted, and three gibbets swung at his side from posts. Within the rusted cages languished three slaves, close to death—their only sin having failed to meet the new, doubled quotas. Vale had only a small waterskin, barely enough water to keep himself alive, yet he approached the cages, prepared to let the dying slaves drink. They stared at him with glazed eyes, reached out from the bars, bleeding lips smacking, desperate for a drink.

Vale turned away. Their agony was almost over. He would not prolong it. He shuffled onward, their screams echoing in his ears.

He tugged at his collar. If only he could remove this collar, could shift into a dragon again, could break the bars on the gibbets. He could free them. He could fly to the ziggurat, challenge Ishtafel again.

Vale raised his head, closed his eyes, and remembered how wonderful it had felt. To become a dragon. To see his scales gleam in the sun, deep blue like the evening sky. To let the fire fill his mouth. To spread his wings and rise in the sky. Freedom. It had been freedom.

He looked back down, saw the gibbets, the huts, the agony of Tofet, and balled up his fists.

I will fly again. Someday I will fight as a dragon once more. I fought Ishtafel over the streets of Shayeen, but my greatest battle awaits.

He kept shuffling forward until he reached his hut, a simple clay dwelling, barely larger than a cage itself. A birch leaf was engraved onto the door, an old symbol of Requiem. Vale opened that door and stepped into his shadowy home.

His sister, Elory, lay facedown on a pile of straw, biting a piece of wood. Ugly lashes crisscrossed her back, and she bled where the shackles chafed her ankles. Above her knelt Vale's father, wise old Jaren. The bearded priest was dripping ointment into the wounds on Elory's back. She grimaced with every drop that fell, and sweat beaded on her shaved head.

Rage flared in Vale.

"Who?" he demanded, speaking between gritting teeth. "Which overseer? Was it Karah? The new one, Eldor?"

Jaren raised his hands, silently urging calm. Elory pushed herself onto her elbows, staring at Vale with damp eyes.

"It was my fault!" she said. "I almost failed to meet my quota of bitumen."

The rage was blinding. Vale sneered and took a step back toward the door. "That's because Ishtafel doubled the quotas. I'm going to find who did this. I'm going to kill them. I don't care if they arrest me again, if—"

"Son!" Jaren reached out, trying to grab him, to pull him back into the hut. "You cannot help your sister by dying. Please, son. We must bide our time. We must—"

"Must what?" Vale said, voice hoarse, eyes damp. He shook himself free. "Bide our time for what? Our people have been waiting for five hundred years, Father. Waiting for a savior. Waiting for some hope. I thought that some hope rose. When we marched behind Meliora, I thought that finally the stars have heard our cry, that they sent us a savior. I thought that Meliora—your daughter, my sister—is the hope we've been waiting for all these years." He laughed bitterly. "But I was there. I saw Ishtafel cut off Meliora's wings, saw him drag her into his palace, saw our hope shatter. So yes. Let me go out and fight. Let me die avenging my sisters."

A voice, melodious and soft, rose behind him, piercing through his rage like a ray of light through storm clouds.

"Do not die for me, my brother. Together we will live."

Slowly, Vale unclenched his fists and turned around. He saw her outside, stepping toward the doorway, cloaked in wool. Within the shadows of her hood, her eyes shone, golden, the pupils shaped as sunbursts with many rays. She smiled at him tremulously.

"Meliora," he whispered.

JAREN

He sat with his family at the table, knowing that this brief moment of peace would soon shatter and burn.

We are together again, united in the shadow of a great, burning hatred that will soon spew its flames upon us. Jaren looked up at the ceiling where he had engraved the Draco constellation. May we savor this moment, for it might be long years of blood, sweat, and tears before it returns . . . if ever we sit like this, together again.

He looked at them all, one by one. They stared back from around the table, silent, all waiting for his words. Vale, his son, gaunt and scarred, his eyes blazing with fire. Elory, his sweet daughter, her brown eyes kind and soft, even after so much pain. Meliora, his eldest, her head now shaved like a slave's, crowned with a halo of dragonfire. And with them, too, sat Tash of the pleasure pits, a young woman with long brown hair, perfumed skin, and many jewels, and though Jaren had just met her, she too was like a daughter to him. She too was family. Perhaps all in Requiem were a family under the heel of Saraph. They all sat here in this small hut, surrounding the small table, sitting before clay bowls of gruel—a warm meal, perhaps a last meal.

Their chains, which had once hobbled their ankles, lay in a pile on the floor. Tash had come here with an iron key, which she had used to unchain new girls arriving into the pleasure pit. Now she had freed the chains that had bound Jaren and his family's legs. And yet their collars remained, preventing them from using their magic, for no simple key could unlock that cursed iron. So long as they wore those collars, slaves they would remain.

I am old, and I am frail, Jaren thought. He was not yet sixty, yet he felt over a hundred, wearied by years of toil. He could not fight this battle as the younger ones could, yet they looked to him for guidance, for wisdom . . . for leadership. For gifts he didn't know that he had to give. Perhaps that was the folly of youth—that the young, when faced with hardship, looked to their elders for aid, not knowing that even the very old wished for a teacher.

Yet Jaren was the only teacher they had now, and the young ones needed him. He would give them whatever guidance he could, would shepherd them through a storm he was not sure any of them could survive.

He spoke softly. "This is a precious moment. This is a moment of sweetness, of family, of peace. Our family sits together, bound by love and light, though darkness surrounds us. Before we face that darkness, let us pray."

He sang in a deep, rumbling voice as he lit candles on the table. He sang the old prayers of Requiem—songs of distant hills in dawn, rustling birch forests, blue mountains kissed with mist and sunlight, marble tiles and white columns. A song of dragons. A song of home. A song of their lost sky. The others sang with him as the candles burned, little lights shaped as the Draco constellation. The brightest candle he arranged to shine as the dragon's eye—Issari's Star.

"Many small lights can banish even the greatest shadow." Jaren looked across the candles at his family. "And now a great shadow surrounds us. The cruel tyrant seeks Meliora in every corner of Shayeen and Tofet, and he will not rest until he finds her. He will seek our dear Tash too, a new daughter in our family. And he will continue to enslave the rest of us, to grind us down, to break us, to slay us. And now we must decide: how can we keep our lights shining in this darkness?"

"We fight." Vale rose to his feet, nearly knocking back his stool. "We've collected and hidden two spears in this very hut. Other slaves have hidden weapons too. We rise! We march to the palace again, this time armed. And—"

"No." Jaren shook his head. "We marched once. We lost too many." He lowered his head, overcome by the grief, the memory of the decimation. "We cannot face the enemy, not in human forms, not while collared."

Vale slammed his fist against the tabletop. "Then we storm the ziggurat. We find the Keeper's Key. We—"

"I already found it," Meliora said, voice barely more than a whisper. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a crumpled ball of crimson metal, and placed it on the tabletop. The edges of golden runes were still visible; most of the ancient symbols were hidden within the crushed, metallic embrace.

Elory spoke for the first time, eyes widening. "The Keeper's Key! It's . . ."

"Useless." Meliora sighed. "Many times I tried to use it on my collar, to no avail. With the key crushed, its runes won't work. Ishtafel crushed it in his palm." She nudged the crumpled ball across the table. "Try it on your collars. Perhaps you'll have more luck than I did."

They all stared at one another, silent. Jaren reached across the tabletop first and lifted the broken key. The crimson metal was cold. Jaren had never touched ice before, but he imagined that it felt like this. Yet whenever his fingertips passed across what remained of the runes, he felt warmth. He had seen this key from a distance before—the overseers would use it when unlocking his wife's collar, allowing her to become a dragon and dig through the bitumen—though he had never come so close. Slowly he raised the ancient relic to his throat, bringing it near his collar.

Elory gasped. "Father, the runes on your collar! They're glowing! They're . . . fading."

Warmth surrounded Jaren's neck. The runes on the key too glowed, but then their light fizzled and dimmed. The collar remained around his neck.

He passed the key to Elory, and she tried it on her collar, then Tash and Vale both tried on theirs. In each case, the runes only flickered, glowed softly for an instant, then faded to darkness.

"There must be another key," Elory whispered. "Surely in the palace, there is another."

"There is only one." Meliora returned the crumpled key into her pocket. "There was only ever one."

"Then we fix this one." Elory nodded. "We'll heat the metal just enough, unfold it, return the key to its former shape."

Meliora shook her head again. "We would only melt the golden runes, perhaps beyond restoration. No. I dare not try to fix it myself, for fear that I would damage it further. But . . . there is one who can fix this key."

They all turned to stare at her. Meliora seemed to stare into nothingness, perhaps lost in memory.

"Who, daughter?" Jaren said, reaching out to touch her hand. "Who can fix it?"

She looked at him, eyes haunted. "He who made this key five hundred years ago. He who still lingers in a mockery of life, banished from our realm. He of whom the seraphim rarely speak." She shuddered. "The Keymaker."

ISHTAFEL

He lay on his bed, face aflame, grinding his teeth so hard they nearly chipped. He dug his fingernails into his palms, drawing blood. Every breath burned. All was fire. All was rage.

You burned me.

His fists shook.

You escaped me.

His hand rose, shaking. His fingers uncurled, dripping his own blood, and reached to the bandage on his cheek.

"My lord!" said the healer, a young woman in white robes, her halo glowing. "You need to leave the bandage on, my lord, you—"

He roared, swung his hand, and knocked her down. The effort tore through him like a demon, leaving him gasping for breath, coughing. His face blazed as if covered in embers. As the healer mewled on the floor, Ishtafel grabbed the bandage on his face.

He tore it off with one swift movement.

For an instant, silence.

For an instant, nothing but cold, white shock.

Then he screamed.

He rose to his feet, stumbled across the chamber of healing, and stared into the bronze mirror on the wall.

Slowly he began to laugh.

A dripping, red welt ran across his face, rising from the left side of his jaw, crossing his cheek and forehead, and finally running across half his scalp. The mark of Meliora's flaming halo. As he laughed, the wound twisted, lined with blisters. A second wound glared from his chest, the stitched cut from her spear.

"Yes, sweet sister," he said. "We are both changed."

Meliora lurked somewhere within these walls—in Shayeen, the City of Kings, or in Tofet, the land of slaves. There were no gates that broke these walls; winged seraphim needed no gates.

"Yet you have no wings, Meliora," he said, speaking to his reflection, to the halo of fire across his face. "You are trapped. And I will find you here. I will find you if I have to kill every slave in my empire, one by one, until you are mine."

He stepped out of the chamber of healing. He walked through the halls of the palace, stepped onto a dark balcony, and mounted his chariot of fire. His wounds roared across him, and he grinned and grabbed the reins. Bare-chested, he soared. His firehorses stormed across the sky, and the city sprawled below him in the night. Somewhere in those shadows she lurked—the sister whose skin he would burn until nothing was left.

MELIORA

"The . . . Keymaker?" Elory whispered, eyes wide, leaning across the tabletop.

Meliora nodded. "We do not like speaking his name in the ziggurat. He is a powerful wizard, ancient, a mystic being. His magic is so great they say it drove him to madness. With that dark magic, he made the key and the collars." She shuddered. "My family exiled him, fearing his power, fearing his madness. He lives far in the mountains, claiming dominion over a ruined fort."

"A mystic being?" Vale said, frowning. "Is he not a seraph?"

Meliora swallowed a lump in her throat. "I don't know what he is. He is never painted, never sculpted, never described in our ancient books. I never saw him. He was exiled centuries ago. But . . . I heard tales. Tales I dare not repeat. But though I fear him, I must find him. If there's any hope left to us, it's in his hands."

It was Jaren's turn to speak. The old priest looked at her with his sad brown eyes, his voice soft. "Yet how will we find him, daughter? The walls surrounding Tofet are high, and in five hundred years, only the hero Lucem has ever scaled them. Thousands have tried. Those are not good odds."

Meliora nodded. Lucem. The hero of Requiem. A legend among the slaves. Meliora remembered that day ten years ago. She had been only a youth, seventeen, naive and scared. The entire city garrison had risen into the sky, seeking the escaped slave in the hills, deserts, and mountains around the city. Since then, Lucem had been an embarrassment to her family—the slave who had found a blind spot in the walls of Tofet, who had climbed, who had killed a seraph archer, who had escaped into the wilderness. Her family had never spoken of him again . . . yet in Tofet, he was still a hero, forever remembered.

"No," Meliora said. "We will not try to scale the wall as Lucem did. It rises too high. All its blind spots have been found since Lucem escaped, and many guards patrol its battlements. There are no city gates in Tofet nor in Shayeen, it's true; seraphim need none, able to fly above the walls as easily as any dragon." She smiled thinly. "But there is a river. The Te'ephim River flows between Shayeen and Tofet, forever separating our two realms. And only where the river leaves the city is the wall broken—two exits. Two ways we can escape."

Vale grunted. The tall, dour slave gripped a spoon as if it were a sword. "Swimming won't work. Many slaves tried. I knew some of them. Good men." He groaned. "There are beasts in the water, reptiles with great teeth, smaller than dragons but hungry and vicious. Hundreds of them. Trained to feed upon the flesh of any slave mad enough to swim for freedom. And even if you made it past the reptiles, there are walls along the river too. Not as tall as the walls around the city, but guards top them too, armed with bows and arrows. Just waiting for a chance to shoot whoever the reptiles miss." He shook his head. "No, the river is death. I would sooner try to scale the wall as Lucem did than swim. At least we know one man who fled over the wall. No slave ever made it through the water."

"Yet I am no simple slave." Meliora placed her hands around Vale's fist that still clutched the spoon, and she stared into his eyes. "I have the eyes of a seraph. I have no more wings, no more long golden hair, and my halo burns with red fire. But cloaked and hooded, nothing but my eyes visible?" She smiled thinly. "Yes. I think I could still pass for a seraph. I will walk to the city port—there are no walls there—and book passage in a boat. I will sail out of the city." She nodded and tightened her grip around his hand. "I will find the Keymaker."

Silence fell across the hut.

They all stared at her, eyes wide . . . all but Tash.

Throughout the night, the slender pleasurer had said little, merely sat and listened. Now her eyes narrowed, and she rose to her feet. The candlelight reflected in her bracelets, earrings, and ring.

"Wait a minute!" Tash said. "This won't work. This won't work at all."

"It's our only hope," Meliora said.

Tash shook her head wildly, her long brown hair swaying. "It's a useless hope! Look. Do the numbers. There are . . . what, half a million slaves in Tofet? Maybe more?" She nodded. "And even if you fix the key, that's just one key. Imagine you could get every slave to line up, one by one, and you started opening their collars. Imagine it took you . . . say, thirty seconds to open a collar. It would still take six months to open everyone's collars. Half a year! And that's assuming you could even do it that fast. Meanwhile Ishtafel would kill us all. The seraphim wouldn't give us six minutes to work, let alone six months."

Vale grumbled. "At least it's some hope. At least we could get a few dragons flying before Ishtafel attacks."

Tash groaned. "A few dragons who'd die right away! Think, everyone. Ishtafel killed thousands of dragons in Requiem. Maybe even hundreds of thousands. He's good at killing them. Just opening a few collars won't work. We'd all need to fly as dragons, together—all of us, the entire nation of Requiem, roaring fire at once, surprising the enemy. That's the only way we'd stand even a tiny chance. To do that . . . we'd need over half a million keys. A key for every slave, kept hidden, secret . . . then all used at once." Her eyes shone.

Meliora winced. "According to legend, it took the Keymaker six days and nights to forge this key and embed it with dark magic." She sighed. "I don't think we'd have time waiting for half a million keys."

"We don't need to wait." A sly grin spread across Tash's face. "I know some magical secrets too. There is a way . . . and there is a map."

Tash took a round obsidian box from her pocket, the kind pleasurers kept spice in, and opened it. Inside, instead of hintan, was a folded piece of parchment. She unfolded it carefully, as if handling an ancient relic, revealing a crudely drawn map, showing mountains, rivers, and a coastline.

"It's the world outside the walls," Elory whispered, staring in awe. "How did you find this map?"

"The pleasure pits are the empire's hub of knowledge." Tash nodded. "Every man who comes into our den, who smokes our pipes, who drinks our wine, who moans under our kisses, his words are ours to collect. And we hoard that information like a miser hoards gold. This is a map to the most important, most magical, most sought-after treasure in the world." She pointed at a drawing of a ship upon an eastern coast, and her voice dropped to an awed whisper. "The Chest of Plenty."

They all stared silently, and Meliora struggled not to laugh. The Chest of Plenty? She had outgrown believing in that artifact years ago.

"Tash." Meliora spoke gently. "The Chest of Plenty is just a myth. Just a tale they tell children in the palace."

"Not a tale!" Tash's eyes flashed angrily. "It's real. One man who came into the pleasure pit, he'd even seen the ghost ship from a distance, beached upon the shore. He swears he heard the ghosts who guard the ship, who guard the chest within. Imagine it, Meliora! A chest that can duplicate whatever you place inside it—food, coins, jewels." Tash's eyes gleamed like jewels themselves. "For years, I dreamed of finding the Chest of Plenty. Of placing my own humble jewels inside it, only to see them multiplied a thousand times. I would have enough money to live as a queen. To build a castle somewhere, to have servants, to . . ." Tash's cheeks flushed. "Well, I suppose that dream is rather childish. An impossible dream. But the Chest of Plenty is real. Thousands of men have sought it, dreaming of growing rich off a single gold coin, but I'm the only one who has a real map."

Meliora sighed. Tash seemed earnest, excited, and she had saved Meliora's life. But how could Meliora believe this tale?

"Tash—" she began.

"Hush!" Tash glared at her. "I don't want to hear your doubt. The Chest of Plenty is real. It has to be real. It's real or . . . or all my dreams are meaningless. And I won't believe that." Her eyes dampened. "I won't! I'm going to escape with you on your boat. I helped you escape from your prison cell; you will help me escape from the city walls. You owe this to me. I will travel alone if I must, following this map, until I find the Chest of Plenty. Until I bring it back here and place your Keeper's Key within it."

"No." It was Vale who spoke this time. The gaunt young man rose to his feet, staring with hard eyes.

Tash glared right back at him. "And who are you to tell me what not to do? You're nothing but a—"

"No," Vale repeated, voice hard. "You will not follow this map alone. I'll go with you."

Everyone stared at him, silent. Tash gaped and rubbed her eyes. "You . . . want to come with me? You believe the Chest of Plenty is real?" She glanced down at her cleavage. "Or do you just believe this chest might be yours?"

"I don't know if the chest is real," Vale said, ignoring the jab. "I don't know if the Keymaker is real. I don't even know if our hope is real or just folly. But I know that here, in Tofet, there is no hope. So I will seek it beyond the walls." He turned toward Meliora. "We're joining you in your boat, Meliora. You'll smuggle us out of the city. You will go seek the Keymaker, and you will fix the key. Meanwhile Tash and I will find the Chest of Plenty to duplicate that key half a million times." He clenched his fists. "Soon a nation of dragons will rise."

ELORY

For the first time since the slaughter, the decimation that had left one in ten slaves dead, Elory dared to feel hope, dared to let the veil of grief lift.

Meliora will fix the key. Elory touched her collar, remembering the time she had begun to shift, had seen the buds of lavender scales before the collar had slammed her back into human form. Vale and Tash will multiply it, one for every dragon. Requiem will fly again.

"So what are we waiting for?" Tash was saying, leaping to her feet. "Let's go. Now! Before Ishtafel burns down every hut to find us. Before the sun rises."

When Elory glanced over at Tash, she felt her cheeks heat up. Memories of her brief time in the pit, of Tash's lessons, filled her with a strange, intoxicating feeling much like the spice's smoke. Here in the hut, Tash was all wildfire, but back in the pleasure pit, she had been like honey, her kisses and caresses awakening deep senses in Elory she could not forget. Elory had never loved another soul, not a romantic sort of love, but she had heard tales of romance, and she wondered if those feelings were akin to the ones Tash had instilled within her. Strangely, Elory missed the pleasure pit, missed the comforting shadows, the incense, the gentle touch of Tash's lips.

She shook her head wildly. She had no room for such thoughts anymore. Those days were over, and a new path lay before her, a path of war.

She rose to her feet too, and she approached the others, one by one.

"Goodbye, Vale," she whispered, hugging her brother, then turned toward Meliora. "Goodbye, sister. I will pray for you. I—"

"You will go with them," Jaren said, also rising to his feet.

Elory turned toward her father and gasped. "But . . . Father!"

Jaren's gaunt, bearded face was grim. "If Meliora can smuggle two slaves out of the city, she can smuggle a third. Tash and Vale have each other on their quest for the Chest of Plenty. I will not have Meliora walk her path alone. Join her, Elory. Help her find the Keymaker."

Elory's eyes dampened. She stepped toward her father and embraced him, placing her cheek against his thin chest. "Come with us, Father."

He shook his head and kissed the top of her head. "I am a shepherd of Requiem. I cannot leave my flock."

She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. "And I can? How can I leave the others to suffer? How can I leave you?"

He caressed her cheek. "Sweetest daughter. You are like your mother, a being of pure light and kindness. And here in Tofet, the masters will crush your light, grind away your kindness until only bitterness remains. Ishtafel will seek you again, seek to drag you into his palace, to take you away from me. If we must part, I would see you travel a road of hope with Meliora, not enter a prison of gold with Ishtafel. You are in danger here, Elory. We all are. Go with your sister. Bring back hope."

She held her father close. "I will return to you, Father. I promise. I love you. Always."

As he held her, Elory thought of her mother. Not that last memory, that horrible memory of Mother dying in Ishtafel's fire. She thought of the kindly mother she had known, the mother who would hold her like this, sing to her old songs of Requiem. She would not forget Mother either, not forget all those who had fallen, all those who still lived, desperate for salvation.

They stepped out of the hut in the darkness of night. Above, high in the sky, the chariots of fire were streaming across the river, and the distant cries of the seraphim rose. Around them spread the thousands of huts of Tofet, and Elory did not know if she'd ever see this place—the only home she had ever known—again.

"Come, quickly now," Meliora urged.

Elory nodded. Standing outside on the dirt path, she gave her father a last embrace, and her tears would not stop falling. Vale joined the embrace, his arms stiff at first, but then his grip softened, and his eyes too shone with tears.

"Go," Jaren whispered. "Quickly, my children. May Requiem's stars forever shine upon you."

"Come on!" Tash said, hopping in the dirt. "Those chariots are getting closer."

Elory nodded, wiped her eyes, and released her father. Tash grabbed her hand, yanking her down the path. Meliora and Vale walked ahead. As they hurried between the dark huts, Elory looked back only once. She saw her father standing in the doorway, the candlelight limning his form. He raised his hand in farewell, and then Tash pulled Elory around a corner, and she did not see him again.

MELIORA

They hurried along the bridge, the dark waters gushing beneath them, four figures hidden in robes and hoods. Behind them spread the land of Tofet, cloaked in shadows. Across the bridge rose the city of Shayeen, lit with many lanterns. In the sky the chariots of fire soared, scanning the land below.

We'll never make it across the river. Meliora's heart thudded, and she felt her phantom wings again, aching to flap them, to fly from here, fly over the walls and vanish into the wilderness. How weak were those doomed to forever walk upon two legs! What hope did she have of reaching the port with Ishtafel's guards swarming?

Ten of those guards stood at the southern edge of the bridge, and several more stood in watchtowers, arrows nocked.

"Halt!" they cried.

Meliora halted before them on the bridge. The dark waters of the Te'ephim gushed below, and the cries of soldiers rose in the city ahead, seeking her and Tash, tearing down the city to find them. The light of chariots streamed above, and cold sweat washed Meliora. Truly a fool's quest! She wouldn't even make it across the river, let alone out of the city and across the wilderness to find the Keymaker.

"I told you I'd return with two more slaves," Meliora said, glaring at the guards from the confines of her hood, hoping she looked more angry than terrified. "They are my family's slaves, escaped from our house into Tofet. I've reclaimed them."

The seraphim guards raised their lances, and their torches reflected against their armor and helmets. "Let's take a look at them. And at you. Hoods off! Word is two criminals are out somewhere in this city. We got to be careful."

Meliora's heart beat even faster. Behind her, the others—Vale, Elory, and Tash—shifted their weight from foot to foot, still hidden in their hoods. Meliora had used this ruse—pretending to be a mistress, with Tash as her slave—to cross the river into Tofet. Could she truly fool them twice?

Tash stepped forward, a slender figure hidden in burlap, and placed a small, hard object in Meliora's hand. Meliora held it out to the guards—a golden bracelet embedded with rubies.

"I don't want to report my house slaves escaping," Meliora said. "If the City Guard hears, they'll stick the poor bastards on pikes. Take this and let us through—no questions asked."

The guards' eyes gleamed like rubies themselves. One seraph snatched the bracelet, and another made a grab for it. Soon they were quibbling over how to dislodge the rubies and which guard got which stone. It had cost them Tash's silver ring to enter Tofet, but the girl had many jewels, given to her by a host of adoring seraphim lords.

Leaving the bridge keepers behind to fight over the rubies—they were already prying the gems out from the bracelet—the hooded companions made their way into Shayeen.

When rushing into Tofet, only a handful of chariots had flown above, and Meliora and Tash had soon lost the guards' pursuit in the shadow path. Now it seemed that the entire city garrison was out in the night—they marched down the streets, knocked on doors, and flew above in their chariots of fire. Their cries rolled across the city, and in the distance, Meliora could hear her brother shout in the night.

"Find them! Find the prisoners."

Ishtafel did not mention her by name. Good. Meliora smiled thinly in the shadows of her hood. Perhaps he was too embarrassed to have lost his own sister.

I hope your wound burns, brother, she thought. I hope it screams with the same agony as my phantom wings.

"Quickly, this way!" Tash said, directing the companions into an alleyway that ran between brick silos and refineries, the way so narrow they had to walk single file. At the end of the alley, they went down a flight of stairs, took a dark path between two hills, and finally tiptoed along an aqueduct. The shadow path of the slaves was a way of rooftops, tunnels, sometimes even sewers, a network connecting all of the city, as hidden as the passageways of rats.

The port wasn't far, less than a mile from the bridge, but the path seemed to wind on for endless leagues. They hurried through a brick house where fishermen cleaned their catches and fish entrails stank in buckets. They made their way across a barren backyard where fishing nets hung from ropes. Always the chariots flew overhead, and the sounds of guards breaking down doorways rose from the city streets.

Finally, standing between a few palm trees, Meliora could see the port ahead. A boardwalk spread alongside the Te'ephim River, and lanterns bobbed on the masts of sailing ships. There lay her road to freedom.

"Find the prisoners!" rose Ishtafel's cry above, and Meliora looked up to see a stream of fire. It was him. His chariot. She grimaced and clenched her fist, but he shot overhead, moving too fast to see her, and charged across the river into Tofet. A thousand chariots flew behind him, and his voice boomed in the sky like thunder. "Make the slaves pay! Break them until they bring out the prisoners."

Meliora hissed, and Elory gasped at her side.

Elory shuddered. "He's going to kill them. He'll decimate them again." She grabbed Meliora's arm. "We have to go back. We have to get Father! To fight. To—"

Meliora lowered her head. "We cannot."

Vale stepped closer, and anger kindled in his eyes. "You did not see the decimation, Meliora. You did not see the bodies on the pikes. If he's planning another attack, we—"

"We must bring hope," Meliora said, staring at him. She was tall for a Vir Requis, six feet from her toes to her shaved head, but Vale stood just as tall; he stared back, eye level with her. "More than ever, the people of Requiem need the Keeper's Key," she said. "We cannot fight Ishtafel while wearing our collars. We must leave this city."

They all stared at her. From across the river, screams already rose—the screams of slaves.

"They're dying," Elory whispered.

Meliora nodded. "Then we must hurry. We must fetch the key as quickly as we can. Come now. To the port."

Reluctantly the others followed. They made their way past the palm trees and stepped between a portico's columns. A cobbled boardwalk spread ahead along the riverbank. Lanterns swung from poles, casting orange light upon the river. Piers stretched into the water, lined with the small reed boats of fishermen. Several larger boats—the sailing ships of merchants—docked farther away.

"Tash, the jewels," Meliora whispered.

Tash nodded, stepped forward, and furtively passed more jewels into Meliora's hands: three anklets strewn with gemstones and a silver necklace.

"That's all I've got left," Tash whispered. "It better be enough. I—"

"Watch it!" barked a burly seraph, trundling between them. His girth knocked into Meliora and Tash, shoving them back, and his breath stank of spirits. Behind him, he dragged a collared and bruised slave.

Meliora winced and kept walking along the boardwalk. She had never been to the port before; her mother had always forbidden it. Meliora had always imagined a delightful, magical place, akin to the little stream that ran through the palace gardens. In her imagination, men and women sat dangling their feet in the water, singing songs while pups scampered between flower beds, and in the water sailed ships carved like swans, adorned with crystals, bringing with them the treasures from distant lands: sweet cakes, the softest silk, and exotic birds in cages.

Now Meliora understood why her mother had forbidden her to visit. Here was no place for a pampered, innocent princess. A drunk seraph lay on the cobblestones by an emptied bottle, drooling. A few pleasure slaves lurked in the shadows—not adorned in silk and jewels like Tash but coated in bruises and scrapes. As chariots shrieked overhead, raining sparks, gamblers were quickly packing up their games of dice and retreating behind the trees. The firehorses galloped above, and soldiers stood a hundred yards away, holding torches.

We must hurry, Meliora thought.

"Now, let's see who we can buy a boat from," she said. "Everyone seems to be fleeing the boardwalk."

She looked around, frowning. The last few fishermen were scurrying off the boardwalk, between the columns, and hiding in the grove of palm trees. The light of chariots reflected on the water, and more soldiers came marching onto the boardwalk, torches crackling.

"Forget buying a boat!" Tash said. "That one. Quickly!"

Meliora nodded and gestured for Vale and Elory to follow. The four cloaked and hooded figures made their way across the boardwalk and onto a pier. A reed boat swayed in the water, tied to a peg.

"Quickly, everyone in!" Meliora whispered. "We'll—"

"Halt!" rose a voice behind them.

Meliora's heart sank. She spun around to see a seraph, armed with spear and shield, march toward her along the pier. His eyes burned within his helmet like candles in a lantern.

Meliora's heart now threatened to leap out of her mouth. She held out her palm, letting the jewels shine. "I'm here to buy this boat. This boat is yours, yes? Of course it is. Take these jewels and—"

The soldier reached her and grabbed her wrist. "Are you trying to bribe a guard of the city?" He growled and reached for her hood. "Show your face, seraph! Who are you? I—"

Tash leaped forward and opened her palm, spraying out green, sparkly dust. The smell of purified hintan filled the air, and the spice covered the soldier's face. The seraph blinked, inhaled sharply, and coughed.

"I . . .," he whispered. "I . . . who . . .?"

Tash gave the man just the gentlest of shoves. He fell from the pier, vanishing into the water.

"A pleasurer's weapon." Tash flashed Meliora a grin, then leaped into the boat.

Vale and Elory followed, and finally Meliora stepped into the boat. She drew her halved spear from her cloak and lashed the blade across the rope several times, finally severing it. The current began pulling them downstream. It was a small reed boat, barely large enough for the four of them, and dipped deeply into the water.

Elory grabbed the oars and rowed, adding speed. They kept flowing down the river, moving farther from the bank. The water rippled around them, and Meliora thought she glimpsed gleaming, reptilian eyes that soon vanished.

"We've got company," Vale muttered and gestured to the boardwalk. Two seraphim guards had noticed them.

"You, fishermen!" one cried from the boardwalk. "There's a curfew, damn it. Get back here."

Meliora tugged her hood lower, clutching her spear. Tash drew her dagger, and Vale reached into his cloak and drew his own halved spear. Elory kept rowing, glancing around nervously.

"Damn it, I said get back here!" shouted the guard. The two seraphim spread their wings, took flight, and stormed toward the boat. "Are you deaf, damn it?"

"Wait," Meliora whispered, clutching her spear under her cloak. "Wait . . ."

The two seraphim descended to hover before the boat. "Turn around now and—"

Meliora leaped to her feet and thrust her spear. The blade tore through one seraph's wing. He wobbled in the sky, cursing, and Meliora reached out, grabbed his wounded wing, and pulled down hard.

The seraph slammed into the water with a splash. Those reptilian eyes shone again, and a crocodile's maw rose from the water, closing around the seraph.

At Meliora's side, Vale drove his spear into the second seraph's face. The soldier stumbled, and Vale reached out from the boat, tugging him down. The water splashed and the boat rocked. Elory hissed and swung her oar, shoving one wounded seraph deeper into the water. The crocodiles feasted. The seraphim sank. The boat sailed onward.

"Over there!" Elory said.

Meliora spun her head to see five or six seraphim race along the boardwalk. She cursed, lifted the jewels Tash had given her, and tossed them. "Catch!"

The jewels hit the boardwalk, and the seraphim knelt. Elory kept rowing, and the sound of seraphim arguing over a diamond necklace rose from behind.

"Take us farther from the bank," Meliora said. "Far from the boardwalk. We'll vanish in shadows."

Elory complied, guiding the boat until it sailed in the middle of the Te'ephim. The river was so wide that, from the riverbanks, the boat would appear as nothing but a speck, perhaps just another crocodile in the night. Chariots of fire still streamed above, and distant screams rose from Tofet, but the water seemed almost peaceful. They left the port behind, and soon they were sailing between two walls.

"Stay low," Meliora whispered, crouching in the boat. The others followed her lead. "Cover anything metallic so it doesn't glint."

They flowed onward, a lump of black on black. The riverbanks were now each a hundred yards away or more; if the guards along them saw the boat, they gave no sign of it.

We're nothing but a hippopotamus, Meliora thought. Just a big hippo floating in the water.

Ahead she saw it: the western walls of the city. One wall flowed northward, topped with battlements, curving to surround Tofet, trapping the slaves within. The other wall flowed southward, cradling the city of Shayeen, home of the seraphim. Each wall ended with a stone idol, three hundred feet tall, of a god with a hippopotamus head. The two guardians stood with hands raised, shadows in the night, torches lit within their eyes. The river flowed between them, leading out into the wilderness.

"Behold Ur and Talan," Meliora whispered, raising her eyes to stare at them. "Ancient twin gods of the water. Legends say that they set the first stones in this city, that—"

"Mythology later," Vale muttered and pointed. "Fire in the sky."

Meliora looked up and cursed.

Two chariots were descending through the sky toward them, diving to fly between the statues. She could see the seraphim within, raising their lances and shields. Four firehorses pulled each chariot, scattering brimstone and ashes, flaming wings opened wide.

"Bloody stars," Tash whispered, gripping her dagger.

Meliora rose in the boat. "Halt!" she cried out. "I lead lepers out from the city. I—"

But the chariots kept charging down, swooping to skim along the water, showering sparks, heading toward the boat.

"Escaping slaves!" cried a seraph in one of the chariots. "Burn them. Burn them down!"

Meliora readied her lance.

The chariots stormed forth, and she stared up into the eyes of the seraphim—of her people. Of the people she had once led. The people she would now kill.

"Meliora!" Elory shouted in fear.

She narrowed her eyes.

I am the wind.

The chariots charged toward the boat.

Meliora leaped into the air, vaulted skyward toward them, and beat her phantom wings.

"Meliora!" Elory shouted again below, but this time Meliora could barely hear. She heard nothing but the fire above, the wind in her ears, the beat of a million dragon wings.

I am the sky.

She had no more seraph wings, but in her mind she flapped the great wings of a dragon, and she soared, spear thrusting upward, and grabbed one of the flaming chariots.

Her fingers burned. She screamed. The fire raced across her arm.

I am fire. I am dragonfire.

The seraph in the chariot grunted and lashed his lance. Meliora thrust her own spear, parrying the blow. She swung her legs, and she leaped into the flaming chariot beside the seraph.

The man snarled and shoved against her. The wind whipped her hood off her head, revealing her halo of dragonfire. The flames crackled in a great expanding ring like the whips of fire the overseers used. The flames lashed the seraph's face, and he screamed, and Meliora shoved his lance aside and thrust her spear.

For Requiem.

Elory screamed below in the boat. The second chariot was circling above it, and the seraph fired down arrows. One arrow slammed into Vale's shoulder, and the young slave shouted.

Meliora thrust her spear again, driving it deep into the seraph's torso, and shoved him off the chariot. She grabbed the reins. She snarled.

Just like the chariot race down the boulevard.

She grinned savagely and drove the firehorses forward. She slammed into the second chariot of fire, and she leaped through the air.

The chariots blasted out flame.

Meliora soared skyward, then plunged down, spear lashing, and drove the blade into the second seraph.

His lance scraped across her thigh.

Fire seared her blood.

The firehorses tangled together, the chariots shattered against each other, and the great ball of fire plunged from the sky.

They crashed into the river.

Black water flowed above her head, dousing the fire on her arm, extinguishing her halo. She sank. Around her in the water, she saw the firehorses still kicking, sinking, their flames dying, leaving them as pale, withered things that faded into nothing. Her blood danced around them.

Meliora kicked underwater.

The water beckoned to her, demons of the deep tugging at her feet. The pain flared through her, and the river whispered, Sink, join us . . . let us soothe the pain . . . there is no pain down there, only warm darkness.

She sneered and kicked with all her might.

I do not die this night.

She rose in the water, shoving her way through the last, crackling pieces of the chariots. She saw nothing. She barely knew up from down. She kept kicking. She could not find the surface. She sank again.

"Meliora!" The voice rolled through the water, and she swam toward it. "Meliora!"

She bumped into him, and she cried out wordlessly, and arms wrapped around her. His legs kicked, and they rose together, and their heads burst over the surface.

Meliora gulped down air, coughed, inhaled again. The air was hot, full of ash, and beautiful.

Vale swam in the water, his arms still around her, breathing deeply.

"You saved my life," she said, love for this man—the brother she had never known—filling her with warmth.

He smiled thinly. "Just returning the favor, sister."

Hands reached down toward them—Elory and Tash leaning over the boat—and they climbed in, coughing. Scraps of fire still burned on the river, fading one by one like extinguishing stars. They sailed onward, passing between the towering idols . . . and out into the open darkness.

The boat flowed onward, leaving the walls of the city behind. Soon the darkness was complete, cloaking them like a blanket.

Meliora lay in the boat, letting Vale bandage her wounds with strips from his cloak, and she stared back at the city, at the lights fading in the distance, at the chariots of fire that still streamed overhead. The lights of Shayeen shone, and from dark Tofet still rose the screams of the dying.

"We will return to you, my people," Meliora whispered, guilt and pain in her heart. "We will return with the key, with the chest, with hope to see Requiem again."

The river pulled them onward. For only the second time since Requiem's captivity began five hundred years ago, slaves escaped into the wilderness.

VALE

The world.

Sitting in the boat, Vale stared around him as dawn rose, unable to speak, overcome with awe.

The world beyond.

Rushes and reeds swayed along the riverbanks, and farther back grew palms and fig trees. Ibises and herons waded through the shallow water, and hippopotamuses rose like boulders between lilies. Hundreds of sparrows and finches flew overhead. Looking westward along the river, Vale saw no signs of civilization. Gone were the huts of agony, the quarries of breaking backs, the fields of desolation and despair. Gone were the obelisks, temples, and palaces capped with platinum and gold.

The world. The true world beyond. It's real. It truly does exist.

Vale's eyes dampened. In five hundred years, only one Vir Requis—the hero Lucem—had ever made it past the walls. Often Vale had thought the world only a myth, and yet here it was—legend become reality.

Elory sat at his side. She smiled at him, wriggled closer, and leaned her head against his shoulder.

"It's real," she whispered. "We made it. There is an outside." Her eyes shone. "And Requiem is real too. It lies thousands of miles away, but it too exists. We will see the birch forests again."

Meliora and Tash sat before them in the boat, also looking around with wide eyes; neither one of them had ever seen the world beyond, for both had spent their lives in the ziggurat, one in the glittering pits underground, the other in the glittering halls of its crest.

Vale turned around and looked behind him. A few miles away, he could still see the great walled heart of the empire, divided in two—the city of Shayeen and the land of Tofet. As they sailed onward, he thought of those he had left behind. His father. His fellow workers in the quarries and bricklaying fields. Hundreds of thousands of other slaves. All of them were his family too.

I found the world, but not for my own freedom. To find the Keymaker and the Chest of Plenty. To find our magic.

Meliora pointed and her sunburst eyes narrowed. "Chariots."

Vale saw them. A hundred chariots of fire, maybe more, rising from the city, spreading across the land.

"They know we escaped." He grabbed an oar. "We must leave the river. Elory, help me oar. We make to the northern bank."

As the chariots streamed nearer, they rowed toward the riverbank and stepped out into the shallow water, scaring away several herons. Their boat was made of reeds, and when they pulled it between the reeds that lined the water, it seemed to vanish.

"Down," Vale whispered, kneeling in the shallow water between the rushes. "Hide anything reflective."

The others crouched around him, lowering their weapons into the water. Algae floated around them, and the rushes swayed, rising over their heads. Frogs trilled, dragonflies buzzed, and a snake coiled across the water.

Fire roared.

The air screamed.

A dozen chariots charged overhead, raining fire.

"Burn the rushes!" cried a voice above—Ishtafel's voice. "Burn them all down. They're hiding here. Burn the riverbanks! Burn every tree and every reed."

Vale looked up between the rushes and saw the tyrant there. Ishtafel flew in a great chariot, a shining god of gold. His lieutenants spread around him, nocking flaming arrows. Vale's hands balled into fists.

You murdered my mother. You cut the wings off my sister. You slaughtered millions. He grabbed his collar, wishing he could tear it off, rise as a dragon, fight Ishtafel again as he had over Shayeen. Someday I will face you again, Ishtafel. I swear this. I will fly as a dragon again, and when I do, you will burn in my fire.

But for now he wore a collar. For now the only fire was raining from the sky, the fire of Saraph.

The flaming arrows slammed into the reeds. Despite growing from water, the reeds—at least the part of them above the river—were dry and brittle. They caught flame at once, and the fire began to spread around Vale and his companions. Smoke unfurled, and more fire kept raining from the sky. Elory gasped at his side and clutched his hand.

Vale grabbed a reed at his side which hadn't yet burned. He snapped it off.

"Quick, take these." He snapped three more reeds and handed them to his companions. "Now swim. Go!"

He placed the reed in his mouth and sank underwater.

The water was murky, full of algae, leaves, and scurrying fish. He could barely see, and his eyes stung, but he made out the others sinking with him. Meliora's halo extinguished underwater, and Tash's harem pants fluttered like spirits. Elory still gripped his hand. They all closed their mouths around reeds, breathing through the tubes.

Vale led the way, swimming away from the burning riverbank, and the others followed. Only the tips of their reeds emerged from the water. The seraphim flew above; Vale prayed that the tips of the reeds would look like nothing but bits of leaf or wood on the water.

They remained underwater until they could no longer hear the chariots, then waited longer. Finally Vale dared raise his head from the water for a look. The riverbanks were burning, and the chariots flew in the distance, almost too far to see now.

Tash's head popped out from the water beside his, and she spat out her reed. Algae filled her hair. "I think we just lost a boat."

Meliora rose from the water next, her halo crackling back into life, and Elory followed. The reeds on the riverbank burned down quickly, and soon the companions found a patch of barren, charred land. They climbed over the hot earth and cinders, wincing with pain, and made their way onto a hilly, rocky land. Patches of fire burned ahead, and a tree blazed on a hilltop. Most of the landscape was dry soil strewn with limestone and chalk boulders, and Vale spotted a cave on a hillside.

"There." He pointed. "We'll seek shelter in the cave before more chariots arrive."

The others nodded, dripping wet. Vale couldn't help but notice that Tash's silken trousers and top became translucent when wet. Her breasts pressed against the thin material, and a jewel shone in her navel. She looked at him and smiled thinly, and he quickly looked away, feeling his cheeks flush.

What was it about Tash? He had been looking at the young woman too often since meeting her. Vale had no use for such thoughts. He was only a slave, doomed to toil, to suffer the whip, not to desire women, not to—

We're not slaves out here, he thought, still seeing Tash from the corner of his eye. And why shouldn't I desire a woman? Am I not a man?

But no. Out here in the wilderness, he was a warrior of Requiem. The only love of his life was the memory of that fallen land. He would allow no other desires to fill his heart, only the desire to see Requiem again.

They walked across the rocky land between burning bushes, climbed the hill, and made their way to the cave. It was smaller than their hut back in Tofet, no larger than their burnt reed boat. They crowded inside, covered with scrapes, bruises, and burns.

Again, Vale couldn't help but notice Tash at his side, pressing against him, slender yet curved, her hair against his shoulder. Yet again, he forced the thought of her away.

More chariots streamed outside, fire raining. More seraphim cried out.

Inside the cave, the companions huddled in silence. Meliora leaned against the back of the cave, pale, her wounds still bandaged. Elory prayed, lips moving silently.

"We wait until darkness," Vale said. "When night falls again, we move out. Meliora and Elory to find the Keymaker. Tash and I to find the Chest of Plenty."

If they truly exist, he thought. Perhaps both were merely old legends. But Vale had to believe, for if those were mere legends, then what hope was there for Requiem to be real? And Requiem was real, had to be real, even after five hundred years of servitude. That land had to exist, far in the north beyond desert, sea, and forest, or there was no hope at all, and he might as well burn in the fires.

"We will find them," Meliora whispered, sweat on her brow, her cheeks gaunt. "We will bring back hope."

Vale nodded, reached out, and took her hand in his. "We will see Requiem again. We will find her sky."

"But not before we sleep." Meliora closed her eyes.

They were wounded and weak, but most of all weary. They lay down together in the cave; it was just large enough if they lay pressed together. As soon as Vale closed his eyes, he fell into a deep slumber, and he dreamed of whips, bricks, and endless fire.

ISHTAFEL

He stood on the boardwalk, facing the three trembling soldiers—three traitors to the realm.

"Now then," Ishtafel said, pacing before them. "I heard you found some lovely jewels last night, didn't you? Oh, I am rather fond of the art of jewelry making. I possess many fine jewels myself. I own the Horn of Fidelium, did you know? Encrusted with the finest sapphires from the Arctic."

The guards hung before him from wooden levers, chained and dripping blood, their breath sawing at their lungs. These cedar beams were normally used to haul crates from the boats; they could quite easily bear the weight of three seraphim . . . three who would soon be much lighter.

"Forgive us, my lord," said one soldier. Blood dripped from his mouth, and his voice lisped between his shattered teeth. "We didn't know it was her, my lord. We—"

"Please!" Ishtafel raised his hand. "I understand! No need to beg. A stranger flowed by on the river. On a night when the city was searching for escaped prisoners, and the skies were lit with flaming chariots, it could have been anyone! And after all, the sailors tossed you such beautiful pieces of art."

Ishtafel examined the jewels in his hand, seized from these soldiers. Two anklets of silver, worked with topaz. A bracelet of impure gold inlaid with tiger's eyes. The jewels of a pleasurer, given to her by her seraphim lovers. Her jewels, the brown-haired little harlot he had claimed underground. The one who had fled with Meliora.

"My lord," rasped another soldier, hanging from the beam on chains. "Forgive us, my lord. Send us out to hunt them! We will scour the land, we—"

"You will scour the land?" Ishtafel tsked his tongue. "But my friend! You saw the escaped prisoners here on this very river. They sailed right by you! And you accepted their bribe. You let them sail on." Ishtafel tilted his head. "Perhaps you too are traitors to my crown?"

The soldiers began to beg, to pray, to praise him. They jangled on their chains, blood dripping. Ishtafel walked across the boardwalk, turning winches, moving the beams to dangle the prisoners over the water—just a foot away from the boardwalk. As their blood splashed into the river, the crocodiles within—massive, black-skinned beasts, twice the size of the crocodiles of the northern swamps—reared from the water. The beasts splashed, snapping their jaws, desperate for a meal.

"Please, my lord!" one soldier begged. "Forgive us!"

Ishtafel smiled thinly. "I am the King of Saraph. I am strong. I am proud. I am wise. They call my sister 'Meliora the Merciful.' That is not a quality to boast of."

He drew his sword and approached one soldier.

The man begged, screaming before Ishtafel even touched him.

The blade lashed. Blood sprayed. Half the man's foot splashed down into the water.

As the dangling soldier screamed, blood gushing, the crocodiles below thrashed in the water. One caught the morsel and swallowed, and the others snapped their jaws at the dripping blood.

"Oh, they are getting hungry!" Ishtafel said. "Look at my lovely pets." He sighed. "Poetic justice, isn't it? That the river where you suffered your shame should now feed upon your blood?"

He approached a second dangling soldier. The man pleaded, tears on his cheeks.

"Please, my lord! Please. My wife is pregnant, my lord. I only wanted a bauble for her, I only—"

Ishtafel swung his blade again. The man's toes fell into the water, and the crocodiles grabbed them.

Ishtafel kept moving between the soldiers. Slowly. Savoring the hot day, the scent of blood, the fervor of his river pets. He sliced the meal bit by bit—easier for the digestion—until the men no longer screamed. He slashed up what remained, letting the last morsels fall into the river, then spread his wings and took flight.

He soared higher and higher, the wind shrieking around him, rising until the air chilled and his head felt light. He could see for miles from here. South of the river spread Shayeen, glorious in the sunlight, its temples and palaces forming a tapestry, the ziggurat a jewel in its center. North of the water sprawled that wretched, filthy land of Tofet. Even from so far away, he could see the miserable slaves toiling, mere ants from up here.

"You escaped me, Meliora," Ishtafel whispered. "You and three other vermin slaves. Your people will pay for your sin. The river will run red with the blood of Requiem." A smile stretched across his lips. "I've only whetted your appetite, my dearest river pets. You will feed more. The elderly, the weak, the useless slaves who cannot meet their quotas . . . they shall fill your bellies, my lovelies."

He stared beyond the walls. The river spread into the distance between smoldering lands. She was out there somewhere—burnt in a field, drowned in the water, or still running. Thousands of chariots were streaming over the landscape, flying across the horizons, covering the sky with fire.

"Wherever you are, sweet sister, I will find you." Ishtafel licked his lips, remembering the taste of Meliora's blood. "I will bring you home."

MELIORA

As the sun set, the four escaped slaves stepped out of the cave into a ravaged landscape.

When first entering the wilderness, this mythical world beyond the walls, Meliora had thought it beautiful—a land full of animals, plants, clear skies, and wonderful landscapes. For once, her fairy-tale dreams from childhood had seemed true—the world was truly full of wonder and magic.

Yet now, after a night of fire, the landscape lay in desolation.

Scattered fires still burned in the darkness, the last bushes and trees crackling. In their light, Meliora could make out lumps along the riverbanks—dead crocodiles, hippopotamuses, and other animals of the Te'ephim River. The flowers were gone. No more birds sang, and no more wonder filled the world. Ishtafel's chariots had come, burned, and flown on, seeking her. She knew that they would never stop—not until they found her . . . or until she found the Keymaker and freed the dragons of Requiem.

I will free them, Meliora vowed, fists shaking at her sides. And then the empire will truly burn.

Elory came to stand at her side, and the scattered fires reflected in her brown eyes. "Are you ready, Meliora?" Elory gently touched her fingertips. "You're still wounded."

Meliora winced, just the touch of Elory's fingers stabbing her with pain. Her wings had been gone for perhaps a fortnight now but still ached; she could still feel them on her back, twitching, apparitions that perhaps would always haunt her. The new wound on her thigh, the lash of a seraph's spear over the river, blazed with more immediate pain. She felt lightheaded, her brow hot. Perhaps she was feverish. She could not remember the last time she'd had a proper meal, only a little gruel yesterday. She craved nothing more than to lie down in the cave and sleep some more.

"I'm ready," Meliora said. "My wounds are but a trifle compared to the pain inflicted upon those in Tofet. We march on. We have no boat but we have our feet." She smiled thinly at Elory. "We'll find the Keymaker. He'll fix the key."

Elory looked up at Meliora, no taller than her shoulder, weakened by years under the yoke, but her eyes shone with strength. "We'll find him together."

Vale and Tash emerged from the cave and joined them, both wrapped in their burlap cloaks. A tall man, young yet already haggard, his head shaved, his cheeks gaunt and his eyes simmering with endless rage. A young woman, her body softer, her hair long and brown, the fineries of the palace washing off her, as surely as they had washed off Meliora. Tash's hair no longer shone with scented oils, and perfume no longer sweetened her skin, and her only remaining jewels were her ring—its top engraved with a forged sigil—and the diamond in her navel.

"The time has come to say farewell," Vale said, and for once, his voice was soft, a voice like a flowing river more than a jagged stone. "Tash and I travel east to find the Chest of Plenty."

Meliora nodded. "And Elory and I travel west to find the Keymaker on the mountain. Let us meet back here in this cave, though I don't know how long our quests will take."

And I don't know how long the Vir Requis can still survive under Ishtafel's whip, she added silently.

She stepped closer to Vale, hesitated, then embraced him. At first he stood stiffly, but then he wrapped his arms around Meliora and held her in the darkness.

"I only just found you, my brother, and now I must leave you." She touched his cheek. "Sometimes I almost doubt that it's real. That you're real. That I have a brother who's kind and noble. A brother who saved my life in the river. Who fights with me for Requiem. I love you, Vale."

His embrace was warm. "And I love you, Meliora. I always have. All my life, my father told Elory and me stories of you, of our princess sister the seraph. Finally meeting you has been the best thing in my life. I know we'll see each other again soon. We will fly together as dragons, sister."

Meliora embraced Tash next, holding her close, and Elory hugged her brother and shed a tear. And then they were parted. Then they were torn apart in the darkness. Then Meliora was walking into the shadows, leaving Tash and Vale—the two souls who had saved her life, one after the other—in a world of darkness and fire.

She looked up at the sky, and though Meliora could not see the stars of Requiem from so far south, she prayed to them.

Please, stars of my father. Grant them safety. Grant safety to all of your children. Let me see Vale and Tash again. Let me fly with them and with all our people in the sky of Requiem.

VALE

"Are you sure you know where we're going?" Vale squinted, staring around him, struggling to see in the darkness. "I can barely see a thing, and your map is barely more than scribbles."

Tash placed her hands on her hips and glowered at him. "It's more than scribbles. It's a fine work of cartography. I do not draw scribbles, Vale. We just have to keep the Te'ephim River to our right, and it'll lead us to the sea. All rivers lead to the sea, you know."

Vale had not known that. He knew how to mix clay, bitumen, and straw, forming bricks for homes and granaries. He knew how to swing a pickaxe, carving out large stones for statues, columns, and temples. He knew how to endure hours of thirst and hunger, how to suffer the whip without falling, how to heal the wounds of whips across his family's backs. What did he know of geography, cartography, of anything in this world beyond the walls of Tofet—a world he had once thought a mere myth?

"I can't see the river," he said.

"I can." Tash pointed. "Do you see those glimmers in the distance? That's the moon reflecting on the water. And look, up there." She pointed skyward. "See that bright star? That's Kloriana's Star, holy among the seraphim, and it always shines in the east. We're going the right way."

Vale stared at her. In the darkness, Tash was merely a shadow, black on black. Aside from the moonlight on her hair, he might not have seen her. And yet he could smell her. Even after a night and day of flight, Tash did not smell like most slaves, the smell of sweat, blood, burnt flesh. She had a faint scent of jasmine, hintan, a touch of lavender, perhaps lingering remnants of the perfumes she had worn in the pleasure pits.

It would have been dark in the pleasure pits too, Vale thought. And Tash would be naked, perfumed, delighting men with her talents.

In the darkness, he felt his cheeks heat up again. He did not like these feelings. The old tales of Requiem were full of stories of lovers: the great King Aeternum and Queen Laira, founders of Requiem; the tragic story of Benedictus and Lacrimosa, torn apart by Requiem's great wars against the griffins, whose love lit the world; the tales of King Elethor and Queen Lyana who had fought the phoenixes and rebuilt Requiem from ruin; and poems of Tilla and Rune, lovers on opposite sides of Requiem's civil war. Those old stories were full of romance, but this had always seemed a mythical concept to Vale. In his twenty-one years, he had never spared a thought for love. What would he know of such things? No more than he knew about maps.

My only love is Requiem, he thought, hating the strange feelings Tash's scent stirred inside him, but proud that he could finally push thoughts of her away.

"So . . .," Tash said as they walked. "Ever poked a woman?"

Vale groaned. "What are you on about?"

He could just make out her turning toward him, and the moonlight shone on her teeth as she grinned. "You know, ever dropped your trousers, pulled out your spear—and I don't mean the one you're holding in your cloak—and poked a nice maiden twixt her nethers?"

He groaned louder. "I never knew pleasurers would use so many euphemisms."

Her eyes widened. "That means no! You're not even denying it." Tash nodded. "I wondered how much lovemaking you lot down in Tofet got to. When Elory came into the pleasure pit, she knew nothing. Nothing! I don't think she even knew she had nethers, or that boys have spears to stab them with. But I taught her." She leaned toward him, and her eyes turned sly. "I could teach you if you like."

Oh stars above, Vale thought. Tash—naked against him, kissing, caressing—

No.

He gritted his teeth.

He had no use for such things. They would distract him from his quest. He cared only for Requiem.

"Focus on finding the way to the shore." He turned to stare ahead as if there were anything to see in the darkness.

She nodded and touched his arm. "I understand. You're a little embarrassed. Not sure you could perform. Not sure you'd know what to do. You're all strong and tough and tall, a real man, and you're worried I'll think you're a boy, or maybe you're worried your reed will wilt. But I don't mind if it takes you a while to learn. We all have to learn sometime! Did you know—at my first time I was absolutely hopeless. The woman who taught me was a pleasurer too. I learned quickly. So will you."

Vale definitely did not want to think of any of those things—not himself "wilting" and certainly not the vision of Tash learning the ways of love.

"Why don't we walk silently?" he said.

She moaned. "Because it's boring! I'll grow bored to death on the way unless we can have sex. Vale, don't make me beg you! If you don't let me seduce you, I'm going to have to beg, and I'm really a horrible beggar."

He pointed ahead into the sky. "I suggest you focus your attention up at the sky, not down at your nether regions. Those aren't stars."

Three orange lights shone in the distance, moving closer, swooping down from the sky like comets. Distant cries rose from them.

Vale cursed and grabbed Tash's arm. "Down!"

She waggled her eyebrows at him. "Ooh, darling."

He groaned. "Be quiet and lie still. Under our cloaks. By that boulder."

He lay down and pulled Tash down beside him. They lay on their stomachs, pressing against a boulder, and pulled their hoods low.

Vale could hear the chariots fly closer, smell the brimstone and fire. Lying facedown, he could only hope that he appeared like nothing more than part of the boulder. Tash lay beside him, her body pressed against his, and a strand of her hair tickled his lips.

The chariots streamed directly above, the firehorses' hooves thundering through the air, the flames crackling. Sparks rained and singed his cloak.

Tash's hand trailed down his leg. "Vale," she whispered, "let's do it now. While they're flying above."

He raised his head just an inch, saw her smiling at him, and glared. "Hush!"

She pouted.

Ash rained and finally the sound of the chariots faded. Vale rose back to his feet to see them in the distance.

"Maybe you like boys?" Tash said. "That's all right; I don't judge. We had a few boys in the pleasure pit, you know. Some of the seraphim favored them."

"Enough." Vale continued marching. "We keep going. Quickly now." He turned around. "Tash! Come on."

She placed her hands on her hips. "You go that way, Vale, right back to Tofet. I'm going to walk the right way." She pointed. "Follow the star, remember?"

He grumbled but he changed course. They walked onward through the darkness.

Thankfully, Tash stopped talking soon, though the young woman still hummed, clucked her tongue, and sometimes mumbled to herself as they walked. Vale began to regret agreeing to accompany her on this quest. He should have accompanied Meliora instead to find the Keymaker—it seemed that was where hope shone brighter—not gone on this wild-goose chase, stuck here with the insufferable Tash.

The woman had seemed sympathetic enough back in Tofet. After all, she had helped Meliora escape from prison, and for that Vale was grateful. But stars above, once alone with her, Tash had regressed back to, perhaps, her true self—a loquacious, flirty little minx who boiled both his blood and temper. She confused him. She infuriated him. He had agreed to accompany her out of some sense of nobility, wanting to protect the helpless maiden perhaps, like the heroes in the old tales. Now he wondered if Tash would lead him to nothing but madness.

They walked for hours, and when dawn began to rise, Vale approached the river.

"Going for a morning swim?" Tash asked. "Naked?"

"Going fishing." He hefted his spear. "We need to eat."

The light was still dim. Hints of pink and blue appeared in the eastern sky, and the world began to appear around him, all in gray, black, and indigo. He could make out the river flowing at his side, a few trees with curling branches, rocky hills, and Tash's slender form. Soon the sun would rise and its light would drench the land, and they would need to find shelter and hide—perhaps another cave, perhaps between boulders or trees. But for now, Vale needed food. He had not eaten in a night, a day, and another night, and his limbs already felt weak from hunger, and his stomach knotted. He had never eaten fish before, but he had seen the overseers consuming them. He stepped onto the riverbank and hefted his spear.

Beads of light glimmered on the water, and the fires had not spread this far yet. Reeds and grass swayed around him, and Vale waded between them, the water rising above his ankles. As the light kept brightening, he caught sight of his reflection in the river. The vision was smudged and dark, and he stared down at it. Vale had never stared into a mirror before—at most, he had seen his reflection at the bottom of wet mugs or upon the surfaces of polished stones. Looking at his watery reflection now, he seemed thinner than he'd ever been. A gaunt wretch, cheeks sunken, eyes too large. A figure close to death.

The old stories of Requiem, the ones his father would tell, would often speak of the beauty and vigor of youth, of young heroes scampering across fields and soaring, laughing, rolling through the sky in abandon, not yet burdened by the worries of age. Vale was only twenty-one—in Old Requiem, he'd be considered at the prime of his youth, barely older than a boy. Yet he felt old. He looked old. He felt ready for death, having suffered too many years of whips, chains, hunger, exhaustion, as if all those five hundred years of slavery—stretching back to the fall of Requiem—weighed upon his shoulders.

And yet I'm still here. Still moving onward. Still alive. Still fighting. He closed his eyes. I still remember you, Issari. I will never forget your starlit hands upon me, the love in your eyes. You told me that a great battle awaits me. I will live and fight on, my lady of starlight.

Splashing sounded in the water beside him, and Vale's eyes snapped open. He started and his heart thrashed. He found himself wincing, expecting the lash of a whip, a habit he didn't know if he'd ever shake. But it was only Tash wading into the water beside him, naked as the day she'd been born, aside from the jewel in her navel.

"Tash!" he whispered, looking away.

She splashed him. "Join me, Vale! Off with your clothes. It's time for a morning bath."

He glanced at her, then quickly looked away, the sight of her naked body seared onto his memory. He was about to reproach her, even grab her cloak and cover her up, when another splash—this one softer—sounded below him.

He looked down and his eyes widened.

A fish.

Vale lifted his spear.

The fish lazily swam between the reeds and rushes, fat and sluggish.

Vale thrust down the spear, piercing it.

"Got you!" He lifted his prize from the water, already salivating. "Tash! Hurry up and wash yourself. We've got breakfast. I'll see if I can catch another."

She stuck out her tongue, the water now blessedly up to her shoulders. "See if there are any pears baked in honey and wine down there, will you? Maybe some almond and butter cakes too."

He scoffed. "It's fish and some algae if you can stomach it. Better than what we ate in Tofet. You house slaves went soft."

He expected her to roll her eyes, to splash him again, maybe to make a joke, but instead anger filled Tash's eyes. She waded toward him in the water.

"Don't you tell me that I'm soft." She glared, her eyes red. "You don't know what I've had to endure."

"What?" He matched her glare. "Did you endure firewhips against your back? Yokes that crushed your shoulders? Eighteen hours of labor a day, carving bricks and hauling tar in the blinding sun? Or did you just have to suffer baked apples sometimes instead of honeyed pears?"

Her eyes dampened, but then her rage seared the tears dry. "I had to live through things you cannot even imagine. I was thirteen when I was tossed into the pleasure pits. You suffered the whip; I suffered the lust of the seraphim. I would have chosen the whip a thousand times over what they did to me, to a mere child." Her voice shook. "For years, I sank into a deep hole. For years, I smoked the hintan, lost in a stupor, barely alive, a giggling, drooling, vapid thing, mere meat, semiconscious, as the seraphim masters had their ways with me. But I crawled out of that pit. I shoved the comfort of hintan aside, and I learned to accept pain, because pain gives me clarity, pain gives me strength. So yes, Vale of Tofet. I ate honeyed pears instead of gruel, and I wore anklets of gold instead of shackles of iron. And I suffered more pain than I can remember without dying inside."

The fish flapped on his spear, and Vale felt his anger wan. Why was he so mad at the woman? Tash had been kind to Elory, protecting her in the pleasure pit. She had saved Meliora from the dungeon. She had fought bravely against the seraphim during their escape from Tofet, and she sought the Chest of Plenty not for personal gain but to duplicate the Keeper's Key and bring Requiem hope. Why had he spent the past night and day mad at her? Was it because of her body—and by the stars, she was naked now in the water, only inches away—that intoxicated him? Was it because she awakened something deep inside him, something frightening, something that was all soft warmth and joy, unlike anything he had ever felt, anything he thought he deserved?

He nodded. "Let's eat breakfast. I'll catch you a fish too. I promise it'll be tasty."

She nodded, her face calming. She stepped out from the river and pulled on her cloak, then paused.

She stared down, frozen.

"Tash?" Vale said. "Are you all right?"

She spun back toward him, eyes wide. "I found something. Oh stars above, Vale. I found something."

ISHTAFEL

In his dreams he was still there. In darkness. Five hundred years ago. Young. Scared. Fighting with her.

"The cowards flee, my love!" Reehan cried, laughing as she swung her twin xiphos swords. "Like worms digging deeper into their holes. Let us hook them!"

Ishtafel fought at her side, swinging his own twin blades. Blood covered his steel breastplate, his long blond hair, his face—every part of him, sticky, hot, red, coppery, sweet. Some the blood of his enemies. Some the blood of his friends. Some his own blood.

And in the tunnels ahead, they scurried.

The weredragons.

Ishtafel swung one of his short, wide blades, blocking a blow from a massive weredragon longsword. The beast roared before him, bearded, eyes wild, clad all in steel plates. The brute's armor was thicker than his own, his sword longer and sharper, and fear flooded Ishtafel—cold, all-consuming terror.

He thrust his blade again, trying to reach past the weredragon's defenses. The tunnel walls seemed to close in around Ishtafel. He couldn't breathe in here, couldn't see. Behind the barbarian ahead, thousands more—filthy weredragons—lurked in the darkness, just waiting to strike, to cut him down.

I can't do this, Ishtafel thought, tears budding in his eyes as he swung his blade. I can't survive on this world. We should never have rebelled, never have fallen from Edinnu. I'm going to die here in darkness.

The weredragon lashed at Ishtafel again, and his longsword slammed into his armor. Ishtafel cried out and fell to his knees in the tunnel, these holes far beneath the realm they called Requiem. The weredragon grinned and raised his longsword, prepared to land the killing blow.

Reehan let out a battle cry. Her golden hair streamed, and her bloody face twisted with rage. She leaped forward, twin blades flashing. With one swing of the blade, she knocked aside the weredragon's longsword. With the other, she cut the creature's neck, sending him crashing down. Blood spurted onto her, and she licked it off her face and smacked her lips.

"All right, my love?" she said, reaching down to help him up.

Ishtafel rose without her help. His heart thudded against his ribs. Sweat dripped down his face, mingling with the blood.

I can't do this, he thought. Only thirty years old—a babe among the immortal seraphim—he had thought himself brave, a great conqueror. He had vowed to his Mother: I will show you my strength! I will build an empire for you. I will crush Requiem!

He had slain the dragons in their sky. With thousands of flaming chariots, he had burned them down. Yet now, here in these tunnels, he fought the creatures face to face. Here was no realm of fire; here was blood, guts, bones, torn bodies and organs across the walls, and fear, and screams. Here he would die, no conqueror, just a soldier, screaming as the shapeshifters tore him apart.

The weredragons charged. Side by side with Reehan, Ishtafel fought.

They moved through the tunnels, thousands of seraphim behind them, thousands of weredragons ahead. They climbed rough staircases, ran through craggy tombs and libraries, fought in cisterns, in granaries, in burrows barely wide enough to walk through. And everywhere the dead fell, seraphim, weredragons, piles of corpses underground.

As he kept marching through the tunnels, cutting weredragons down, some of Ishtafel's fear eased. Bloodlust rose to replace it. He was surviving. He was killing. He would win this.

"I slay them for you, Reehan!" he cried, driving his sword into a weredragon child, sending the girl crashing down. "I conquer this land in your honor, my love. When we return home, victorious, we shall wed in glory."

She laughed at his side, lashing her blades at an axe-wielding weredragon. "Let us wed here, my love! Let us wed in darkness and blood, for this is a domain of more glory than the gold of Saraph."

Her eyes shone as she gazed at him. Bloodied, her blades held before her, Reehan seemed more beautiful than ever. Here was no pampered lady like so many in Saraph. Here was a tigress, a huntress hungry for prey. Her wings dripped the blood of her enemies, and her smile was hot, deadly, lusting for him.

She is my love, Ishtafel thought, the only seraph worthy to be my bride. She will bear me great heirs.

"Very well!" Ishtafel said, laughing. He swung his sword at another weredragon, cutting the child down. "Let us wed here upon a pile of corpses, and you will wear their blood as your gown."

She saluted with her blade, laughing. "We will always hunt together, my love! We—"

A hoarse cry rolled over her words.

A young weredragon woman charged down the tunnel, screaming, thrusting a longsword.

"Murderers!" the weredragon howled. Her blade plunged down, crashed through Reehan's armor, and drove through her chest and out of her back.

The weredragon might as well have stabbed Ishtafel's chest. His heart seemed to shatter inside him.

Reehan fell, the blade piercing her, and gazed at him, reaching out to him.

"My love . . .," she whispered, and then her head rolled back, and she said no more.

Ishtafel screamed.

Something tore in his throat and filled his mouth with blood.

He leaped forward, blade swinging, and cut down the weredragon woman, nearly severing her entire torso with a single blow. He roared. He fought in a fury, lashing his blade into another weredragon, another, tears in his eyes.

"Reehan!" he cried. "Reehan!"

He knelt beside her, shivering, coated with the weredragons, and held her hands.

"Please, Reehan, please, my love. Wake up. Wake up, great huntress."

But she only lay limply, eyes gazing at nothing.

Slowly, Ishtafel rose to his feet. He took one of her swords. He stared forward, hissing out his breath. Around him, his soldiers gathered, warrior seraphim in steel.

"Enough!" Ishtafel shouted. "Enough killing."

"My lord?" asked one soldier. "Let us avenge her death. Let us slay them all, let—"

"No." Ishtafel's fists trembled around his hilts. "No, we will not grant them the mercy of death. The living weredragons will return with us to Saraph . . . and they will hurt. They will scream like she screamed." His voice trembled with rage. "For eternity they will suffer."

His eyes opened.

The echoes of battle faded.

Once more he lay in his chamber—five hundred years later—on a soft bed, surrounded by wealth.

Just a dream. Just a memory.

"I never forgot you, Reehan," Ishtafel whispered.

He would have given the world—all this world he had conquered—to have Reehan lie here in his bed. To hold her. Kiss her. Love her. Even after all these centuries, Ishtafel could remember every detail of her: the curve of her hips, her crooked smile, the light in her green eyes, the flash of her blade.

"I conquered this world for Saraph, but what is it without you, Reehan? There will never be another like you. You were a huntress of light and blood. Never more will another shine with your light."

He rose from bed. He walked across the mosaic on his floor, the tiles forming the shape of slain dragons. He pulled open his curtains, and he stared out upon the City of Kings.

The roads of Shayeen flared out like a great wagon wheel, lined with obelisks, temples, forts, and countless stone homes. Palm trees swayed, lush gardens flowered, and many ships sailed on the river. Beyond the horizon, Ishtafel could just make it out—the edge of Tofet.

"You will suffer, weredragons, for as long as I like," he whispered. "Eventually I will grant you the mercy of death, but not yet . . . not until I'm done hurting you."

He clenched his fists, lowered his head, and saw it again—the weredragons, his lover dying in his arms, and the endless tunnels coiling deeper, deeper into endless darkness.

MELIORA

They were walking across barren, rocky hills when the soil rose to wrathful life.

Dawn was spilling across the hills, but still Meliora and Elory trudged on. They had been walking all night, they were weary, and they kept scanning the sky for Ishtafel's chariots. But Meliora wanted to keep walking for as long as she could.

Every hour that we dally is another hour my people suffer, she thought. Every hour before I return with the key is another hour Ishtafel is tormenting the slaves.

"Are you all right to keep going?" she asked Elory. "Just for a little longer until we reach those taller hills." She pointed ahead. "There might be caves there or canyons, places to hide and sleep."

Even though dawn had just risen, it was already hot, the air thick as soup. Sweat beaded on Elory's brow and clung to the brown stubble on her head. Her eyes were glazed, and dust coated her burlap cloak and bare feet. She nodded.

"We'll keep walking." She smiled thinly. "I used to haul bitumen in the pits of Tofet. I can handle a little hike."

But Meliora was not so sure. It was true that Elory had lived a life of labor—but also a life of malnutrition and beatings, leaving her far shorter and frailer than Meliora. Though her wings were gone, Meliora still had the body of a seraph—tall, perfectly proportioned, a work of art. Elory was small and fragile and already wheezing as they climbed the hills.

"Elory." Meliora's voice was soft. "I never told you this, but . . . I'm sorry." She lowered her head. "For what you had to endure in Tofet. For what you all had to endure. I was living in luxury in the world's greatest palace, just a silly little girl. I chased butterflies, I laughed at puppet shows, I danced at banquets, forever a child, forever wrapped in silk and light. All that while, I should have known." Her eyes stung and her fists clenched. "I should have traveled across the river—just a couple hours away!—and seen how the slaves lived. I should have . . . done something. Somehow saved you. Somehow convinced my Mother to release the Vir Requis, or somehow fought against her, or . . . something. Bring you food and water. Visit you and heal you. Pray for you. But I simply lived like a pampered fool while my sister, my family, my people cried out for help." A tear streamed down her cheek. "I'm ashamed, and I'm sorry, Elory."

Elory stopped walking. She approached Meliora and held her hands. Elory's hands were small, dark, and callused, barely larger than the hands of a child. Meliora's hands were long and slender, pale, and soft, the hands of one who had spent her life in idleness.

"You did help us, my sister." Elory's eyes shone damply. "For so many years, I prayed to the stars. We all did. We prayed for a savior. And the stars sent you to us. My sister." Elory smiled through her tears. "You came to us in our hour of greatest need, and you led us into the City of Kings, marching at the lead of a nation. You rose before us as a dragon, blowing white fire, a pillar we will always follow. You fought for us. You gave us hope."

"I gave you nothing but death." Meliora's heart clenched, and she pulled her hands back. "I fought Ishtafel but I lost our battle, and he slew thousands to retaliate. Their blood is on my hands."

Elory squared her shoulders. "You are not responsible for those deaths, only Ishtafel. You did not lose your battle, sister. It was your gauntlet of fire. Perhaps you had to lose your seraph wings before you could find the wings of a dragon. We will find this Keymaker, and we will find our sky. And then, Meliora . . . then all of Requiem will follow your fire again, but that day, we will follow you as dragons."

Meliora lowered her head. "I cannot be that heroine, that leader you need. I'm no great warrior like Ishtafel. I'm not wise like our father. I'm not clever and quick like Tash, not strong like Vale. I'm not brave like you, Elory. I'm just . . . just a pampered princess. Innocent. As new to this world as a babe."

"Maybe." Elory nodded. "But you have us to help you."

Meliora laughed and wiped her eyes. "That's a little better. But you're right, Elory. You know what they say, don't you? About losing a battle but winning the war? Well, I don't want any war." She pulled the broken key from her pocket. "I just want us to fix this damn key and get everyone to fly away—fly all the way across desert, sea, and forest—to Requiem."

"To Requiem," Elory whispered.

They turned back westward, and they continued walking across the hills. The sun had risen over the horizon now, casting its light over a rocky landscape. The Te'ephim River gushed to their left, tumbling over boulders and through canyons. Along the previous miles of their journey, the river had fed rushes, grass, and trees along its bank, a source of fruits and nuts. Here, however, the land was barren. Nothing but boulders rose along the river, and even moss did not grow on them. The hills ahead were lifeless, sprouting not a blade of grass, a dead, tan color like bones draped with mummified skin. The hills grew taller ahead, jagged and cruel and difficult to climb.

This is a cursed land, Meliora thought.

As they kept walking, the sense of dread grew in Meliora. It was too quiet here. No birds flew, and even no insects scurried underfoot. The place smelled wrong too—a muddy, wormy scent, faintly tainted with ash.

Meliora and Elory had crested a hilltop when the earth began to shake.

Pebbles cascaded down the hillside, and cracks raced along the earth, thin as strands of hair. The earth in the valley below churned like a pit of tar.

"Earthquake," Elory whispered.

Meliora frowned. "No. Something trapped in the mud." She gasped and pointed. "Look!"

Shapes were flapping in the mud in the valley, perhaps large fish, rising and falling. Stones cascaded around them, and bubbles rose in the mud and popped. A long form, similar to a human arm, rose from the earth, coated in the mud, then fell.

"They're people!" Elory said. "People trapped in the mud!" She began to run downhill into the valley. "Hurry, Meliora. We can still save them. They're still alive!"

"Wait!" Meliora said, reaching out to grab her sister, but Elory was running too quickly into the valley.

The things in the mud were rising taller, dragging themselves out of the earth. Slowly they took form, rising as tall as men, dripping soil. Rocks were embedded into their torsos, and worms crawled across them. They were vaguely humanoid, their arms handless, their heads misshapen lumps. At first Meliora thought them creatures formed of the soil, but when she hurried after Elory, she saw that ribs protruded from the beings' muddy chests, and red hearts pulsed within them, coated with soil and riddled with maggots.

Elory skidded to a halt and gasped, and Meliora came to stand beside her. Sucking, wet sounds rose behind them, and Meliora spun around to see more of the creatures rising on the hills behind her, blocking her retreat.

"What are they?" Elory whispered.

Meliora thought she knew, and her belly curdled. She was about to reply when the creatures screamed.

They were screams of rage, of pain, of hatred. Horrible sounds, wet, gurgling, anguished, the screams of drowning animals. Bubbles rose and burst across the creatures, seeping black tar like blood.

"A creator!" one of the creatures cried, opening a mouth full of broken stone teeth. It was taller than the others. Unlike its comrades, it had a soft skull like wet papyrus, full of mud. In two dark sockets, eyes moved on stalks, like worms inside burrows. A crown topped its head, formed of two jawbones strung together with tendons, as if this golem were king of its kind. It raised a dripping arm and pointed at Meliora. It had no hand, only the hints of finger bones sticking out from the mud like twigs. "A cursed creator! Make her pay. Strip off her flesh! Make her one of us."

"One of us," chanted the creatures.

The creatures began to advance toward her and Elory, raising their dripping hands.

"Golems," Meliora whispered. She had heard whispers of such creatures, but she had thought them only myths.

"Meliora, they're angry!" Elory cried.

Meliora's eyes stung. "They're in pain."

It had happened before her birth, if the tales were to be believed. They said that Queen Kalafi, banished from Edinnu, outcast from her gods' graces, had tried to become a goddess herself. To create life. In the tales whispered in the ziggurat, Kalafi had stepped out into the wilderness, and there she had labored—here in this valley! Here she had summoned all her power, molding beings from the clay.

They were meant to be beautiful, Meliora remembered, staring at these dripping, bubbling creatures. They were meant to be as noble as seraphim.

But Kalafi had failed.

The queen had begun her creation, forming from the clay bones, blood, hearts . . . but the creation of life was beyond her. Here still languished the culmination of her efforts, only half completed, still clinging to a mockery of life. Still in pain after all these years. Instead of angelic beings, the seraphim, cast out from their heavenly realm, had created monsters. The golems of the valley. Forever the shame of Saraph.

My siblings, Meliora thought.

And now the twisting beings swarmed toward her from all sides, crying for her blood.

Elory hissed and raised her spear. "Stand back!"

Meliora, however, placed down the spear she carried and held out open palms. "Wait, friends!" she said. "Golems, wait and hear me."

Yet the creatures would not slow down. One of them swiped a dripping arm at Elory, and the young woman cried out and thrust her spear. The blade sank into muddy flesh, not stopping the golem. The creature grabbed Elory, spraying her with mud. She thrashed in its grasp, unable to flee.

"Rip out their bones!" rumbled the Golem King, its wormy eyes moving within the sockets of its soft, fleshy skull. "Coat them with mud. Bring me their jawbones for my crown."

Two golems approached Meliora, reaching out toward her. One grabbed her arm, twisting many-jointed finger bones around her. Another rose from the mud beneath her, coiled around her legs, and bit down with stony teeth.

"Stop this!" Meliora cried. "Golems, I command you stop. I am your sister. I am the daughter of Queen Kalafi, your creator. Stop this madness!"

They screamed around her, hundreds of them, more still rising from the mud. Some fell and shattered, only to reform. They limped down the hills and across the valley, seeping blood, organs dangling out from muddy torsos, falling, breaking, rising again. Unable to live. Unable to die. Forever caught between creation and curse.

"She is the Creator's spawn!" cried a golem, worms dripping from its head.

"I will suck on her ribs," said another, limping forward, its one leg half the length of the other, mushrooms growing from its shoulders.

Others were tugging at Elory, stretching out her limbs. "Quarter her!" the golems said. "We will suck on her marrow. Tug her! Tug her until we hear the sockets pop."

Meliora snarled and kicked. "Stop this." As more golems grabbed her, she turned toward the king of the creatures, the golem with the soft skull and jawbone crown. "King Golem, hear me. I am Queen Kalafi's daughter. I can help you."

"Cursed creator, cursed creator!" the golems chanted. "Make her one of us, one of us."

One golem yanked at Elory's arm, a tug so mighty that Elory's bone popped out of its socket. Elory screamed. More golems began tugging at Meliora's limbs, and she fell into the mud, thrashing, unable to free herself.

"I can give you life!" Meliora shouted. "Stop this, golems. I can heal you!"

They knocked her down, and mud entered her eyes, and in the distance Elory still screamed. Their fingers wrapped around her, yanking, pulling her, quartering her, and Meliora shouted. Mud entered her mouth, and all she could see was the lumpy, dripping heads of the creatures and their dark, soulless eyes.

"Wait." The voice rumbled over the creatures' screeches. "Bring the creator's daughter before me."

The golems tossed back their heads, howling in protest, but they obeyed their king. They tugged Meliora to her feet, gripping her with their muddy digits, and limped forth, dragging her through the mud.

"Release Elory!" Meliora cried, spitting out mud. "Release my sister, or I won't give you aid."

The golems obeyed, tossing Elory down. The young woman lay in the mud, pale and shivering. Her arm popped back into her socket, and Elory screamed again, and then her eyes rolled back, and she lay limply in the mud. Meliora wanted to rush to her, but the golems kept dragging her, finally taking her to stand before the king.

The golem stood before her, eight feet tall, dripping moss and mud. Its heart thumped outside its chest, riddled with worms, surrounded by crooked ribs that thrust out like snapped branches. Its eyes moved down on their stalks, gaping from their shadowy pits. The jawbones forming its crown, Meliora realized, were the jaws of seraphim or perhaps Vir Requis—previous travelers to these hills.

"It was seven hundred years ago that your mother came to these hills," the king rumbled. "I was her first creation. She raised me from the mud, and she named me Eresh, and I was to her as a deformed child. She cast me aside and I watched, writhing in pain, lying malformed in the mud as she created my brothers. As she raised life, again and again from the mud—life doomed to suffering, life failed. I cried out to her. I begged her to spare the others, to stop bringing tortured souls into the world, but she did not see us as souls—only as her own failures. And still she raised more, even as we all cried out together, pleading for this mockery of creation to end. We begged her for death. We begged her for life. Yet she left us in this state of wretchedness, for she was no goddess. Kalafi, our creator, is forever accursed. Bring her before us. Summon your mother! Bring her here so that we may claim our vengeance, or we will exact our vengeance upon your sister who lies in the mud."

Meliora struggled to free herself from the golems grabbing her but could not. Instead she raised her chin, trying to muster what pride she still could. "Queen Kalafi is dead. Her own son, the tyrant Ishtafel, slew her. Your vengeance is fulfilled."

But rather than soothing the golems, this seemed to enrage them further. They tossed back their heads, and they howled to the sky. The hills shook.

"She was ours to slay!" King Eresh cried. Centipedes and beetles fled from his body, and his heart thrashed, heating up, melting mud around it. "The tyrant Ishtafel stole our vengeance, but we will take it out on you, daughter of the creator."

The golems began tugging at her again, and more advanced, dripping, hissing, gnashing their teeth.

"No," Meliora said. "You will not, for as the creator's daughter, I can help you. I can . . . I can try." She gulped. "I heard tales of how Kalafi created you. They were stories passed through the palace in shadows, in whispers, forbidden stories. My brother told me. They frightened me but I kept asking him to tell them again and again, and I would reenact the stories with my dolls. I know why you are half-formed. I know why Kalafi could not grant you true life." The golems leaned in, silent, and Meliora spoke softly. "She did not give you her blood."

"Blood flows through us!" rumbled King Eresh. "This blood we spill with every step, with every breath. This blood flows from our hearts which we wish would stop pumping. This blood is forever our curse."

Meliora looked at the oily black substance dripping from the golem's infested heart. "That's not blood," she whispered, "but bitumen mined from the pits of Tofet. To create life—true life, true children—Kalafi had to grant you her own blood. The stories whisper that she was too proud. Too protective of her noble blood, that she would not share it, and instead completed her spells with tar. That is why her creations failed—not for lack of power but for pride."

Eresh's eyes burned white, and his heart rustled with maggots. He gripped her with dripping, muddy hands, and the rocks and soil that formed his body creaked and scattered dirt. "Then we will take your blood, Meliora, daughter of Kalafi, for our creator's blood flows through your veins."

"If you take it you will get nothing." She stared into his eyes. "It would seep into the mud and vanish, leaving you forever without life, without death, and without vengeance. But if I were to give you my blood, my gift of life . . . you will finally be healed."

At least, that was what the old stories said—more old stories Meliora had thought mere myths, now risen before her.

"Will you let me try?" Meliora said.

The golems did not speak, those with eyes staring at the others, those with noses snorting, their breathing ragged, scented of worms and deep soil and rot. Still they said nothing.

"Let me heal you," Meliora said softly. "At least let me try. Let me end what my mother began, and let me bring you some relief from this tortured existence. I've learned, in only this moon, of horrors I never knew could exist—horrors committed by my mother, my brother, by those I thought my family and my people. I've left the city of Shayeen to fix the evil my family wrought. Let me fix this evil too."

Their grip on her arms relaxed, and Meliora raced toward Elory. Her younger sister lay in the mud, blinking feebly. Meliora knelt above her and touched her cheek.

"I'm all right," Elory whispered. "I've suffered worse in Tofet. Give them life, Meliora. Save them. They need you like we do."

Meliora raised Elory's fallen spear, and at first the golems rumbled and made to grab her again, but Meliora lowered the spear's blade to her own hand. She hesitated, then grimaced and cut a line across her palm.

What is a cut on the hand compared to losing my wings? she thought as her blood beaded.

She approached one golem, the weakest among them, a dripping creature that lay in the mud, gasping, reaching up and unable to rise. Its heart beat outside its chest, draped in mud, like a discarded organ in a battlefield. Its mouth smacked, toothless, bubbling, a slit in the soil, and mushrooms grew where eyes should peer. Meliora held her hand above the wretched soul.

"I am a daughter of Requiem," Meliora whispered. "A child of starlight. The blood of Requiem courses through me, red blood that has spilled too often over the centuries of our suffering. But I'm also a child of Saraph, and ichor flows through my veins—the golden blood of the deities, outcast from Edinnu. Blood that is godly, blood that I now grant to you. Let the ichor of Edinnu, blessed with the first light of creation, ignite true life inside you."

She tightened her fist, and a single drop of her blood—the red blood of Requiem mixed with the golden ichor of Saraph—dripped down.

The golem's bubbling mouth opened, and the blood vanished into the muddy hole.

Silence fell across the hills.

The golem in the mud lay still, its last bubbles popping, its moans fading.

Meliora stared down, breath catching. Did I kill it?

She knelt in the mud. She placed her hands on the melted being in the soil.

"Rise," she whispered. "Take my gift of life and rise. Become life."

And slowly it rose.

No sunbeams fell upon it, gleaming with gold. No angelic choir sang. No cherubim flew above, blowing silver trumpets and playing joyous harps. Here was not a moment from ancient tales and frescos, a holy miracle for poets to sing of and artists to paint across the walls of temples. And yet life still rose. Clumsy. Falling into the mud, breaking apart, rising again. A thing of filth, worms, dripping soil, awkward and limping, the struggle of primordial life bubbling up from the earth.

And yet it rose. And yet it fought.

The golem of mud took form, sprouting an arm that dripped off, another arm that replaced it, becoming solid, stones forming its bones and encasing its heart, its dripping flesh drying like bricks in a kiln. The insects and worms fled from it or dried up in its innards, and its eyes opened, deep sockets, shining with inner light.

"Become flesh," Meliora whispered.

The golem suddenly cried out, bent over, wrapped its arms around its belly, and Meliora was sure that she too had failed, that this being would die—or worse, fall into a pit of everlasting pain and agony. Its clay skin raised bumps which hardened, forming white scales, and feathers rose upon its head, bristly and sticky with mud. It raised its eyes and stared at her—golden eyes, feline, and its nostrils flared, inhaling the air.

"Breathe," Meliora whispered.

And life rose before her. A man. A man coated with silver scales, feathers on his head, feathers flowing down his back. Wings slowly sprouted from his shoulder blades. He blinked his golden eyes and stared at her, a being blended of Vir Requis blood, Saraph's ichor, and the soil of the earth. Life. He was life, true life sprung from her mother—and from her.

"Is he . . . Vir Requis?" Elory asked, coming to stand beside Meliora.

"He's like me," Meliora said. "Of different bloods. He's touched with starlight, with sunlight, and with the soil of the earth." She turned toward the life she had made. "I name you erev, from our ancient word for joining together, for you are made of many."

The other golems approached her, dragging themselves through the mud, creatures of dirt and suffering. One by one, they knelt before her, and she gave them her blood—a drop each—and they took solid forms, grew scales and feathers, and stood straight before her. The last drop she gave to King Eresh, and he transformed into the tallest among his brethren, his wings wide and golden, his scales gleaming like seashells, and his eyes shone a deep burnished gold. His crown of bones fell from his head and vanished into the mud whence he had risen. A hundred and twelve erevim stood before Meliora—her siblings, her children.

"You are healed," she told them. "You are life. Let this no longer be the Valley of Golem but the Valley of Erev, a blessed homeland to you."

They knelt before her in the mud, the wind ruffling their feathered wings.

"Blessed be Meliora!" cried King Eresh. "Blessed be Meliora the Merciful, our Holy Mother. We are now a nation. Like other nations we will build halls, and we will paint, sculpt, sing, and tell many tales. And in them we will remember our mother. Blessed be Meliora! Forever will the erevim fly to your aid should you walk in darkness."

And much darkness still lies ahead, Meliora thought. I have saved one nation, but another still languishes in the dirt. Requiem still needs me. She reached into her pocket and felt the crumpled key. The path still winds through many shadows.

"I thank you, King Eresh." Meliora bowed her head. "May your nation grow and become as plentiful as the stars."

The king of erevim stepped toward a hill, knelt, and raised a bundle from the mud. He brought it forward, laid it at Meliora and Elory's feet, and unrolled the leather encasing. Inside lay two longswords of ancient making, the blades thick and double-sided, the hilts wrapped in leather and large enough for two hands, the pommels shaped as dragon claws clutching crystals. Stars were engraved onto the blades, shaped as the Draco constellation.

Meliora gasped. "Swords of Ancient Requiem!"

Eresh nodded. "We claimed them from travelers centuries ago—they are treasures the seraphim stole from the northern realms. I grant them to you, Meliora and Elory of Requiem, for these are things of your homeland."

Elory knelt and gasped. She pointed at names engraved onto the hilts. "These are famous blades! Here lies Lemuria, the blade of Queen Kaelyn, a heroine of Requiem who fought the Cadigus Regime, the traitors to the crown. And by it lies Amerath, sword of Prince Relesar, an ancient hero who fought in Requiem's great civil war. These are royal blades of legend." Tears gleamed in Elory's eyes. "They belonged to the Aeternum dynasty, our ancestors, for we're descended of Rune through Lyana and many other heroes of Requiem."

Eyes wide, Elory lifted Lemuria, the thinner of the blades. Despite being smaller than Amerath, it looked so large in Elory's small hands, dwarfing the young woman, but when Elory swung it, it whistled through the air.

"It's so light," Elory said. "Queen Kaelyn slew many enemies of Requiem with this blade. It's an honor to hold it."

Meliora lifted Amerath, the second blade, the larger of the two. The pommel, shaped as a dragon claw, clutched an amber stone. While large and wide, it felt light in her hands, no heavier than a dagger.

"We will return these blades to their proper land," Meliora vowed. "They will never more lie buried in the mud. They will shine again in the halls of rebuilt Requiem."

Under the noon sun, Meliora and Elory left the Valley of Erev, the ancient swords upon their sides. As they walked across the hills, they saw that new life spread across the hills: grass rose from the dirt, flowers bloomed, and rushes began to grow along the riverbanks.

May we bring life wherever we go, Meliora prayed silently as they walked westward. May life bloom again from the ruin Saraph has inflicted upon this world. May I live to see the birches grow again, halls of marble rising among them.

ISHTAFEL

He flew over mountains of pines, rivulets, and flowering meadows, heading toward a place of darkness and screams.

He had always thought this land beautiful. Here rolled the low, rounded mountains of Relen, a wilderness Ishtafel had wandered often in his youth. He had not been young for five hundred years, yet the land below had not changed. Pine, olive, and carob trees grew upon chalky slopes, and wild goats and deer herded between them, feeding on wild grass and drinking from streams that flowed through verdant ravines.

I learned to hunt here, Ishtafel thought. I learned to kill. I learned to fire arrows into the hearts of beasts, to skin them, gut them, smell the blood, hear their echoing screams.

When later Ishtafel had gone to kill men, he would always remember the animals he had slain here, looking back fondly upon his first taste of death. That was something he could never get back, he knew—the thrill of it. The power. The drunken realization that with his own hands he could snuff out life—as easily as snuffing out a candle's flame. He had felt like a god. He had since become a true god, ruler of a reborn Edinnu, but that thrill now escaped him. Perhaps he had lost it in the tunnels of Requiem.

He flew here without a chariot, using his own wings, and when he shut his eyes, Ishtafel could imagine himself flying over Requiem again. He could still remember his first kill—a burly blue dragon with white horns and amber eyes. Ishtafel had dodged the beast's fire, thrust his lance, and pierced its neck. In its death, the blue dragon had returned to human form, tumbling down as a man with a red beard and a wooden leg. Ishtafel had tried to find the corpse after the battle, had offered a reward for any soldier who could bring him the body, but the red-bearded man was never found.

And the dead had piled up.

Ishtafel never knew how many Vir Requis his forces had killed that year; some said a hundred thousand, others said a million. To Ishtafel it had stopped mattering. All that mattered to him was to seek that thrill again. To be a boy, hunting in the woods. To experience the magic, the true power of taking life. His mother had once tried to create life. The Eight Gods of Edinnu had created many living things. But those were tricks for the weak. He, Ishtafel, was a god of death. There were only two true powers: to birth life and to take it.

He opened his eyes and stared back down at the forested mountains. He glided toward them, deciding that he wanted to walk the rest of the way. A ravine spread ahead between two piney mountainsides, and Ishtafel had to kick and thrust his spear, clearing an opening in the canopy. He glided between the pines' trunks and landed on the banks of a dried streambed, its water gone for the summer. Mossy stones rose here like cobblestones along a road, and Ishtafel walked alongside, stepping around boulders and over logs. Ivy grew upon the pines around him, and cyclamens dotted the forest floor, their leaves veined and their lavender blossoms swaying in the breeze.

He did not walk for long when he saw the wild boars ahead—a mother protecting a litter of cubs. He slew the sow first with a thrust of his spear, then spent a while collecting the young ones, lifting them one by one, and snapping their necks in his hands. Each gave a squeal and crack before falling silent. He tossed the little bodies aside, food for the crows and coyotes. He walked onward.

After an hour or two of walking, the landscape began to wilt around him. The canopy thinned out. The cyclamens were thinner, paler, then gone completely. A sticky film clung to the boulders, and the soil was gray. Soon no more leaves grew on the trees, and the air had a sickly, ashen smell. He was close now. The presence of the cursed ones flowed on the wind here, seeped into the soil, stained the landscape. Even locked behind stone walls, they exuded their rot into the world.

As he hiked through the ravine, Ishtafel grimaced. Nausea rose in his belly. The creatures he was about to visit sickened him. He had fought many creatures in his long wars—beasts of the sea, terrors of the mountains, creatures of deserts and caves. He had fought demons that haunted the nightmares of lesser men, that had driven some of his soldiers insane. Yet now Ishtafel was approaching what were, perhaps, the foulest creatures in this world—for they had once been fair. They had once been like him.

The mountain slopes turned to cliffs at his sides, the ravine sinking into a deep canyon. As he kept walking, the walls grew taller at his sides, soaring taller than any temple. No more trees grew here, and the only sign of life was a few crows far above. The cliffs were craggy and gray, and Ishtafel imagined twisted faces on their facades.

After walking for another mile, he reached a towering gatehouse built into the canyon, three hundred feet tall. Each of its towers was shaped as Shafat, the god of justice—a bird of prey with the head of a bearded man. Between the two glowering idols stretched a massive stone archway, breaking a wall engraved with scenes of men cowering beneath swooping ravens with human heads. Seraphim guards topped the battlements, their armor bright in the sun. The gatehouse was so large, the guards seemed like nothing more than flecks from here.

Closer to the gatehouse, Ishtafel reached a staircase that rose toward a stone doorway worked into the brick wall between the cliffs. Ten seraphim stood before the doors on a platform, holding the leashes of serpopards—felines with curling necks longer than their bodies. The beasts drooled and sneered, but the seraphim bowed before their king.

"My lord Ishtafel, Great of Graces!" cried their captain. "It's an honor to kneel before you, oh glorious son of Edinnu."

Ishtafel was about to reply when a deep, guttural scream rose from beyond the wall, shaking the canyon. He cringed. The sound was almost too twisted to belong to a living, sentient being; it was demonic, a scream from the Abyss.

"Do they always make that sound?" he asked, grimacing.

The guards nodded. "Yes, my lord. Many guards have gone mad, my lord."

If their bite is as bad as their bark, Ishtafel thought, you're in for a delightful little treat, my dear sister.

"Open the doors," he said.

The guards obeyed, and Ishtafel stepped through the doorways and into the shadows.

A great hall awaited him, large enough for an army of dragons to fly in. The cliffs soared at his sides, and above, the seraphim had raised a vaulted roof of stone. An oculus, small and barred, let in a beam of light, leaving most of the hall shadowed. The scream rose again, guttural, tortured, echoing through this craggy nave. A second scream answered it, high pitched, shrill as ripping skin. Soon more voices joined the din—laughing, screeching, moaning, howling. The cacophony rose louder than charging armies.

Ishtafel beat his wings, rose to hover a hundred feet above the ground, and flew along the chasm. Cells had been carved into the canyon walls, rugged and barred. Within those holes he saw them.

"The dark seraphim," he whispered.

They tugged at the bars of their prison cells, hissing, leering, wagging their tongues at him. Too dangerous to be kept in Shayeen, they had been languishing here for centuries.

Traitors, Ishtafel thought. Corrupted souls.

They had been seraphim once, he knew. Among the mightiest seraphim, the greatest warriors, bodyguards to Queen Kalafi herself. Seraphim who had spat upon their rulers, who had rebelled against the Thirteenth Dynasty, who had suffered the horrible curse of Kalafi.

Banished from the light of Saraph, the feathers had fallen from their wings. Those wings had darkened, hardened, become the wings of bats, tipped with claws. Their eyes were no longer golden but blazing white, the irises colorless, the pupils slit—the eyes of snakes. Indeed, aside from their dark wings, they seemed bleached of all color. Their long and tangled hair, their skin, the fangs in their mouths, the claws that grew from their fingertips, all were a sickly white. Like seraphim, they were immortals, and no lines of age marked their faces, and their bodies were still young, well formed, beautiful, forever youthful, but their souls were rotted black, and no more halos shone above their heads.

Sixteen had rebelled against Saraph. Sixteen had been cursed. Sixteen had been imprisoned here, among the most powerful beings Saraph had ever known. Some called them the dark seraphim. Some merely called them the Sixteen. They called themselves the Rancid Angels—sinners of rotten holiness.

"A golden one enters!" screeched one of the dark seraphim.

The creatures hopped in their cages like rabid animals. "A king, a king! King Ishtafel enters our realm, murderer of Queen Kalafi!"

Hovering in the chasm, his swan wings spread wide, Ishtafel ground his teeth. So the news of his ascension had spread here too. He either had chatty guards or these cursed creatures possessed a sight their uncorrupted brethren did not.

"I have a deal for you, friends!" Ishtafel spread his arms open, spinning around to face cell by cell. "For too long have you lingered here in the shadows, blood of my blood. For too long did your wings wither, cramped in your cells. For too long did the corrupted sons and daughters of Saraph languish between stone and iron."

"Too long!" they cried. "Too long!"

Ishtafel nodded. "Yet who better than I, the son of Kalafi, knows of failed rebellions? My mother rebelled against the Eight Gods in Edinnu! And even the Eight Gods did not imprison her in stone but banished her here to build a new life, a new paradise. And yet you, who rebelled against the new Edinnu, which we call Saraph—you wither in cells."

"We wither!" they cried. "We wither!"

He flapped his wings, rising within the beam that fell from the skylight. His voice dropped to a whisper. "But I can free you."

Silence fell, perhaps awed, perhaps scornful. They all stared, their snake eyes shining white. Their bat wings creaked, and their claws wrapped around the bars of their cells.

Finally one among them spoke.

"You want us to hunt."

Ishtafel turned toward the voice, and he smiled thinly. "And hunting is what you crave."

He flew closer to her cell.

"Leyleet," he whispered.

She smiled at him between her bars—a sly, hungry smile. "Little Ishtafel. The boy I once spanked over my knee now wishes me to spank his sister, am I right?"

Leyleet. Leader of the Sixteen. Once chief bodyguard to the Thirteenth Dynasty. Her hair had once been golden. The curse had left it white as milk, smooth and so long it hung down to her hips. Her eyes had once been golden, the pupils shaped as sunbursts. They now peered at him, pale like bowls of milk, the pupils a black slit. Her wings had once been soft and feathered. They were now black, veined with red, tipped with cruel claws like daggers. Yet she was still beautiful—still alluring with the curves of her body, the crookedness of her smile, the mocking intelligence in her eyes.

The memory returned to him—himself as a youth, only thirteen, peering through the lock of her chamber, savoring her nakedness. And her—already a century old, already so strong—knowing he was there, peering right at the lock, then grabbing him, striking him as if he were a child. He had never forgotten that humiliation. And he had never forgotten his lust for her.

"If I recall correctly, you knew me as a man as well." He refused to look away from those mocking eyes. "You used to scream so loudly in my bed the whole ziggurat heard."

She snorted a laugh. "You speak of me as if I were one of your paramours, a mere pleasure slave from the pits. And yet you loved me, Ishtafel. How you used to confess your love to me! How you begged your mother to let me be your wife! Oh, my poor Ishtafel . . . we would have made such a king and queen of Saraph. And now you are king . . . and now you are alone. The one who would be your queen fled from you. And so you come to me again, as you came to my chamber as a youth to gaze upon my nakedness." Her crooked smile grew. "Perhaps I need to spank you a second time."

He flew closer toward her cell. She leaned forward, gripping the bars, and he wrapped his hands around hers. He brought his face so close to hers that their noses almost touched. Gods, she still smelled the same, even here in her prison—the scent of sweet sweat and sex, more intoxicating than wine.

"What you need to do," he said softly, "is to fly out there, find Meliora, and bring her back to me alive." He pulled out a silken bundle and tossed it between the bars. It hit the floor of her cell and unfolded. "Meliora's nightgown. Smell it. Memorize that smell. And track her down like a hound tracks a hare."

Leyleet raised the nightgown to her nose, inhaled deeply, and smiled. "Your sister smells like honey and milk and the crotch of a whore."

"You will bring her to me," Ishtafel said. "Unsullied. Do this and I will release you from this prison."

She snorted. "And you will return my halo, my swan wings, let me play harps and sing pretty little songs with Meliora in your pretty little palace?" She scoffed. "I'd rather stay in this cell."

He growled. "Your curse I will not undo. You betrayed my family, Leyleet. You might have struck me as a child, but that was negligible compared to how you struck my family. My mother rebelled against the gods, woman. Did you really think you could rise up against the mistress of rebellion?"

Her eyes narrowed the slightest, her first sign of anger. "Your mother lost her rebellion."

"As did you."

She screamed. She thrust herself forward, pressing her face between the bars, snapping her teeth, nearly biting off his nose. He pulled back just an inch, laughing, and she spat on his face.

"Maybe I will bring Meliora back to your corpse, boy!" She tossed back her head and howled. "Maybe I will rule over that decadent cage of gold you call a palace, and maybe I will sleep in that soft, silken bed where you knew me so many times. I could not dethrone Kalafi, it's true; the whore was too clever. But I can easily kill you."

He tilted his head, amused. "And yet . . . and yet, Leyleet, I quite easily killed Kalafi. And I will quite easily snap that pretty little neck of yours. You bruised me once when I displeased you. If you displease me now, your punishment will be far more severe."

She stared at him, and for an instant her eyes blazed with unadulterated hatred. Then she laughed. Her leathern wings spread out, banging against the walls of her cell, and her chest heaved with her mirth.

"Do you remember what I told you when you were a boy, Ishtafel? When you gazed upon my naked breasts, coveting them, an awkward youth kneeling before a keyhole?"

He nodded. "You struck a deal with me. You told me that I could have your treasures if only I waited, if only I did not touch another woman for five years—then you would be mine. All I had to do was wait."

She nodded. "I have been waiting here for very long. And now we will make another deal. You will free me and my fifteen, and yes, Ishtafel . . . we will hunt your escaped sister. But I ask for one more thing."

"In addition to your freedom?" He frowned. "I should think that a gift great enough."

"Not enough. That would not be vengeance. I will bring you Meliora, and in return, you will bring me the bones of Kalafi, so that I will bury them here. Here in this cavern. Here I will toss them into the pit, and I will piss on them, and I will leave them to rot, while I return to the ziggurat and sleep in her bed, eat at her table, fill her pool with milk." Her eyes simmered, and her hands shook around the bars. "Kalafi's soul will be trapped here where she trapped us, while I and my fifteen live in her splendor. That is what I demand for Meliora's life." The dark seraph winked at him. "Maybe, as you sleep next door, I'll even let you peek through the lock now and then."

Oh, I won't need to peek, Leyleet, Ishtafel thought. I will walk in and claim you in my mother's bed whenever I like.

He pulled out a key and he unlocked her cell. He pulled the bars open.

After centuries in prison, he expected her to leap out, to charge to freedom, to fly into the sky and scream and laugh.

But instead she grabbed him. She pulled him into her cell. She bared her clenched teeth, gripping his shoulders.

"You do not crave the sky?" he asked her.

She sneered into his ear, her body pressed against him. "There is something I've craved more all these years."

Her claws tore through his gilded steel armor, as effortlessly as a child tearing paper. Those claws nicked his skin, and her teeth bit his shoulder, and he ripped off her clothes, again seeing that forbidden flesh.

He pressed her against the wall. She shoved him back, roaring, and knocked him down, cracking the stone. Their bodies joined, skin against skin, sweat mingling. They screamed in their passion, and around them across the canyon, the other dark seraphim screamed too.

Finally she screamed with a sound that nearly shattered his eardrums, and her claws ripped his skin. She panted, spat, and pushed him away.

"Now," she whispered and licked him, "we fly."

Ishtafel had walked to this canyon alone, lost in his thoughts. He flew out, soaring high, leading sixteen hunters with dark wings.

VALE

"Tash, wait!" Vale hurried after her. "It's not safe."

She spun toward him, holding up the golden coin. "Gold, Vale!" Her eyes shone just as brightly, and she bit the coin. "Real gold! And there's more."

The young woman spun around, her silken trousers and long brown hair fluttering. She raced forward a few steps across the grass, knelt, and lifted another coin.

Vale grumbled as he followed. The morning sun was already high in the sky, and the chariots of fire could return any moment. Yet instead of seeking shelter—a burrow between boulders, a hideaway under tree roots, maybe a cave if they could find one—the damn girl was running away from the river, seeking her treasures in the grasslands.

"You're going to get lost!" he called after her. "What good is gold to us anyway? We're escaped slaves, Tash. Are you going to walk back into Shayeen—where every seraph is waiting to slay you—and go shopping?"

But she seemed too excited to listen. She ran a few steps farther, then knelt again. She lifted another golden coin, turned around, and showed it to him. "That's seventeen so far. Every few steps I find one. Must be a wealthy man walked here, a hole in his purse. I'm going to collect them all."

Vale groaned, trudging after her. "Why, Tash? For pity's sake, just one coin's enough, if we're going to find the Chest of Plenty. You can duplicate it along with the Keeper's Key."

"But it might be a while until we find the chest." Tash knelt, lifted another coin, and whooped in triumph. "Oh, look, this one is platinum. Platinum is even more valuable than gold, did you know?" She bit this coin too. "I had to give up all my jewels as bribes, but I'm going to be rich again soon, Vale." She nodded. "I'm going to be the richest woman who ever lived, more than a queen."

"And yet still wear an iron collar," Vale muttered, "unless we get back to our quest."

As she raced ahead and he followed, Vale thought back to Tofet. Back in that hellish land, he would pray for an extra bowl of gruel, an extra few moments to catch his breath between forming bricks. Gold? What use was that? They had come here on a quest for freedom, not wealth. Unless . . .

Vale thought back to his last night at home. When Tash had spoken of the Chest of Plenty, her eyes had lit up. She had been safeguarding her map for years, she had claimed, dreaming of finding the chest, of duplicating her jewels, of growing wealthy enough to buy her freedom. Could it be that . . . that Tash had come here not for Requiem's freedom but to fulfill that old dream?

He looked up and saw that she had raced far ahead, entering a grove of olive trees on a hilltop. He ran in pursuit. If she wouldn't listen to reason, he would grab her. He would drag her back to their path. They must keep traveling east to the sea, not on this chase for useless coins.

"Tash," he began, "now listen, this is enough. We turn back now and—"

Movement ahead made him bite down on his words.

Tash froze. Vale reached her. They both stared, eyes wide.

A long creature walked ahead on many legs, the length and width of a lemon tree's trunk. Its segmented body was black but shimmered with hints of green and purple in the sunlight. A humanlike head grew from it, sprouting thick black hair and a long, shaggy beard. As it ambled forward, it paused, crouched, and expelled a golden coin from its backside.

Tash gasped. "A goldshitter!" She began spitting and scraping her tongue. "And I bit those coins!"

Vale would have laughed had the creature not spun around, hissed, and charged toward them. More hisses rose from behind, and Vale turned to see three more creatures drop from the olive trees. They too looked like long, segmented centipedes with dark armor, and they too sprouted humanoid heads with bushy beards. They bared sharp teeth and raised claws. For the first time, Vale noticed that several human skeletons lay between the trees, coated with ivy.

"You led us right into a trap!" Vale said.

Tash was busy spitting and scrubbing her tongue against her sleeve. "I bit it! I bit its poop!"

"Draw your dagger, damn it." Vale hefted his spear. All around, the centipedes approached.

Tash spat and drew her blade just as the creatures pounced.

With a cry, Vale thrust his spear.

One of the monsters leaped at him, mouth opening wide, dripping saliva. Its bulging eyes blazed under bushy black eyebrows. Its front feet reached out, tipped with claws, and Vale crouched and leaped sideways. His spear's blade scraped across the creature's scales, scattering sparks but doing the beast no harm.

Tash stood beside him, lashing her dagger. "Goldshitters everywhere!"

"Stop calling them that!" Vale said, thrusting his spear again.

He aimed at a creature's fleshy head, but it jerked aside, and the blade once more scraped against its armored body, showering more sparks. The demonic centipede leaped forth, slammed into Vale, and locked its jaws around his shoulder. The teeth bit down hard, and Vale screamed.

He swung his spear, scraping the blade against the creature's fleshy face. Blood sprayed, and the beast released him to howl. Lice rustled through its bushy black beard, and veins looked ready to pop on its nose. It reared before him, raising many legs tipped with claws.

Vale thrust his weapon.

The spear slammed into the creature's underbelly, pierced the yellow skin, drove through flesh, and slammed against the armor at the back.

Vale tugged the weapon free with a gush of blood. The creature gave a last mewl and collapsed. As it hit the dirt, its bowels loosened, spilling their contents. Coins chinked into the grass.

He spun around to see Tash facing two of the creatures, holding her dagger before her. One of the beasts leaped at her, and she tossed her handful of coins onto its face.

"Eat shit!" she cried.

The coins clattered against the monster, hitting its eyes, entering its mouth. Blinded, it reared, and Tash tossed her dagger. The blade sank into the creature, and it fell over, twitching madly, kicking its many legs.

Vale ran, shoulder bleeding. He leaped over the thrashing creature, vaulted off its back, and soared through the air. Another one of the creatures was leaping onto Tash, lashing its claws, scratching her arms. Vale dived and drove his spear down hard. The blade crashed into the beast's back, shattering the hardened plates, and pinned the centipede to the ground.

The creatures all lay across the hill, legs twitching, then falling still.

Tash scampered back, panting. The creature's claws had torn her silks and left bloody gashes. She fell onto her backside and stared at the coins that lay strewn around her. When she picked one up, it disintegrated between her fingers.

Vale knelt beside her. She stared at him, shivering, her eyes damp.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He examined the cuts on her arms. Most of the wounds weren't deep, but one looked like it needed stitching. "Let's get back to the river to wash those wounds."

She looked at the wound on his shoulder—an ugly ring of teeth marks—and winced. She lowered her head. "I'm sorry, Vale. It's my fault. I almost got us killed." Sniffing, she moved closer and embraced him. "I'm sorry. It's just . . . the sight of gold. For so many years, it was what the seraphim gave me for my services, what I thought I was worth—precious metals and gems. I'm sorry."

They rose to their feet, and Vale looked around them. He counted seven humanoid skeletons that lay beneath the trees, half-hidden beneath ivy and branches and ferns. Two seemed to be seraphim—Vale could see the bones of their wings. The others were humans. He wondered how ancient the latter were. Were here the original inhabitants of these lands, killed before the seraphim had fallen from Edinnu? Or were here other Vir Requis, perhaps survivors of the ancient war, perhaps even escaped slaves?

He knelt by one of the skeletons. Its leather pack had opened, spilling out its contents. Most of what had been inside had rotted away, but a glass bottle still lay here, half-buried in the soil. When Vale pried it loose, he found amber liquid inside. He pulled off the cork and smelled something stinging and vaguely sweet.

"whiskey!" Tash said, eyes widening. "As good as gold." She froze. "Maybe there's real gold here too. Real gold the skeletons had!"

Vale rolled his eyes. "Tash, we're not grave robbers."

"They're not in graves, so it's fine." She darted between the skeletons but found nothing. "Damn, they're not even wearing any clothes or armor. Not a belt buckle to be found. What happened to their stuff?"

She kept exploring the area until she found a burrow, its entrance draped with vines and lichen. When Tash pulled the curtains aside, she revealed a cavern dug into a hillside, and she gasped. At once she crawled inside.

"Tash!" Vale groaned and followed her. He knelt before the burrow, lay down on his stomach, and crawled in after her.

They found themselves in a rounded den, not much larger than the cave outside of Tofet. It was so small they had to remain on their bellies, and their bodies pressed together.

"It's where the creatures lived," Tash said. "Stinks in here. But look—back there."

She burrowed deeper, pushed aside dry leaves, and uncovered a cache of rusted old metal. A few pieces were nearly disintegrating but others looked newer. Vale helped her excavate the treasure, and they laid out their findings on the grass outside the burrow. They found a coat of chain mail, two steel helmets coated with silver leaf, a bronze shield inlaid with silver stars, and a battle axe engraved with old runes in the language of ancient men. The artifacts were rusty but still usable. In addition to these tools of war, they found a decorative lantern, shaped as a dragon's head, complete with a tinderbox for lighting its fuel.

"I'm taking the axe," Tash said. She darted forward, tried to lift it, and groaned. Its steel head thumped back down onto the ground. "I think I'll just take a helmet and shield instead. And the whiskey. And the lantern. And the skeleton's fancy leather pack for my fancy things."

Leaving the centipede creatures to rot, they traveled downhill—him in armor, both wearing helmets. The axe felt good in Vale's hands. For so many years, he had swung a pickaxe at stone. Next time he saw his masters, he silently vowed, he would swing this axe into their flesh.

LEYLEET

They flew through the night, creatures of darkness, sons and daughters of sin. They laughed. They hissed. They drooled. They rutted in the sky, groaning, screaming, bat wings beating. They flew onward on the hunt, nostrils flared, inhaling the scent of the world they had not seen in so long.

"We are free!" Leyleet shrieked, voice rolling across the landscape. "Free to hunt! Free to breed! Free to taste blood and suck marrow from bones."

The moon vanished behind the clouds as if it too feared the Rancid Angels. No stars shone. But the eyes of the fallen were sharp, piercing the night. Their ears picked up the stir of every mouse in the fields below, the scent of every living thing that cowered. And as the Sixteen flew over the fields, their dark wings spread wide, and all the land below cowered. Insects burrowed deeper underground. Birds awoke in their nests, frozen in fear. Those seraphim who lived outside the city of Shayeen, dwelling in villages and villas upon the hills, woke from their slumber, drenched in cold sweat, not knowing the danger but sensing it in every bone. Babes screamed. Children hid under their beds, preferring to face the ghosts in those shadows than the nameless terror that flew above. Even the farmlands wilted, the trees cracked, and dead fish washed onto the banks of the Te'ephim.

The Sixteen were out tonight, flying again after centuries in their prison of stone. The dark seraphim. The traitors to the crown. The cursed. Their screams shattered the sky and rotted the land like tar spilling across fields.

"I smell her, comrades!" Leyleet screamed. She laughed, dipped in the sky, beat her wings, and soared higher. "The girl traveled here. The girl is ahead! Meliora is near."

Leyleet raised the girl's nightgown, brought the silk to her nose, and inhaled deeply. Pleasure tingled through her, making Leyleet shudder. The half-breed whore smelled like innocence and sex, like purity and corruption, like a princess and a queen of rebels. The aroma was intoxicating, almost too powerful to bear.

When I catch you, Meliora, I will bring you back alive to your brother . . . but not before I hurt you. Not before I smell your blood, your insides.

She stuffed the nightgown back into her breastplate. No longer did Leyleet wear the stinking rags her captors had clad her in, but neither did she wear the gilded armor of seraphim. An iron breastplate, black as the night, covered her torso, and her white hair streamed out from the back of a dark helm. In one hand she gripped a sickle of jagged steel. Around her, her comrades were similarly armored. Their bat wings spread wide, their white hair streamed as banners, and their eyes blazed in the night like cruel stars. As they screeched, the sound cracked trees below and seemed to shatter the air itself, louder than thunder, and the light of their eyes blazed brighter than lightning. They were the Sixteen. They were the cursed ones. They were a storm unleashed upon the land that would never be imprisoned again.

"Smell her, comrades!" Leyleet cackled. "I smell her in the water, on the wind, the sweet stench of her skin, her blood, her beating heart. Follow, friends! Follow to Meliora."

They flew around her, laughter like snapping bones, drool falling like rain, wilting the trees below.

Leyleet was licking her lips, imagining Meliora's taste, when she saw the fire ahead.

Twenty flames burned in the sky ahead, leaving trails of smoke. When Leyleet inhaled, she smelled their stench—brimstone, metal, holiness. She spat.

"Chariots of fire," she hissed.

Around her, her comrades howled. Their wings beat in a storm. Their faces twisted, fangs bared.

"Seraphim!" they cried. "Cruel seraphim! Seeking our prize, seeking our prey!"

The distant chariots of fire were moving fast, heading in the same direction as the Sixteen, but they were not fast enough. Leyleet and her comrades kept gaining, and soon she could make out the firehorses, four of the flaming spirits pulling each chariot. Inside the vessels she saw them: the seraphim.

"Cruel masters," she hissed. "They imprisoned us, my brothers and sisters!" Her voice rose to a roar. "Halos shine upon their heads, while ours were stripped and we were locked in stone. Now they fly to claim our sweet Meliora, the virgin whose blood was promised to us. Fly, my Rancid Angels! Show them the darkness of our shadow."

Crying out in fury and joy, they flew.

Their screams tore the land below, ripping canyons into the earth. A tree burst into dark flames, and the fires spread. The clouds churned above, raining ash. With black wings and leering smiles, the dark ones swarmed.

The chariots of fire wheeled in the sky, turning to charge toward them.

"The dark seraphim!" their riders cried. "The fallen ones have escaped!"

Leyleet cackled, her laughter so loud it slammed against the chariots ahead, scattering their flames. "Kneel before us, holy ones! Kneel and beg for mercy as you made us kneel. Beg us for your lives!"

Yet the seraphim—noble fools!—kept charging to battle, sure they could be heroes, holy warriors facing evil, as if the Cursed Ones were beasts like weredragons or griffins.

We are not beasts, Leyleet thought, laughing. We are not monsters to vanquish with holy light. We are the greatest sons and daughters of Saraph, the cursed among the cursed, those who shed their feathers and halos to reveal the purity within.

With battle cries, with shattering shrieks, the seraphim of light and the seraphim of shadow slammed together.

Leyleet laughed as the firehorses charged across her, as she flew between them, lashing her sickle. Her blade sliced through the flames, cutting into the stony flesh within, scattering embers and burning blood. The lances of seraphim thrust toward her, and Leyleet soared, rising so fast the air slammed behind her in thunder. She plunged downward, sickle swinging, knocking back the lances, slicing through necks, faces, bowels, spraying red curtains. Her comrades fought around her, laughing as they lashed their sickles.

"You have halos, holy ones!" she screeched, voice as high as shattering glass, so loud it tore into their eardrums. "Your halos still glow!"

She swooped toward a chariot. Its rider charged toward her, and Leyleet parried its lance, streamed overhead, and lashed her sickle. The blade sliced through the seraph's halo, scattering light, and the man screamed. She swung her sickle lower, slicing through the top of his skull, exposing the brain within, then driving down to tear the firehorses apart. The chariot and the corpse within plunged toward the earth like a comet.

"You still have wings!" she cried. "The wings of angels!"

A few of the seraphim still flew, their chariots fallen. Leyleet laughed, charged toward one, and grabbed his thrusting spear. She snapped the shaft between her jaws, then swooped and rose behind the seraph. She grabbed the man's wings, swung her sickle, sliced them off, then kept digging.

"You will have cursed wings like ours!" she cried, laughing, tugging out the screaming man's ribs through his back, pulling out the lungs, forming dripping wings of flesh and bones. "Now fly! Fly, cursed one!"

She tossed the man free, letting him fall to the distant ground.

Five seraphim flew toward her from all sides, enclosing her in a ring of light. Leyleet licked her lips, her heart soaring.

They reached her. They thrust their lances.

She spun in a circle, sickle shattering their blades. They kept charging, and she spun faster, her blade scattering blood, tearing into their torsos, tugging out the entrails. She grabbed the slick serpents, tugging, pulling them closer, weaving them together, sending the corpses falling down. One seraph still made an attempt to fly toward her. She drove her fist into his chest, tugged out the still-beating heart, and feasted.

The seraphim had dared to challenge her. They fell, a rain of blood. In the sky, the Sixteen still flew, laughing as they fed upon hearts, livers, bones that crunched. They ate greedily, staining their chests, licking their fingers, then mating in the sky, slick with the blood of their enemies, singing for their victory.

"Fly on!" Leyleet cried. "Fly on with full bellies, with bloodlust kindled. Fly on and we will feast upon the blood of a princess."

They chanted all around her. "To Meliora! To Meliora!"

Leyleet grinned as she flew onward. Ishtafel had commanded her to bring his sister back alive, but alive could mean many things, and the Sixteen would have their fun before dragging what remained back to Ishtafel. Meliora's heart would still beat, but Ishtafel had said nothing about feasting upon her limbs.

Leyleet licked her lips, her wings ruffling over the wind.

I will drink you, Meliora. I will gnaw on your living bones as I drag you back to your brother. You might have escaped him, but you will not escape me.

ELORY

She walked through the forest, her sword drawn, waiting for enemies to emerge from behind every tree, boulder, and hilltop.

The land here is beautiful, Elory thought. Pines, carob trees, and cypresses grew upon the rolling landscape. Boulders of chalk and granite dotted the land, and anemones and cyclamens grew between them. Sparrows and finches bustled among mint bushes, ants scurried in their hives, and gopher holes rose from wild grass. The Te'ephim River gurgled to her left, lined with rushes, and ibises and herons drank from its water.

And yet, despite the beauty of this place, Elory still felt like she were back in Tofet.

Every bird that fluttered out from a bush, Elory started and winced, expecting a lash's blow. Every tree branch that creaked in the wind, she raised her arm protectively, expecting a blow from a master's fist. Even walking through patches of grass, no movement or sound around her, her heart kept racing, her eyes darting nervously, her muscles tense and ready to bolt. At her side, Meliora walked with her sword sheathed, but Elory kept her blade drawn, forever ready for more violence; she could not imagine a day without violence.

Meliora walked closer to her. "Elory, it's all right. You can sheathe your sword."

"I'll keep it drawn." Elory nodded. "Just in case."

Meliora raised her eyebrows. "Isn't your arm tired?"

"I'm used to hauling baskets of bitumen that weigh many times more." She smiled thinly. "I can carry a sword."

Meliora looked at her, eyes soft in concern. Her hair was slowly growing back; golden stubble covered her head, almost long enough for fingers to grasp. Her wounds were healing too, the scrapes and cuts on her body closed and scabbed. Even the wounds on her shoulder blades looked less swollen and inflamed; Elory had helped clean them just an hour ago in the river.

My wounds too are healing, Elory thought. The whip's cuts on my back are scabbed over, the pain in my arm is fading, and my bruises are fading, but the wounds inside me remain.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Meliora whispered.

"You have to understand." Elory stared steadily into her sister's eyes. "All my life, I was beaten. Brutalized. Unable to resist as they cut me, kicked me, tortured me. For the first time in my life, I hold a weapon. A real weapon. An ancient sword of Requiem—Lemuria, blade of Queen Kaelyn herself. For the first time, I fight back against our enemies."

Meliora lowered her head. "And all my life, I was pampered, spoiled, fed sweets, perfumed, sheltered, and lied to. Unable to resist as they fed me the fairy tales. I never held anything more dangerous than a dessert spoon. Yet now I too hold a sword of ancient Requiem. And I too will fight our enemies." She drew Amerath, touched the blade to Lemuria, and smiled thinly. "I will always fight by your side, sister. Whenever you rest, whenever you sleep, whenever you're afraid or hurt, I'm here for you. I will never leave you. I will always walk the winding path with you, watching over you, and I will always love you."

Elory rolled her eyes. "You're going to make me sheathe my sword so I can hug you, aren't you?"

Meliora yawned. "Forget hugs. I want some sleep. I don't like walking in daylight, and I'm exhausted." She pointed. "I see a cave there on the hilltop, and I see some olive and fig trees too. Let's go eat and then sleep. We'll walk more at night."

They walked uphill together, moving between bushes along a natural path strewn with goat droppings. As they approached the cave, Elory's fear did not ease; if anything it grew. What if Ishtafel was hiding inside this cave? Ridiculous, she told herself. Ridiculous! Ishtafel was probably back in Shayeen, only his underlings still scanning the wilderness.

I must learn to put aside my fear, she told herself, walking onward, and inhaled deeply. Tofet is far away. Ishtafel is far away. It's been a full day since we saw chariots of fire. We're safe here, many miles from danger. We're safe.

Yet her heart would not slow down, and her hand sweated around her hilt.

"I'll go check those trees for fruit." Meliora pointed. "Will you check the cave, Elory? Make sure there are no warthogs living in this one like the last one."

Elory's breath shook in her lungs. Her head spun, and cold sweat trickled down her back. Why could she not stop this fear? It grew more than ever, and she could feel those whips again. Once more, she was stepping through the agony of Tofet, trying to work fast enough, cowering from the overseers. Meliora was gone. She had vanished between the trees, and Elory was all alone here. Alone in the open. Exposed. In danger.

Don't hurt me, she thought, eyes stinging. Please. I'll be a good slave. I'll work hard. Don't hurt me, Master.

She forced in air.

Breathe.

She exhaled.

Calm yourself. Be strong.

She looked at her blade.

This is a sword of Requiem. Be as brave as those who bore it before you, for you too are a daughter of dragons.

She took another step uphill toward the cave, her heart rate finally slowing, when the beast emerged from within, howling and charging toward her.

Elory screamed.

The creature leaping toward her was ragged, wild, some kind of ape covered in yellow fur and rags. Inhuman blue eyes stared with bloodlust. In one hand, the animal swung a heavy bone like a mace.

Elory nearly cringed, nearly begged.

I am a daughter of dragons.

She charged forward and swung her sword.

Her blade sliced through the bone club, sending its top half flying.

The wild ape before her hopped back, crouched, and hissed. It grabbed a heavy rock in its paw.

"Back!" the beast cried. "Back, thief. Back! Who are you? Are you a seraph? Back!" The creature tossed its stone.

Elory leaped aside, and the stone sailed by and clattered down the hillside. She looked back up, narrowing her eyes.

No, not an ape, she thought. A man.

"I'm not a seraph!" she said. "I'm not an enemy."

The man above still crouched, reaching out for another stone. He was a young man, she saw. Probably in his early twenties, maybe even younger. But his blond hair and beard were so long, dusty, and tangled, that he looked like an animal. His rags were threadbare, falling apart, revealing tanned skin. His blue eyes regained some humanity as they stared at her, and he tilted his head.

"Are you—" he began.

With a shout, Meliora came racing across the hilltop, swinging her sword.

"Meliora, wait!" Elory cried.

But it was too late. Meliora leaped toward the disheveled man, blade arcing. The hermit cried out in fear and tossed his stone toward Meliora. The rock sailed through the air and slammed into Meliora's chest.

Meliora cried out, slipped, and fell. The young man grabbed another stone and leaped forward, raising it, prepared to slam the rock down onto Meliora's skull.

Elory ran. "Stop this!" She bounded across the hilltop, kicked off a boulder, and jumped onto the young man's back.

The hermit cursed, and his stone thumped onto the ground. Meliora rose to her feet, wheezing and clutching her wounded chest. Elory clung to the man's back as he struggled, swinging his arms, trying to shake her off. He howled.

"A seraph!" He pointed at Meliora. "Seraph! She has seraph eyes. Kill her, kill her!"

"She's not a seraph!" Elory cried into his ear, still clinging to his back. "Do you see wings?"

"Seraph!" he cried, kneeling for another stone, even as Elory still grabbed him. "A mistress! Kill her! Kill her!"

Elory shouted louder into his ear. "She has no wings! Look."

The young man grimaced and covered his ears. "You shout. You shout too loudly. Too many voices. Too many old voices! Too much memory. Too much pain! You speak like a slave. Like a slave. Like a Vir Requis." He fell to his knees, shaking. "No wings, no wings." His voice sank to mere mumbles. "See no wings. No wings. Only eyes."

His arms fell limply to his sides, his head hung low, and his shoulders stooped. Elory released him and hurried toward Meliora, keeping one eye on the bearded hermit.

"Are you all right?"

Meliora nodded weakly, then winced. "It hurts. My ribs. But I'm all right."

The sisters stared at the young man. He knelt before them, head still lowered, still mumbling to himself. "No wings, no wings . . . slaves." He looked up at them, squinting, and his cheeks—at least what was visible beyond the dirt and yellow hair—paled. His voice was a mere whisper. "Slaves?"

Elory tugged at her iron collar. "Slaves."

The young man rose to his feet and pulled back his beard and hair. For the first time, Elory saw that he wore an iron collar like her own.

"Oh gods," Meliora whispered, eyes widening.

Elory stared and felt tears fill her eyes. She had always imagined a noble hero, a wise kinglike warrior, a tall and handsome leader of men. But here he stood. Not much older than her. Not much braver. A shivering young man, covered in filth, clad in rags.

She stepped closer to him, to the hero of Requiem, her tears falling.

"Lucem," she whispered.

MELIORA

"How?" Meliora whispered. "How is this possible?"

They hunkered together in the cave. The stony roof was so low they hunched over. A bed of dry leaves covered the floor, and chalk drawings covered the walls—drawings of falling dragons, of anguished faces, of a white column rising from a forest of fallen trees. Upon the walls of the ziggurat, the seraphim had immortalized scenes of fallen Requiem in towering frescos and engravings. Here in this cave, Lucem had remembered the horror with crude scribbles, drawn with stone on stone.

Lucem now sat before her, shoulders bunched inward. He was tall and barely fit in this cave, all knobby limbs. Smaller, Elory sat beside him, working at cutting his hair and trimming his beard with the spear's blade she had stolen from Tofet. With every blond lock that fell, Lucem began looking more and more human, and younger and younger. Soon he no longer looked like a wild hermit but like a lanky young man, eyes blue and peering.

"How is this possible?" Lucem repeated. He laughed mirthlessly. "I've asked myself that question many times. How is it possible—that I am here while so many others remained behind. That Requiem lies fallen. That cruel gods have conquered the world. None of these things should have happened, and yet here we are."

Meliora squinted, scrutinizing him. As Elory kept shearing him, Meliora realized that Lucem wasn't much older than the young woman; he couldn't have been much older than twenty.

"You must have been just a child when you escaped," Meliora said in wonder. "In Shayeen, the seraphim told of a vicious killer who slew many guards, a beast who stood nine feet tall, the deadliest Vir Requis to have lived since the days of old."

"And in Tofet," Elory added, "slaves told of a noble, kingly hero, a warrior both wise and brave, a crown upon his head, descended from the old kings."

As Elory worked at shearing the back of his head, Lucem snorted. "A vicious killer? A noble warrior? I was eleven years old and I looked six. I was hungry. I was small and quick and desperate. The cruel overseers murdered my parents—they died in the refineries, choking on the fumes." He clenched his teeth, balled up his fists, and lowered his head. "And so I escaped. I scaled the wall, hiding in its blind spot at night, too small to be seen. The seraphim starved me, made me no larger than a bundle of twigs. Their cruelty made me small enough to flee. But I never stopped feeling their whips, their fists, their . . ."

Lucem hunched over, overcome with emotion, unable to speak anymore. Elory placed down her blade, wrapped her arms around him, and stroked his hair.

"It's all right, Lucem," she whispered. "You're safe now. It's all right."

"It's not!" He raised his head so suddenly Elory fell back. "None of this is all right. That we're here and the others are still there. Still in chains. I . . . I wanted to go back so many times. To lead others up the wall, to bring them here. But whenever I tried to get close, so many seraphim flew in the sky, and twice as many patrolled the walls, and . . . I couldn't. I couldn't go back. I couldn't."

Elory embraced him again, whispering into his ear until Lucem calmed.

Meliora stared at them, and her fingers coiled around Amerath's hilt. The amber sword felt comforting in her grip, a relic of old Requiem. Holding the leather grip, she felt connected to those ancient kings and queens.

I am the daughter of Jaren, descended from Relesar Aeternum who held this sword, descended of Benedictus the Black, of King Aeternum who raised a marble column in a northern forest and founded a nation for Vir Requis.

She took a deep breath.

"Lucem," she said, "you've been free for ten years. Have you been hiding here the whole time? Or did you . . ." Meliora gulped, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "Did you try to find it? To find Requiem?"

He raised his eyes, staring at her. Haunted eyes. Eyes that, despite their youth, had seen too much.

"I tried," he whispered.

Elory inhaled sharply, and Meliora leaned forward.

Requiem. The kingdom of countless myths. The kingdom whispered of in Tofet, the kingdom whose destruction was portrayed in a thousand statues and murals, the kingdom some said was just a myth, as lost as Edinnu.

"What did you find?" Meliora's words were so soft they were almost silent.

"For a year or more, I walked north. I walked through storms that nearly drowned me. I walked through heat that nearly burned me. I walked across deserts and forests until I reached the coast, and I beheld a great blue sea—the northern border of the Terran continent. I walked along the coast for months, almost starving, moving from port to port, but I dared not enter any city I passed. I found no more cities of men. The Terran people who had once lived upon the coast—the remnants of Eteer, Goshar, and other ancient civilizations—all were gone. The seraphim did not enslave those people but slaughtered them all, down to the last child." Lucem stared at the cave wall, eyes dead. "Every port contained seraphim, and I dared not approach to seek passage on their ships. And so I could not cross the sea. I could not see the land of Requiem."

Meliora reached out and touched Lucem's iron collar, then her own collar. "But without this cursed iron around our necks, we wouldn't need a ship. We could fly. Fly across the sea to Requiem as dragons."

Lucem barked out a bitter laugh. "Look at my collar. Do you see any scratches? Dents? Any marring at all?"

Meliora shook her head.

Lucem nodded. "With as much effort as my labors in Tofet, I labored here to remove my collar. I spent hours bashing it with rocks. On my travels, I stole blades, plyers, hammers. I cut and bruised my neck so many times, trying to shatter this iron. I even snuck into a smithy once, took hot metal, tried to melt the collar off but only burned my skin." He pulled the collar downward, showing an ugly scar. "The runes upon it were forged in dark magic, and it cannot be removed. Our dragon forms are forever lost, and so is Requiem."

Meliora pulled out the crumpled key from her pocket. "Not if we can fix this."

For a long time, Meliora spoke, and Lucem listened. She told him of her life in the ziggurat, of the Keeper's Key that can open the collars. She spoke of losing her wings, of discovering Requiem, and of her quest for the Keymaker. She told him of the Chest of Plenty, of duplicating the key half a million times, of the dragons of Requiem rising together to flee captivity and seek Requiem. And as she spoke, Lucem was silent, asking no questions, simply listening.

When finally Meliora completed her story, Lucem crawled out of the cave, leaving her and Elory inside.

The sisters glanced at each other.

"Did we say something wrong?" Elory asked, frowning.

Meliora peered out the cave. Lucem was walking downhill toward the river, not turning back to look at them. Across his shoulders, he held his only belongings—a tattered old pack, a waterskin, and a makeshift spear with a rusted head.

With another glance at each other, the sisters burst out of the cave and followed.

"Lucem!" Meliora said. "Lucem, where are you going?"

He took a few more steps downhill, then looked over his shoulder at her.

"Where do you think? We're going to find that Keymaker. Are you going to just wait up there, or are you coming too?"

He resumed walking downhill. Meliora and Elory looked at each other, both with wide eyes, and Meliora couldn't help it. She grinned.

"Think we should let him tag along?" Meliora asked.

Elory glanced at Lucem; he had reached a valley and was now racing through the grass toward the riverbank.

"I think," Elory said, "that we'd be tagging along with him."

The sisters ran downhill, swords hanging at their sides, following a legend in chase of a myth.

JAREN

Under the burning sun they labored. In the heat and light of Saraph they screamed. In pits of tar and clay, their bones shattered, their backs broke, their skin tore, their souls cried out for mercy the masters would not grant. In darkness they hid, weeping, begging, praying to stars that would not answer.

Ishtafel, King of Saraph, rose above all, laughing above, a second sun, and under his flames the slaves burned.

Is this how Requiem perishes? Jaren wondered, toiling as another day began, mixing the clay and straw, forming the bricks to bake in the kilns. Not in battle, not with song, not with pride, but fading away in the dirt?

"Faster!" An overseer swung a wooden club, slamming it against Jaren's back with a crack. "Toil!"

Jaren couldn't help it. He cried out in pain. He fell. The seraph spat, clubbed him again, kicked his side.

"Up, old man!" The overseer laughed—a deep, throaty chuckle. "Up and toil. I won't let you die yet."

He screamed. Something tore inside him.

It is over. I fade now. I go to the stars of my forebears.

All around him, they screamed—the children of Requiem, whipped, beaten, broken.

No. I am their father, descended of their ancient king. I am their healer, their priest. Jaren pushed himself up, arms wobbling. I cannot die here. Not as hope still flickers.

He rose to his bleeding feet. He labored on.

As night fell again, they gathered before his home. The weak carrying the weaker. The wounded carrying the dying. Men, women, children with broken bones, open wounds across their bodies. Swollen, bleeding, coughing, shivering, convulsing, festering. The slaves of Tofet, broken, shattered, yet still clinging to life. Still clinging to a dream—a dream of Meliora returning. A dream of seeing Requiem again. Still clinging to life—so frail, so precious! A life even of pain, even of fear, of this endless agony, of centuries of torment—still to live! Still to draw one more breath, to see another dawn in the fields of dust and sweat, to utter one more prayer. To hope. To dream. To pray to see dragons again.

Outside his hut they gathered, dozens, then a hundred, and Jaren stood before them. He too was wounded. He too needed healing, needed water, needed rest. But his children needed him more.

"Come to me, my children." Jaren opened his arms. "Come and pray with me."

One by one, they approached. The first was a young girl, raped and beaten by her masters, bleeding inside. Her mother placed her down. She could barely breathe, merely lay gasping, raspy, gurgling. Jaren's eyes swam with tears as he knelt above her, as he stared up at the stars, as he prayed. He was not a great healer like Issari—the first priestess of Requiem—but he called upon her spirit, the spirit that had healed his son. And in the shadows and light, he thought he saw her form—a pious woman in robes, a braid hanging across her shoulders, her tears falling onto the child who lay in the dirt.

The young girl's eyes fluttered open, and she began to weep. Her mother stepped forth, lifted the child, and wept too.

"Bless you, Jaren Aeternum, shepherd of Requiem," she whispered.

The next slave approached, a father carrying his son; the boy's back was crooked, his clothes soaked with sweat and blood, his face torn in anguish. Again Jaren prayed, holding his hands over the boy, as starlight shone, as the spirit of the priestess wept, until the boy calmed.

Throughout the night they came, and Jaren prayed, healing them as best he could, soothing those he could not heal, guiding some into death. And even as dawn rose, and he returned to his labor, the wounded spread across Tofet, and the dead kept falling.

As he worked in the fields of clay, shivering with weakness and hunger, Jaren prayed a different prayer.

"Return to us, my children." His back burned in the sun. "Return to us, Meliora, Elory, Vale. Return with hope. We need you. Hurry, my children. All the eyes of Requiem are raised to you in hope."

LUCEM

People.

As they walked through the wilderness, Lucem could barely believe it.

Real people. Flesh and blood. Talking to me. Alive.

He looked at them. He had only met them, yet Lucem already loved them both, never wanted to part from them again.

Meliora was tall and fair, her cheekbones high, and her eyes shone gold, the pupils shaped as sunbursts—the eyes of a seraph. Yet kindness filled those eyes, and no wings grew from her back, for her father was Vir Requis, and she carried with her the pride and nobility of Requiem. Though clad in rough burlap, her body scratched and caked with dirt, her grace gave her a godly presence, a holiness greater than jewels and silk could ever bestow.

At her side walked Elory. While Meliora was a striking figure—a goddess of ancient legend come to life—Elory was fully of this world, a figure of warmth, of companionship, of goodness. Her eyes were large and brown, too large in her small face. She was short and slender—too slender—and scars peeked from under her tunic. Her head was shaven, her neck collared, her body bruised, yet she was beautiful to Lucem. A frail, warm, little thing, more precious than the greatest treasure.

Right away Lucem knew: he would come to admire Meliora, to respect her, to worship her divinity . . . and he would come to deeply love Elory, to connect with her soul, to see her as his dearest friend. One woman of holiness, golden yet perhaps searing to the touch. One woman of love, warm and soft and nothing but goodness.

Real people, he thought. Real friends.

Lucem remembered his long years in the wilderness—the friends he had carved from wood, painted onto stone, dreamed of, invented in his madness. They began to fade from his mind.

And he talked.

He talked to Meliora and Elory of old tales—of Requiem, sometimes myths of other lands. They talked back. They shared stories. They told jokes. Walking along the river, they even sang a song together.

And slowly it faded—that pain, that loneliness . . . easing under the healing presence of them.

I had to remember how to talk, he thought. Now I talk again. Now I'm real. Now I'm here. I remember.

VALE

The sun was setting, spilling red across the sky, when Vale and Tash reached the sea.

"It's beautiful," Tash whispered.

Vale grumbled. "The marble columns of Requiem are beautiful. The birch forests of the north are beautiful. This is . . ." He sighed. "Fine. It's beautiful."

The delta spread around them, lush with life. The Te'ephim River broke into many rivulets here, each crawling along a different path. Lotuses covered the water in a blanket, pads deep green and blossoms red fading to pink. Many fingers of land coiled between the rivulets, and upon them grew wild grass, papyrus trees, date palms, flowering tamarisks, and carob trees heavy with fruit. Birds flew above or waded in the water. Vale saw terns, herons, plovers, egrets, ibises, and many other species he could not name. Frogs trilled between rushes, and crocodiles and hippopotamuses lay submerged in the water, only their nostrils rising above the surface. A few miles away, the delta spilled into the sea, swirls of azure and green water mingling with deep blue.

Yet along with the birds and plants, other life lurked here too, not as appealing. Vale pointed. "Beautiful aside from that."

Tash nodded and nervously tugged her hair. "Does ruin the view, doesn't it?"

A city rose a mile or two away from the greenery. Even from this distance, Vale spotted obelisks tipped with gold, the columns of temples, and statues of gods that soared hundreds of feet tall. What he first mistook for eagles circling the city he soon recognized as seraphim.

"The city of Geshin," Tash said. She fingered the jewel in her navel. "This jewel came from there. As did many of the gifts the seraphim gave me—pearls, incense, hintan, and even little sweets. Do you see the ships out in the sea? They travel all along the eastern coast of Terra and to the islands beyond, bringing back treasures from distant lands."

Vale grunted. "I don't care about what lies beyond the eastern sea. All I care about is the sea in the north—beyond whose waters Requiem awaits us."

"Well, Sir Sour-boots, we need to find the beached ship on this coast, and the Chest of Plenty in its belly, if we're to ever reach the northern sea." Tash unfurled her scroll. "And according to this map, the ship's wreck lies two days' journey north along the beach. So come on. Let's get walking—and not stray too close to that city."

The sun dipped lower in the sky behind them, casting their long shadows across the tussocks of grass. Vale nodded. "We'll walk in darkness, and we'll keep a wide berth away from that city." He stared up at the sky where the first stars were emerging. "Kloriana shines in the east. We'll navigate by it."

"He can be taught!" Tash patted his chest, making his chain mail—the rusty armor found in the centipedes' cave—clink. "Just be careful not to stumble into the water in the darkness. Oh, and try to walk hunched over. You're too tall and the moon's full."

He grumbled and hefted his axe. "Try hiding that jewel in your belly button. Damn thing reflects more light than a knight's shield."

She stuck her tongue out at him, grabbed a scoop of mud, and slapped it onto her belly. She thought for a moment, smiled slyly, then scooped more mud and tossed it at Vale. He rolled his eyes, wiped off the mud, and began to walk through the growing darkness.

Tash darted after him, hopping around. "Go on, toss mud back at me!" She tugged his arm. "Grab me and wrestle me and get pretend angry. Why are you always so serious?"

He ignored her and kept walking, stepping through grass that rose past his knees. Why did the damn girl keep annoying him? She never seemed to shut her mouth. She was always teasing him, singing some song, even mumbling in her sleep. When awake, she bounced, hopped, swung her arms, and skipped, and when sleeping she kicked and tossed and turned. When she wasn't stripping naked to jump into the river, she still haunted his thoughts with those mocking lips, knowing eyes, and teasing hands that loved to brush against him.

"Answer me!" she said. They walked through a grove of acacia and date palms. "You never sing. You never laugh, not even at my wondrously funny jokes. You never tell jokes of your own. You're always like . . . like you're at a funeral."

He knelt to lift a bunch of fallen dates. "This fruit is still good." He kept walking. "We should move faster. We can eat while we walk."

Tash groaned, crossed her arms, and thumped down onto her backside. "No." She shook her head. "I'm not going anywhere until you answer me."

"Very well." He kept walking.

Tash let out a groan so loud finches fled from the trees. "Vale!"

He reeled toward her. "Hush! You're too loud."

"And you're too quiet!" She stood up and placed her fists on her hips. "Why don't you ever talk to me? Why are you so . . . so stiff? And not in a good way." She reached for his crotch, and he swatted her hand away.

"You're insufferable." Vale's hands curled into fists. "I'm not one of your seraphim to seduce."

"Oh, I can tell. You're not nearly as much fun as they are."

"Fun?" His rage exploded inside him. "You think that the people who destroyed our homeland, who enslaved us, who murdered countless are fun?"

She nodded. "I do! More fun than you'll ever be. You don't know what it's like to have fun, do you?"

He stepped close to her, bringing himself so close that their bodies almost touched. He towered above her—the top of her head just reached his shoulders—and glared down at her. She stared right back at him, chin raised, chest thrust out.

"No, Tash," he hissed. "When I was being whipped in the fields, I never learned much about fun. When I watched my sister brutalized, I did not learn about fun. When Ishtafel murdered my mother, when he murdered a hundred thousand souls before my eyes—a hundred thousand whose screams I still hear in the night—I did not learn about fun."

Her eyes softened. She dropped her hands to her sides, then hesitantly raised them and placed them against his chest, her touch gentle. "Those days are behind you, Vale. Ishtafel isn't here. But I am. A person who cares for you. Who wants to see you happy. Who . . . who loves you."

And right there, in that instant, all his anger against Tash melted, all his earlier rage—about her hopping, her singing, her flirting—it all vanished, seeming ridiculous to him now. His fists uncurled.

"When you suffered too much, perhaps you can never laugh," he said. "When you spent too many years in pain, perhaps you can never feel joy."

Tash shook her head wildly, hair swaying. "No. I refuse to believe that. Maybe your pain will never go away, Vale. Maybe old wounds never heal. But you can still find joy. You can still find a life with a little laughter, a little peace." She caressed his cheek. "Let me help you find that."

She stood on her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him. Her lips were soft, full. Vale had never kissed a woman before, but he had dreamed—shameful, secret dreams—of kissing Tash many times. For a long moment, he stood, arms wrapped around her, kissing her.

Finally she playfully bit his bottom lip, pulled back an inch, and grinned. "Now that was fun, wasn't it?"

He nodded.

Her grin widened. "See? I told you." She hopped up and down, then grew somber and held his hands. "I'm sorry that I annoy you so much. I'm sorry that I'm like a bird, fluttering all around, never quiet. But I meant what I said. I love you. You are a Vir Requis, one of my people, worth more than all the seraphim I loved. Wherever your path leads, Vale Aeternum, no matter how dark the shadows on the way, I will walk that path with you. You came on this quest to fight for me, to protect me. Let me fight for you."

The sun was gone now, and the stars shone brilliantly above. They walked onward, and again Tash sang, her voice soft and fair. She sang Old Requiem Woods—one of the songs they sang in Tofet—and for the first time, Vale joined her.

The way was treacherous. Every mile, a rivulet crossed the land, forcing them to swim in the darkness. Mostly the moonlight lit their way, but every hour, chariots of fire flew above, casting down their light. When this happened, Vale and Tash leaped for cover, hiding between reeds, in the tall grass, or under the water. The fire streamed above, moving toward the city, casting light upon the distant walls. Even here, so many miles from Shayeen, the seraphim sought them.

As they traveled, Vale could judge the passage of time by the location of Kloriana's star. In the sunset, it always shone to the east, but it climbed the sky through the night, heading toward the zenith before dawn.

"Travelers would tell stories of Kloriana's star in the ziggurat," Tash said, wading through the dark water beside Vale. "Men said that most stars are like the sun, great balls of fire in the distance. But they said that Kloriana's star was not made of fire, but that it was solid, a great round world full of life. They said that half the world always lay in daylight, and half always in night, that some of its people dwelled in eternal sunshine, others in never-ending shadow. If you lived there, which would you prefer, Vale? To live in day or night?"

"Night," he said. "It's safer and the sunlight burns."

"Not me." Tash sighed wistfully. "I'd live in endless daylight. I'd never be in the dark again."

Vale thought about how, while he had labored in the searing sunlight of Tofet, she had languished in the shadows beneath the ziggurat. He said nothing more.

When Kloriana's star approached the zenith, the port city of Geshin vanished behind the southern horizon. The first hints of dawn began to rise, smudges of orange and pink that reflected in the rivulets of the delta and the sea. The flora was lush here, and mangroves grew from the water, their roots spreading everywhere in a great wooden city.

"We should hide between these roots," Vale said. "Eat the dates and fish we collected, then sleep until night falls again." He scanned the sky. "Chariots likely to return soon."

Tash stretched out her limbs, and her mouth opened wide with a yawn, emitting a roar that shook the landscape.

Vale blinked. "Tash, did you just . . . roar?"

She slapped a hand across her mouth. "I don't think so!" she whispered between her fingers.

The roar sounded again.

Tash's eyes widened. "Definitely not me."

Vale cursed and hefted his axe. "Put on your helmet and grab your shield. Now."

He spun around, staring at the landscape, seeing nothing. No enemies. No beasts. Yet the birds were fleeing, and even the crocodiles sank into the water and vanished. The roar died, and silence fell across the land. Even the rivulets of water seemed to still. It was so silent Vale could hear every chink of his chain mail, of his joints.

And slowly the landscape began to creak too.

A few roots of mangroves twitched, raining chips of wood. Branches shuddered. A deep, wooden clicking rose across the delta, and the curtains of lichen swayed.

"Bloody stars," Tash whispered. "Look at them."

At first, it seemed to Vale that chunks of the mangroves detached, shuffling forward.

Living trees! he thought.

But no. These were not trees but men and women, cursed and twisted. Their limbs were bent, covered with warts and scabs that looked like wood. Their hands and feet were swollen to obscene size, each twice the size of a human head, coarse and twisting, sprouting many roots and twigs. Wooden bumps and knots covered their faces and twisted torsos, and moss grew upon them. Their scraggly hair and beards hung low, greenish gray as lichen. Insects bustled across them, living within the burrows of their plantlike bodies. Only their eyes distinguished them from trees; those eyes shone, small and cruel and amber.

"Zamzummim!" Tash said, eyes wide. "Ancient demons."

The creatures emerged from all around, surrounding them, ten or more, each taller than Vale. Their mouths opened, revealing burrows bustling with insects, and they let out horrible buzzing sounds, shrill and so loud Vale cried out. Screeching with countless voices, they charged.

Vale swung his axe.

A zamzum leaped toward him, jaws opened, eyes blazing, hair fluttering, a demonic creature of rotted wood and mold. Its massive palms lashed out, large as shields, sprouting jagged branches.

Vale's axe slammed into one of those twisted hands, shaving off slivers of wood. The second hand slammed into him, knocking him down.

The zamzum leaped down toward him. More charged from either side. Vale swung his blade wildly, scattering chips of wood. A warty, heavy foot—large as an anvil—slammed into his chest, snapping rings in his armor. Vale cried out and lashed his axe, chipping the leg, cutting the wood. He managed to shove off the creature, leap to his feet, and spin around, blade lashing.

Tash was fighting several feet away. She had leaped into a mangrove and fought from the branches, holding her dagger and shield before her. Three zamzummim stood below, reaching toward her, swatting at her shield. Tash's dagger barely seemed to harm them. Blood dripped down her leg, and she cried out.

The sight of Tash hurt shot rage through Vale. He roared and swung the axe with more fervor. The creatures surrounded him, lashing at him, snapping their wooden teeth, and green saliva flew from their mouths. But what was wood? Vale had spent his life swinging his pickaxe into limestone. These creatures were nothing compared to that unyielding wall of stone. Their rootlike fingers cut him, but what was that pain? Nothing compared to the lashes his overseers had given him.

I can no longer feel pain, he thought. But Tash can. And I won't let it happen. I won't let her be hurt like I was hurt.

His axe swung, chips of wood flew, and the zamzummim fell before him.

As he fought, he was there again—in the streets of Shayeen—fighting not delta demons but the seraphim, running from them, seeing so many die, and his fury blinded him. All he could see was that old blood, and he could not stop attacking, could not stop cutting into them, howling, weeping.

You killed her. You killed my mother. You killed thousands.

"You killed them!" Vale cried, driving his axe down, again and again.

"Vale!" cried a high voice. "Vale, stop!"

But he could not stop. How could he? Ishtafel still lived. His people still were dying. He could not lower his blade, not until this ended, until he cut them all down.

"Vale!" Hands grabbed him. "Vale, they're all dead. They're gone."

Tash.

He could not see her. He saw nothing but Shayeen again.

But it was her voice. Tash. The young woman with the long brown hair, the infuriating songs, the flirty eyes, the woman he found insufferable . . . the woman who had kissed him. Who loved him. Whom he loved.

The veil lifted, and he looked around him. Dead zamzummim lay around him like fallen logs, his axe marks in them. Tash stood before him, gripping his arm. Concern filled her eyes, and blood trickled down her leg.

Vale fell to his knees before her.

"I can't do this, Tash." He lowered his head. "I can't forget it. I can't stop fighting it. I can't stop being there, even here."

She pulled him close, wrapping her arms around him, holding his head to her belly.

"I know," she whispered. "I know, Vale. I can't fix this. I don't know how. But . . . I can be here with you." She brushed moss back from his brow. "I can hold you when you remember."

She knelt before him, and he held her tightly, eyes closed. Her damp hair pressed against his face, and her body was warm, and slowly his anxiety faded, and those memories left him, and he was here again, in the present, holding her. The whips, the searing sun, the quarries, the death—it was all gone, and only Tash remained.

"We walk the shadowy paths together," he whispered to her. "Always."

They left the corpses behind, walked until they found a burrow between the jutting roots of trees, and lay down in the dry, shadowy den upon a bed of leaves. Vale lay on his back, and Tash curled up against him, her head on his chest. He spent a long time stroking her hair, again and again as she slept, and finally he sank into slumber too, Tash in his arms. For the first time in many days, he did not dream.

ELORY

"You must have been so lonely." Elory reached out and touched Lucem's arm. "Out here, hiding, all alone."

He walked beside her across the hills. The halved spear Meliora had taken from Tofet hung across his back. Though Lucem still wore only tattered rags, his beard and hair were now trimmed down to stubble, his body cleaned of dirt. He was thin, but not as thin as Elory; life in the wilderness, though perhaps lonely, had given him more vigor than the struggles in Tofet. Even in the moonlight, Elory thought him handsome, and his strong hands, bright blue eyes, and square jaw made her feel tingly—a strange sort of feeling, not unlike when Tash had kissed her in the pleasure pit.

"I wasn't always alone." Lucem skipped over a boulder and kept climbing the hillside. "I traveled often, sometimes even entered the villages and farmlands of seraphim, disguised in a cloak and hood. And there were animals who came and went. But . . . yes, it's nice to talk to another Vir Requis."

They had left the river far behind, traveling in the darkness across the hills, heading toward the distant Khalish Mountain, which still lay over the horizon. The Keymaker was said to live upon that crest, but many miles of wilderness still lay between them and that distant mount. The night was dark, and clouds sporadically hid the moon, plunging them into near total blackness. Meliora's halo was their main source of light; it crackled, woven of dragonfire, casting its red light across the barren hills. There was no grass here, almost no trees, and no wildlife that Elory could see. She might as well have been walking upon the desolate plains of Lanburg Fields, the place where Requiem was said to have fallen many years ago.

"Are you sure you know your way?" Meliora asked, moving to walk closer to Lucem.

After all this time in the wilderness, Meliora too looked different, Elory thought. Back in the ziggurat, Meliora had been like a fairy of purest beauty—pale cheeks tinged pink, a halo of gold, flowing blond hair, her tall and delicate form clad in silks matched in softness only by her swan wings. Later, freed from her imprisonment, Meliora had been shivering, feverish, beaten, her shoulder blades bleeding from the loss of her wings, her head shaved, her cheeks gaunt.

And now, Elory thought, Meliora was something different. No longer a seraph princess, but nor was she a beaten slave. Even with an iron collar around her neck, with her hair barely longer than stubble, Meliora looked like a queen of Requiem. Her back was straight, her shoulders square, and her body—once soft—had hardened, her fat melting to reveal taut muscles. With her crackling halo and her royal sword at her side—Amerath itself, ancient sword of the Aeternum dynasty of Requiem—Meliora could just as easily be walking through the halls of a reborn Requiem.

It seemed that Lucem noticed her striking presence too. The young man turned toward Meliora, and it seemed to Elory that she saw appreciation in his eyes, maybe even admiration.

Suddenly Elory felt rather plain looking. She had never spared much thought to her looks. Why would she? Beauty did not matter in Tofet, only a back strong enough to lift the bitumen, lungs strong enough to survive their fumes. Ishtafel had obviously thought her fair enough, but perhaps he had only lusted for her fragility—a fragility he longed to shatter.

I'm not tall and noble like Meliora, she thought. I don't have the curves or alluring beauty of Tash. She glanced over at Lucem; he was still looking at Meliora. Why would he look at me when he can look at my sister?

"Of course I know my way!" The young man puffed out his chest. "I've spent countless days traveling all across these hills and mountains. In my first year of freedom, I hid in a network of caves that runs beneath these hills. Seraphim covered the sky, seeking me, but they could not find me underground. I'm going to look after you, Meliora. And you, Elory. I'm going to lead you to Khalish Mountain and we're going to find this Keymaker."

Elory stepped closer. "Meliora doesn't need anyone to protect her." She raised her chin. "She led a nation of slaves against Queen Kalafi. She slew seraphim. She gave life to golems, life from her own blood, and created a race of erevim. She's descended from the Aeternum dynasty—as I am."

Lucem turned toward her and raised an eyebrow, and at once Elory cursed herself. She had rushed to protect Meliora's honor, but had she only hurt Lucem's pride?

Surely he won't only think me plain now, Elory thought, but also unpleasant.

Lucem nodded. "Yet even the greatest queen of light needs a guide when walking in shadows." A grin split his face. "Meliora, Princess of Seraph—also a Princess of Requiem. Now there's something I never imagined when I escaped your family, Mel. Can I call you Mel?"

Meliora gave one of her rare smiles. Elory did not think she had ever seen her sister smile so widely.

"No," Meliora said, "you may not."

Lucem matched her grin. "Oh, I see how it is. I'm to call you My Queen or Your Majesty, is it? You are, after all . . ." He puffed out his chest and spoke in baritone. "Queen Meliora Aeternum the First, Sovereign of all Requiem, Slayer of Seraphim."

And I am nothing to him, Elory thought, hating that feeling that suddenly sprang inside her. Jealousy? Foolishness! How could she be jealous? What mattered now was survival, that was all. Finding the Keymaker. Bringing a repaired key back to Tofet. Raising the dragons and flying back to Requiem. Not a silly, handsome, young hero who had spent the past few hours looking at Meliora and away from Elory.

And yet her jealousy remained. In the old tales of Requiem, Elory had heard of many lovers—the timeless and doomed love of King Benedictus and Queen Lacrimosa, or the star-crossed lovers Rune and Tilla, forced to fight on different sides of Requiem's civil war. After entering the ziggurat, Elory had thought that perhaps Tash had stirred those feelings in her, with her gentle caresses and warm eyes. Yet now feelings ten times more powerful flared inside her, tingling, warm, intolerable, growing whenever she so much as glanced at Lucem's bare arms or ready grin.

"Just call me Meliora." The tall haloed woman smiled thinly. "Though I wouldn't object to an odd Your Highness now and then."

Lucem opened his mouth, ready to say more when a shrill cry sounded in the distance.

They all froze.

A chill seized Elory's spine like demonic fingers.

For a moment, all was silent. Then the screech sounded again, so loud that Elory dropped her sword and covered her ears. Meliora grimaced and her halo cracked, and even Lucem paled.

"What is it?" Elory whispered when the shriek died.

Lucem stared into the sky. "I don't know. Not seraphim. I can't see anything."

Meliora was pale, and she pulled her hood over her halo, extinguishing the flames. "Hurry. We must find shelter."

They began to run across the hills, hunched over. Shelter? There was no shelter here. Elory saw no trees, no caves. By the Abyss, she barely saw anything at all, now that Meliora's halo no longer cast its night. She stumbled as she ran in darkness, and Lucem grabbed her hand, his grip warm.

The screeches rose again behind them, closer now, so loud that Elory nearly cried out in pain, thought her eardrums would shatter. Her father had told her that sound was actually ripples through the air, like the ripples on a pond, something Elory had never believed, yet this sound slammed against her with a physical force. She felt it against her chest, in her bones. A demonic cry from another world, a scream of pure hatred, pure malice.

She stared over her shoulders as they ran. Still she saw nothing. No demons flying. Certainly no chariots of fire. Nothing at all in the night. Nothing—

Wait!

It was just an instant. A shadow blotting out the stars, a mere flicker. Again! Another star blinked away for an instant. Something dark flying in the sky. Several of them.

Then they passed across the moon, and such fear filled Elory that she could barely keep running.

"Bat wings," she whispered. "Evil with bat wings."

The shrieks above coalesced into words, the voice of shattering spines, of falling columns, of shards of glass driving into flesh.

"We smell her, comrades! We smell the half-breed. Find her! Break her!"

Each word shook Elory's ribs, twisted her heart, churned her belly. She kept running, holding Lucem's hand. Meliora ran alongside, a mere shadow in the night.

"Drink her blood!" rose a cry above.

"Snap her bones and suck the marrow!"

"Feast upon her organs!"

Elory's breath rattled in her lungs. She glanced up and she saw them now. Oh stars, she saw them. White eyes like stars. Fangs and sickle blades. Bat wings tipped with claws.

"We see them, comrades!" the creatures screeched. "We see three! Catch them! Break them!"

"Seraphim!" Elory cried, running across the rocky land.

"Dark seraphim," Meliora answered, voice shaking. "The cursed one, traitors to Saraph."

Elory drew her sword. Lemuria, her ancient blade—borne by Kaelyn Cadigus herself in Requiem's great civil war—gleamed with inner light. "Then we fight them. We kill them."

"No!" Meliora said. "You cannot fight these creatures. Nobody can."

Lucem stared upward and grimaced. "You might not have a choice, sweetheart." He hefted his spear. "Draw that pretty sword of yours!"

Meliora had no sooner drawn her blade than the creatures swooped.

The white eyes blazed around them, slit down the middle with narrow pupils. Serpent eyes. Fangs shone as the creatures laughed, and the wings beat. A sickle flew toward Elory, and she screamed and swung her blade, heart lashing.

The blades crashed together, sparking. Elory cried out. The sickle's blow was so powerful her arm nearly dislocated again. She kept running, and a creature swooped before her, grinning luridly, and lashed its claws. Elory thrust her blade, parrying the claws, but more claws thrashed from her left, tearing through her side. She screamed. Her blood spilled.

At her sides, Lucem and Meliora were fighting too, weapons stabbing at the creatures. Amerath, the Amber Sword, swung in arcs, holding them back. Lucem growled as he thrust his spear again and again.

The dark seraphim flew around them in a ring, a demonic dance, grinning, laughing, screeching, a macabre song. Blood stained their faces. One of the creatures lashed his claws, cut Elory's leg, then licked his fingers.

"Eat them, eat them, flesh and blood!" they sang. "Bone and marrow, brains and liver, hearts and stomachs, fleshy treats!"

They're toying with us, Elory realized, blood dripping. They're playing with their food.

"Keep the tall female alive!" shrieked one of the dark seraphim. "Eat her legs, eat her arms, but keep her alive. Her womb belongs to Ishtafel."

The dark seraph who had spoken was female, a woman all in black and white. Her breastplate was darker than the night, her sickle a shard of shadow, her wings shadowy curtains of the Abyss. Her skin was white as a frozen corpse, her hair like ice draped across a tombstone, and her eyes were like cold stars, the eyes of a snake, yet hot—searing hot like fire heated until it lost all color. For an instant, even as she bled, even as the creatures danced around her, Elory could only stare at this she-demon, frozen.

There is no hope, Elory thought. Not before this goddess. We are but playthings to her as mice are to cats.

"Leyleet!" Meliora cried, raising her sword. "I know you. I know your name! Be gone, Queen of Darkness. I am Meliora of the Thirteenth Dynasty, your mistress. Leave this place and return to your lair."

The Dark Queen laughed, wings spread wide, sickle raised, and the air seemed to bend around her, and the earth shook. Stones rolled across the hills, a chasm cracked open, and the stars themselves began to extinguish. All the world seemed to fall as the dark seraphim—sixteen in all, the sixteen who had rebelled against the throne of Saraph—laughed with voices like dying nations.

"I shall be the first to feed upon you, Meliora!" shrieked Leyleet. "Your blood will fill my mouth as wine."

With a flash of her sickle, Leyleet swooped.

Meliora pulled back her hood, and her halo crackled to life.

The flames lashed out, a shock wave of fire, showering sparks, illuminating the night as brightly as red lightning. The fire slammed into Leyleet, and the creature screamed—this time a scream of pain, of fear. Her comrades cried out, covering their eyes against the light.

"The light of Requiem!" they cried. "The fire of dragons! It burns our eyes."

Leyleet screamed louder than them all. "Tear off her fire!"

The dark seraphim swooped again.

Elory snapped out of her paralysis. She raised her sword and charged.

"For Requiem!" she cried, blade lashing.

"For Requiem!" cried Meliora, thrusting her own sword.

The fire blazed, and the weapons flashed, and the dark seraphim slammed against them. All amusement was gone from their eyes now. Their claws tore at Meliora, ripping open the old wounds on her back, and her blood showered. Another creature grabbed Elory, tugging at her arm, and she swung her blade, screaming as her blood spilled.

Her blade slammed into the dark seraph's armor, doing him no harm. The dark deity laughed and swung his sickle again.

Blood.

Searing pain.

Elory screamed.

The side of her head burned, melted, shrieked, cracked, died. She yowled. Her blood gushed. She raised her hand to her left ear and found it gone. Her hand touched nothing but a wound, burning, ringing, screaming, white, searing through her. And still the dark seraph laughed, and his sickle swung again.

"Elory!" Lucem shouted.

He leaped forth, spear lashing, and suddenly this young man was the hero again—the fabled Lucem, legend of Requiem. Face twisted with rage, Lucem vaulted upward, and his spear slammed into the dark seraph, knocking the sickle aside, driving the creature back.

"Elory!" he cried again, turning toward her.

She could not even reply. She could barely stay standing. The fire spread from her missing ear, driving through her head, down her spine.

It ends here. We die here. Our quest failed.

"Elory, I think I know where we are!" Lucem shouted, still lashing his spear, holding more of the creatures back. "I saw it when Meliora's fire flared. Follow me to safety!"

The young man leaped onto a boulder, vaulted through the air, and swung his spear, knocking a dark seraph aside. He began to run. Swinging her blade, Meliora followed, her halo of dragonfire casting out flames, lighting the darkness.

"Elory, come on!" they cried.

She ran too. The hole on her head where her ear had been screamed in agony, and her head spun, and the pain was beyond anything she had thought possible, but she ran too. She lashed her blade, holding the creatures back. Claws slashed at the companions, bat wings beat above, the sickles flashed, but still they ran onward, bleeding, falling, running again.

"Down this way!" Lucem cried, leaping into a chasm that had appeared in the hillside—a narrow ravine, barely wide enough to enter. Elory leaped into the chasm too, twisting her ankle, and ran after Lucem with a limp. Walls of stone rose at her sides, and Meliora leaped down behind her. The dark seraphim still flew above, and the companions ran with blades raised, swinging their weapons, knocking sickles aside.

The canyon opened up into a valley, and there ahead Elory saw it—a cave in the hillside ahead.

"We'll never make it!" she cried over the ringing in her ear.

Lucem grabbed her hand. "Run with me. Run!"

They burst out into the valley. Without the protection of walls around them, the dark seraphim attacked with more vigor. A sickle flashed, cleaving Lucem's spear. Claws thrust at Meliora, tearing her cheek. One dark seraph swooped, landed before Elory, and she swung her blade, knocked him aside, and ran around him.

"Cut them down, cut them down!" Leyleet shrieked, soaring above. "They're heading for the cave, cut them down!"

Elory ran as fast as she could. Only twenty yards separated her from the cave, but Leyleet was swooping, her wings opened wide, her laughter rolling.

I will fight as the heroes of Requiem did, Elory thought, running with all her speed. I will never stop fighting for my stars.

She leaped into the air and tossed her blade.

Lemuria flew, a shard of silver, and slammed into Leyleet's leg, sinking into the flesh.

The scream tore across the land, shattered stones, sent boulders tumbling, a sound that was deafening, blinding, a living thing. But still Elory ran, and Meliora and Lucem ran with her, and as Leyleet soared in her agony, they leaped into the cave and plunged into darkness.

A tunnel stretched before them, leading to shadows. Meliora's halo lit rough stone walls. Elory spun toward the cave entrance. Dark seraphim flew outside, storming toward the cave, their cries echoing.

"We'll be trapped in here!" Elory said. "They'll fly in!"

"No, they won't." Lucem gritted his teeth. "Move deeper. Go!" He reached up, grabbed a stone that jutted from the cave ceiling, and yanked it loose.

Dust rained.

A dark seraph streamed through the entrance.

Lucem grabbed Elory and pulled her backward, knocking into Meliora, stumbling deeper into the cave.

The entrance collapsed.

Stones rained, then a great boulder fell, slamming against the ground, cracking the walls. More stones tumbled, burying the dark seraph who was entering the cave, crushing his body, then his head, leaving only his arms exposed. And still stones fell.

"The whole cave's collapsing!" Elory said.

Lucem shook his head. "No. Just the entrance." He wrapped his arms around Elory, who was now shivering madly. "Look. It's all right."

A few last stones fell, and the dust settled. Where the cave entrance had been, now a pile of rocks rose, solid, blocking the exit. Only Meliora's halo now lit the shadows.

Elory took a deep, shuddering breath, her head spinning. Her legs would not stop shaking. The screams of the dark seraphim still sounded outside, and the boulders shuddered as the creatures slammed at them. Dust flew but the barricade held. Elory had to lean against the wall, and blood dripped across her shoulder.

"It's all right." Lucem held her close and kissed her forehead. "We're safe, Elory. We're safe."

Meliora stepped forward, eyes grim. Two ugly scratches ran across her cheek, dripping. "We're trapped, that's what we are. Unless this cave has another exit somewhere. Does it, Lucem?"

He bit his lip. "Not sure. I built a few of these booby trap doors years ago, back when I was hiding from the seraphim. Never had to use one until now, but I built at least . . . four. Maybe five. Might be they're connected underground." He flashed a grin. "Guess we'll find out."

Elory pulled away from his embrace, stepped toward the crushed dark seraph—only his hands were still visible—and wrenched his sickle free.

I lost an ancient blade of Requiem, she thought. So I will bear a blade of evil. I—

Her head spun madly, and she fell to her knees. Lucem knelt beside her, looked at her missing ear, and winced.

"At least you'll save money on earrings, right?" Lucem winked. He opened his pack and pulled out some large, flat leaves. "I always carry these around. Silverweed leaves. Good for healing even the worst of wounds. Hold this against your wound. It'll soothe you."

Elory took one of the leaves, and she winced when she touched it to her wound, expecting a blast of pain. But Lucem was right; the pain dulled, and coolness spread across the flames. Meliora took another leaf and held it to her wounded face.

"Break it down!" rose a screech outside.

The boulders shook. One stone—the size of a fist—came free and tumbled from the barricade.

"We have to move." Meliora touched Elory's head, her fingers gentle. "Can you walk, sister? We have to go now. This barricade won't hold for long."

Elory nodded. Holding the leaf to her wound with one hand, her sickle in the other, she rose to her feet. "Let's go see if Lucem doomed us to a slow death in darkness."

He gasped. "Oh, my dear heart! Never thank the hero." He sighed. "Let's go explore. Meliora, the human torch, would you be so kind as to lead the way?"

Meliora sighed. "I liked him better when he was a hermit." She began to walk, heading down the tunnel into the deep blackness. As the screams still rose outside, Elory and Lucem followed.

VALE

In the dawn, they crossed the last rivulet, reaching the end of the delta. Behind them spread lush lands of fresh water, fruit trees, and wildlife. Before them stretched the coast, snaking into the horizon, nothing but sand on the left, sea on the right.

"Well, dear boy." Tash nodded. "Not much water or food ahead, and according to my map, it'll be another two or three days of walking. We need some water for the road."

Vale stared ahead at the coast. As lush and green as the delta was behind him, the land ahead was barren, nothing but golden and blue sea, no freshwater or fruit trees to be seen.

"It might not be seraphim, zamzummim, or gold-laying centipedes that kill us then." He smiled wryly. "It might be thirst. We'll have nothing but seawater for the rest of the journey. Unless you want to sneak into town and steal a few canteens."

"No need, my boy!" Tash flashed him a grin. From her leather pack, she pulled out a second treasure—the glass bottle she had found in the centipede's lair. The deep golden whiskey swirled inside. "We've got a bottle."

"Good." Vale reached toward it. "Spill out the whiskey and fill up water from that stream. Last freshwater we'll see for a while."

Tash gasped, eyes wide. She pulled the bottle to her chest. "You did not just say that."

He groaned. "Tash!"

"Don't you Tash me!" She cradled the bottle against her chest as if it were a babe. "This is precious stuff. We can't just spill it away." She bit her lip, and a wry look came into her eyes.

"You're not suggesting we drink it." Vale sighed. "That's seraphim juice."

She snorted. "Oh, you think everything fine and luxurious is for seraphim. But back in the day, we Vir Requis knew how to enjoy life. I still do." She uncorked the bottle and sat down under a pomegranate tree. "Now there's a lot in here, so I'm going to need your help."

Vale glanced at the pomegranates that hung above her. "We can drill into the fruits' shells and fill them with water."

"Sit now and drink!" Tash reached up, grabbed his hand, and yanked him down.

He sat with a groan. The stream gurgled at their side, and the branches of the pomegranate tree swayed, and the sea whispered in the distance. Tash drank deeply from the bottle, then smacked her lips.

"I detect an elegant bouquet of apple flavors and brown sugar, a hint of vanilla and caramel, and an undertone of maple and oak."

Vale raised his eyebrow. "Are you drinking spirits or a perfume shop?"

She handed him the bottle. "Try it."

He took a sip, forced himself to swallow, and grimaced.

"Well, do you taste the oaky apple flavors?" Tash asked.

He shuddered. "I taste all the things you did, at least after they were burned in dragonfire."

"Now you're getting the hang of it!"

She took the bottle from him, drank again, then handed it back.

Vale took another sip and winced. "And you really call this luxury?"

She nodded. "This is living, my boy." She leaned against the tree and grinned. "Relaxing under a tree, a stream flowing by our side, a beach below, dawn rising around us . . . good drink and good company." Her smile faded, and she looked into his eyes. "These moments don't last long, Vale. Not for us Vir Requis. Let's savor this moment while we can. This memory might have to sustain us on dark paths ahead."

He drank again. This time it didn't taste quite as bad.

They passed the bottle back and forth as dawn rose, and every sip was easier, and soon Vale found himself lying on his back, looking up at the swaying branches, the pomegranates, the blue sky above, the whispering beach in the distance.

A memory to last, he thought. A good moment to savor.

Yet what did he know of such things? Tash had scolded him that he could not laugh, could not have fun, and she had been right. There was something broken inside him. Something that had broken in Tofet. Something that he didn't think all the rivers, seas, or bottles could wash away.

Why do I live? he thought. Why do I fight on when there's no hope for my life? Even if I could remain here forever in beauty, the nightmares would remain inside me. I've left Tofet, but Tofet will never leave me. I died on the ziggurat, pinned above the city. No matter how long I draw breath, I died that day.

Tash spoke softly at his side. "It's beautiful here, but more than anything, I want to see the beauty of Requiem. All those places from the stories. There are no pomegranate or fig or date trees there, but there are different trees. Birch trees that spread for miles in a great forest, the place where the first Vir Requis lived wild. There is no sea, but there's the great Ranin River, fabled in the tales for its icy fresh waters. I was born here in Saraph, and for five hundred years, we lived here, but this is not our home. Our home lies across the sea."

Vale touched his iron collar. In Requiem he would not lie under a tree. He would fly over forests, fields, and ancient halls of marble and light.

"In my dreams," he said, "I saw the sky so many times. The sky is always pale searing blue or endless black here in Saraph, the color of steel and death, and the sun is always white and cruel. But in Requiem the sky is of many colors, a painting in gold, blue, purple, and all the colors of fire. Some days there are clouds, and some days there are storms. Some days it rains and on others the sun shines. Some nights the stars are hidden, and in others, the Draco constellation shines brilliantly above. But it's always our sky, ours to touch, ours to find. Do you know the old prayer of Requiem, Tash?"

She nodded, eyes damp. Her voice was but a whisper. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

And that is why I live on, Vale thought. That is why I fight. Issari gave me this life, not so I could live in pain, but so that I could find that sky again.

Tash hefted the bottle. Only a few swigs inside swirled. "Only two little sippies left. For Requiem!"

She drank and passed him the bottle.

"For Requiem," he said softly and emptied the bottle.

Tash nestled up against him and stroked his hair. "You will find that sky, Prince Vale Aeternum, son of Requiem. You will fly there as your forebears did, our great kings of old. You will be a king to us, and I will fly with you. Always."

He lay on his back, and she curled up against him, her head resting on his shoulder, her leg tossed across his leg, her arm across his chest. He stroked her hair—long, soft brown hair. His hands had always held pickaxes, stones, bricks; he had never imagined anything could feel so good to the touch. She looked up at him, pushed herself onto her elbow, and her hair draped around them in curtains, and he kissed her.

The world is full of want and pain, he thought. My homeland lies in ruin, my father cries out in chains, and my mother lies underground. But right here, right now, the world is good. Right here I am in beauty with a woman I love. Let this be a small fire that warms us for the road ahead.

His hand trailed across her body, moving down to the valley of her waist, where her skin was bare and smooth, then up the hill of her hip, where her silk trousers did not shield the warmth and softness beneath. She reached under his tunic, stroking his chest, and he hesitated, stiffened, but she kissed him and whispered softly.

"For years I pleasured men in the gardens and beds of Shayeen. I know where to nibble, to lick, to stroke, to bite, to drive men wild until they scream. But I don't want to do this to you, Vale. Those are mere tricks for petty lords. Let me love you truly. As a woman loves a man. And I want you to love me back, for I'm yours. Not only my body but my heart, my soul, my love. I've never given them to another, but I give all these to you, son of Requiem."

And at that moment, Vale loved her—loved her more than he had ever thought he could love another, loved her with a passion as great as dragonfire, as wonderful and all-consuming as flying as a dragon. He kissed her again, and their hands moved across each other's bodies, seeking, stroking, then moving faster, tearing at their clothes with an urgency only matched by their kisses.

Her body was so slender, so soft, a thing of such frailty and beauty that it seemed impossible that it should exist in this world. His hand cupped her small breast, and her hand reached down to stroke him, and she closed her eyes, lay on her back, took him inside her. He moved atop her, and it was like flying, like gliding on the winds of Requiem. They flew together as dragons, forgetting their collars, coming together like sky and stars, like prayers and song.

They blazed together like dragonfire, and she cried out, and he closed his eyes, lay atop her. She wrapped her arms around him, kissing his tears.

"It's all right, my prince." She stroked his hair. "Why do you weep?"

"Because this is precious," he whispered. "Because this is good. Because I'm happy."

She kissed his cheeks again and again until his tears were gone, then grinned and bit her lip. "Let's do it again."

For the first time in his life, Vale laughed.

MELIORA

They walked through the caves, her halo lighting their way, seeking a way out from darkness.

The wounds on her cheek still stung, a throbbing pain that worked down her jaw and neck. Her belly ached with hunger, her throat begged for water, and she was so weary—she had not slept for two days and nights—that her limbs shook. But worse than all was the fear, a coiling beast inside her. A fear of the dark. A fear of losing her way in shadows, of a slow death underground.

She turned toward the others. The light of her halo painted them red and orange. Elory walked holding a fresh leaf to what remained of her ear, and she held her sickle in her other hand. Sweat beaded on her brow despite the cold, and her eyes were sunken. Blood still stained her ragged tunic. Lucem walked at her side, his hand placed against the small of her back, shepherding her onward, and he held his spear.

"Lucem, have you ever walked this far deep?" Meliora asked.

The young man shook his head. "Never. I've only ever taken a few steps into these caves." He grinned. "Exciting, isn't it? We're explorers!"

Meliora groaned. "Exciting is discovering an almond in a bowl of walnuts. We need to find a way out. We cannot die here in the darkness. Not only our lives are at stake but all of Requiem."

"Cheery one, you are." Lucem nodded. "No pressure or anything. Only an entire nation depending on us. Maybe a little whistling will ease the tension?"

He rounded his lips and began to whistle an old tune when the shrieks rose behind them.

They all grimaced. The screams sounded far away, almost inaudible, but chilled Meliora's spine.

"Dark seraphim," Elory whispered. "They're breaking in."

Meliora cursed. "We need to hurry. We need to see if these tunnels lead to another exit in the mountains."

"That or find a hidden army in here." Lucem nodded. "About a thousand troops hiding away could really come in handy around now." He yanked at his collar. "Especially if they had the keys to these things."

Meliora groaned and began walking quickly, and the others followed. No, they would not find a key here in the darkness. The Keymaker still lived many miles away, and Meliora's hope for ever finding him began to fade. Even should she escape these caves, how would she make it across the mountains with the dark seraphim in pursuit—the most dangerous criminals to have ever lived in Saraph?

I was a foolish girl, she thought. Just a foolish princess with delusions of grandeur, sure that I could become a savior, a messiah to Requiem. She lowered her head. Just a silly girl. I won't even make it to the Keymaker, let alone return with salvation and lead my people home.

Perhaps sensing her turmoil, Elory walked closer. The young woman hung her sickle from her belt, reached out, and took Meliora's hand in hers. The hand was so small, like the hand of a child, and Elory didn't stand taller than Meliora's shoulder, and yet there was comfort here, there was strength that Meliora knew she could lean on.

"We'll find a way out." Elory's eyes shone in the firelight. "I know this. You did not fly through fire to die in darkness. When I saw you fly above a nation, a great dragon all in silver and gold, I knew that someday you would lead us home. I believe in you, Meliora. You led us this far. You will lead us onward."

Who says I want to be a leader? Meliora thought. Her eyes stung and her chest constricted. I'm just a princess, that's all. Just a pampered princess, innocent, naive. I'm no heroine like the great Priestess Issari or Queen Gloriae. I cannot become the leader you want.

Yet when Meliora looked into her sister's brown eyes, she saw such hope there, such admiration, that Meliora could not bear to crush that light, even if that light should soon fade. She nodded and squeezed Elory's hand.

"We'll find a way out, Elory. I promise you."

The scream sounded again behind them. It seemed closer now. The dark seraphim had entered the caves. Meliora tightened her lips and walked on.

The tunnel soon forked, and Meliora hesitated for a moment. One tunnel seemed wider, sloping upward; the other was narrow, sinking deeper.

"Which way do we go?" Elory asked. "The wider tunnel is a more natural choice, but the dark seraphim will know this. They'll follow us there."

Meliora thought for a moment. "Wait here." She stepped into the narrow tunnel that delved downward, tore off a strip of her cloak, and placed it on the ground. Then she walked back to the fork. "We take the wider tunnel."

As they walked onward, Meliora frowned and stared at the tunnel wall. She paused, moved closer, and let her halo illuminate the stone. The surface was smooth, and engravings appeared upon it.

"We're not the first ones to enter here." She placed her hand against the wall. "Look."

Figures were engraved onto the wall, life-sized: a goat, a lion, an eagle, and a man. Runes appeared around them in a language Meliora did not recognize. In the crackling firelight, the figures seemed almost to move.

"Who would enter so deeply into these caves to engrave these?" Elory asked.

Meliora frowned. "I'm not sure these are caves." She shuddered. "They might be man-made tunnels."

Lucem examined the engravings. "Man-made? The lion might have helped a bit." He clawed the air. "Claws and all."

They kept walking, and the tunnel grew wider, the walls and floor smoothing out. The firelight revealed engravings on the ceiling, these ones of flaming wheels. An acidic smell filled the air, and distant shrieks echoed like ghosts.

"Look at that." Elory pointed.

A towering engraving appeared upon a wall, showing a mountain of corpses. Men, women, children—all lay dead, eyes closed, mouths open in anguish, and above them blazed a fiery wagon wheel. More runes appeared here, coiling around the mountain of the dead.

"I know this symbol," Meliora whispered. "The flaming wheel." She shuddered. "The wheel of the Living Creatures."

"The Living Creatures?" Lucem asked. "Doesn't sound so bad. Better than the Living Monsters or the Undead Creatures." A shriek rose from behind, and Lucem winced. "And better than the dark seraphim that follow."

Meliora wasn't so sure. "There's an old legend of them in Saraph, but few ever repeat it. It's said that after the fall from Edinnu, when the seraphim lost the rebellion against the gods, we wandered this world, hurt and afraid and alone. It's said that the Eight Gods—the ones we rebelled against—sought to slay us in our new world. A wheel of fire appeared in the sky that day, and creatures descended from it." Meliora shuddered. "It's said that the Living Creatures were four, but that their wings were connected, so that they had to always walk together. It's said they killed many seraphim."

Lucem sighed. "Nothing but trouble since you two showed up. I was enjoying my little hill and carob trees, and now it's dark seraphim, Living Creatures, and stars know what's next."

They continued walking, and the tunnel kept curving, branching off, a dark labyrinth. At every fork, Meliora placed a scrap of her cloak in one way, then took the other path, trying to remember the way, soon realizing she was lost. Yet no matter how winding the path, the screeches rose louder behind them. Soon Meliora could make out voices.

"They walk into darkness, comrades! Our meals scurry ahead."

Laughter rolled through the caves.

"They seek to trick us with cloth!"

"We smell them, comrades! Smell their fear. Follow the scent! Drink their blood."

Lucem grimaced. "They're getting closer."

Meliora glared at him. "We're in a tunnel. The sky is up. The sun is hot. Any more obvious facts you want to remind me of?"

He groaned. "Yes—we need to move faster. Come on!"

They began to run. The tunnels twisted madly, and Meliora no longer bothered leaving scraps of cloth; pointless, if the seraphim were tracking their scent. The tunnels widened, soon the size of temple halls. Meliora's halo barely lit the shadows here, but she thought she made out engravings of battles across the walls and ceiling. She glimpsed an eagle's head, a lion's, a goat's, engraved larger than men upon the walls, and everywhere the stone corpses and flaming wheels. Here was a great tomb for the memory of that ancient slaughter, the Eight Gods' last vengeance against the seraphim.

"We smell them ahead, siblings!" rose a cry—the shrill voice of Leyleet. "We smell them, those who slew one among us. We will split them open! We will pull out their ribs! We will saw them in half! We will keep them alive so they scream!"

Lucem cringed as he ran. "Wow, they can saw you in half and keep you alive? That's talent!"

"I'd rather they picked up painting," Elory said, running at his side. "Maybe flower arrangement?"

Lucem flashed her a grin. "You made a funny! That's great."

"Shut it, you two, and run!" Meliora said, racing down the shadowy nave.

As the laughter of the dark seraphim rolled behind, they ran on down the chasm. In the darkness, Meliora could only see a few steps ahead, and she skidded to a halt when she reached the dead end. Elory and Lucem stopped with her, panting and drenched with sweat.

A stone wall towered ahead, and upon it was engraved a massive wagon wheel, taller than Meliora, stony flames rising from it.

"Damn it," Meliora said. "A dead end."

Elory spun around and drew her sickle. Lucem hefted his spear, and Meliora raised her sword. In the darkness the screeches of the dark seraphim still sounded, coming closer with every heartbeat.

"Blood!" they cried.

"Bones!"

"Organs!"

"Kill, crush, eat!"

Meliora took a deep breath. "We fight. Here is our final stand." She raised her chin. "There are fifteen of them, only three of us, but Requiem has always faced unsurmountable odds, and we've always overcome. For Requiem! For a memory of dragons. For—"

"Will you be quiet and help me?" Lucem said.

She spun around to see him grabbing the stony wheel engraved onto the wall, tugging at its spokes. "What are you doing, Lucem?"

He groaned. "Thought I'd plant a flower bed. What do you think I'm doing? It's a door, Your Highness! Help me open it."

Meliora's eyes widened. Indeed, as Lucem tugged, the wagon wheel engraving shed dust, creaking on the wall. She grabbed another stone spoke, and Elory grabbed another, and they pulled together.

The wheel creaked, then turned an inch. Another inch.

The wall trembled. They kept tugging, and the wheel gave a great turn, a full foot, and then loosened with showering dust. A lock clicked somewhere deep in the wall, and the great stone wheel swung inward like a door.

A chamber awaited beyond, awash with golden light. Elory entered the chamber first, followed by Lucem. Meliora entered last, then shoved herself against the round door, pushing it shut with a thud.

The sound of the dark seraphim faded behind the stone.

For just an instant, Meliora felt a sense of relief, of safety . . . and then she heard the creaking.

"Oh stars," Elory whispered, reaching out to grasp Meliora's hand.

Slowly, Meliora turned around from the door. She felt the blood drain from her face.

The chamber was large and round, surrounded with decorative columns carved into the walls. Old bones and skulls lay strewn across the floor. In the chamber's center rose a stone dais, and a great wheel of fire surrounded it, spinning and casting out light. In the center of the fire stood four creatures, glittering like burnished bronze.

They had the bodies of men but cloven hooves, and each had four faces and four wings. One was the face of a man, the second of a goat, the third of a lion, and the fourth of an eagle. The creatures were joined to one another by the tips of their wings, forcing them to stand abreast. Eyes blinked all across those wings, gazing in all directions.

"The Living Creatures," Meliora whispered. "They still exist."

Lucem leaned toward her. "The sky is up, Mel. The sky is up."

The Living Creatures took a step forward across their stone dais. Their four bodies moved as one, connected at the wings. Their many heads stared, and the eyes upon their wings blinked. Not only the flaming wheel cast light, but the creatures' bronze bodies emitted a light of their own, searing and cruel.

"Living Creatures!" Meliora said, kneeling before them. "We are Vir Requis, children of the stars, natives of this world. We come to praise your name! We—"

"You are of Saraph."

The sixteen heads spoke together—lions, goats, eagles, and men all uttering the words as one. The voices were deep, echoing, metallic, voices from another world.

"I am Vir Requis—" Meliora began.

The heads creaked, turning toward her, the eyes glittering. The Living Creatures took another step forward, and their arms rose, tipped with crimson claws. "We smell the smell of Saraph. We see the halo burn. The foul seraphim, traitors of the gods—we fed upon them. Yet they imprisoned us in stone. For five thousand years we lingered here, buried alive, but we never forgot your scent. The stench of betrayal. The stench of traitors." The flaming wheels spun madly around the creatures. Their claws rose, pointing at her, and the creatures' eyes blazed, casting out white light. "You will burn in the wheel of fire!"

The flaming wheel spun madly, then rose to hover above the Living Creatures like a crown, like the halo above Meliora's own head. They stepped off the dais, advancing toward her.

"You will not touch her!" Elory shouted, racing forward and raising her sickle.

Lucem ran forth too, hefting his spear. "You stand before the Queen of Requiem, Living Creatures. She is not yours to touch."

The Living Creatures raised their claws higher, and blasts of light and heat rippled out, slamming into Elory and Lucem. They cried out and fell, banging against the stone floor. The wheel crackled madly, and heat drenched the room. Meliora fell back against the closed stone door.

"Stop this!" she cried. "Living Creatures, I have no wings! Seraphim have wings, yet I have none." She spun around to show them her back, then faced them again. "Seraphim bear halos of soft light, yet mine is a halo of fire—much like the wheel that burns above you. I praise you, Living Creatures! I kneel before you. I—"

"Silence!" they cried. "We smell your stench. We smell the blood of seraphim. The air reeks with you. And so you will die, seraph child, for your kind betrayed the Eight Gods. You have entered your tomb."

Elory and Lucem leaped forward.

"Requiem!" they cried together, charging with their weapons.

The Living Creatures roared, a sound that pounded across the chamber, rippling the air. Energy blasted out from them, slamming into Elory and Lucem, lifting them into the air, slamming them against the walls. Elory screamed and fell, fresh blood gushing from the wound of her severed ear. Lucem's head slammed against the wall, and he moaned and slumped down. And still the Living Creatures advanced toward Meliora, the four bodies moving together, the eyes glaring, the crimson claws rising to strike.

"Die," they hissed. "Die . . . die . . ."

Meliora stared at them, her meager halo's light drowned beneath their eternal flame. In the distance, barely audible, she heard other screams, heard claws against stone, the cackles of the hungry.

"You speak of smelling seraphim," Meliora said. "And you are correct. But that stench is not from me." She reached behind her and grabbed the stone door. "Saraph invades your tomb! I reveal to you the traitors!"

She tugged the stone door open again.

Behind her, in the corridor, wailed the dark seraphim.

"Seraphim, seraphim!" cried the Living Creatures. "Traitors with dark wings!"

Meliora leaped aside, scurried toward Lucem and Elory, and knelt by them.

The Living Creatures blazed with rage, fire blasting from their wheel, their bronze bodies casting out lightning. They charged, claws lashing, crying out in rage. The dark seraphim screamed, covered their eyes, fell back.

"The Living Creatures!" they cried. "The vengeance of the gods!"

Meliora shielded Lucem and Elory with her body, watching the devastation unfold.

A few dark seraphim charged into the room, flying toward the Living Creatures with lashing claws and snapping teeth. The Living Creatures' wheel of fire spun madly, casting out flames, slamming them into the dark seraphim. Lightning bolts blasted from the bronze bodies of the creatures, and their many mouths opened to scream.

One dark seraph fell, clutching its chest. Another slammed against the wall, cracking its armor. And still the fire blazed and lightning struck. Meliora pushed herself deeper into the corner, covering her eyes against the terrible light.

"Traitors to the gods!" cried the Living Creatures. "Dark ones, foul ones, cursed ones! The betrayers of Edinnu shall perish."

Another dark seraph crashed down, armor split open. The Living Creatures grabbed the man, pulled him up, tore him open, and the animal heads ripped through the flesh.

The Living Creatures made for the doorway, and for the first time in five thousand years, they left the stone prison. With their wings connected, they had to turn sideways, walking like crabs through the round opening. Still their fire and lightning blasted out, knocking dark seraphim aside. The cursed ones screamed in pain, burning, falling before the wrath of the gods.

"Come on!" Meliora said, grabbing Elory and Lucem and hoisting them to their feet. "We're getting out of here."

The two swayed, bloodied and bruised, but managed to heft their weapons and nod. Swinging her sword before her, Meliora leaped out the round doorway after the Living Creatures. Elory and Lucem followed, holding hands and swinging their own weapons.

The nave spread before them, large as an imperial hall. The Living Creatures were moving forward, their four bodies abreast, the eyes upon their connected wings blinking and casting out streamers of light. The luminous strands slammed into dark seraphim, cracking their armor. Another one of the cursed deities fell, gushing out the golden ichor of Saraph. The surviving dark seraphim flew in the chamber, swinging their sickles, chopping at the Living Creatures, but the godly warriors' bodies were like bronze, and the sickles sparked against them but could not cut them.

Above all soared Leyleet, Queen of the Dark. Her wings were spread wide, and the fire blazed across her, but she only laughed, her eyes alight.

"The gods are fools!" She cackled. "I spit upon the Eight Gods. I will slay their champions like a child slays ants."

The dark queen swooped, face twisted with rage, swinging her sickle at the Living Creatures, blasting out dark fire from her eyes. The gods of vengeance turned toward her as one, raising their claws, casting out their light. The flames exploded and the nave shook. Cracks ran across the walls and stones fell from the ceiling.

"Run!" Meliora shouted, racing through the battle.

Elory and Lucem ran at her side. They raced around the Living Creatures, and Meliora ducked as a blast of lightning flew over her head. Elory yelped and leaped aside, dodging a roaring pillar of fire. The walls kept shaking and boulders fell from above. One stone landed before Meliora and shattered, and she leaped over the debris.

"The traitors will die!" cried the Living Creatures, sixteen heads speaking together. "The cursed shall be cleansed from the earth."

Meliora kept running. A dark seraph swooped, sickle flashing. Meliora swung the Amber Sword, diverting the blow with a shower of sparks. Another dark seraph flew toward Lucem, and he roared and thrust his spear, knocking it back. Still the fire and light of the Living Creatures filled the hall, their bronze bodies gleaming, their heads roaring and shrieking, and their hooves shattered the floor as they advanced.

As they kept running, Meliora saw the tunnel taper ahead, leading to a narrow corridor. If they could just enter there, make their way into the shadows . . .

A great shriek pierced the hall. Wreathed in black fire, eyes blazing white like stars, Leyleet swooped toward them. A wound still gushed on her thigh from Elory's sword.

"For Requiem!" Meliora cried. A boulder crashed down before her. She leaped onto it and vaulted through the air.

Leyleet flew toward her, sickle flashing.

With a scream, Meliora—still airborne—swung her blade. The Amber Sword arched. The sickle lashed. Meliora ducked her head, and the blade scraped across the top of her hair, shearing the stubble even shorter. The Amber Sword slammed into Leyleet's armor and knocked the dark queen back, cracking her breastplate. With a shout below, Lucem tossed his spear, and the weapon flew and slammed into Leyleet's chest, digging into her flesh.

Meliora landed on the ground.

Leyleet screeched.

Meliora ran, pulling Elory and Lucem with her, and they leaped into the tunnel ahead. Light flashed and fire blazed as the Living Creatures charged, and Leyleet screamed again, awash in their rage, her voice rising so loudly the walls crumbled and boulders rained.

Leaving the fire behind, Meliora, Lucem, and Elory raced through the narrow tunnel, breath ragged. When the way forked, Meliora looked for her pieces of cloth, though she hardly needed to; the acrid stench of the dark seraphim, the very stench that had saved her life, was a better path.

Finally they saw daylight ahead, and they burst outside onto hills and mountains awash with sunbeams. The landscape spread into the horizons, barren, lifeless, and beautiful.

We're alive. Oh stars, we're alive. There is still hope for Requiem.

Elory fell to her knees, breathing raggedly, blood staining her neck and shoulder. In the daylight, Meliora could see that at least half the ear was gone; only a shell remained around the canal. Lucem gasped for breath; a thousand cuts and bruises covered him. Meliora's own clothes were bloody, and the wounds on her cheek blazed like embers pressed against her face.

"Elory, up." Meliora reached down to her. "On your feet, Elory. Now."

Lucem glared. "She's hurt."

"She'll be more than hurt if we don't move. We don't yet know who'll win the battle in the caves. If Leyleet is still alive, if she triumphs, she'll never stop hunting us. Elory, up! Lucem, help her. Carry her if you must. We must move."

Shuddering, her breath sawing, Elory rose to her feet. Lucem wrapped an arm around her, and she slung her arms around his neck. Meliora led the way. They raced across the hills, heading down into a valley, then up another slope. The sunlight blazed down, drenching them with sweat. From the cave the echoes of battle still sounded.

As they ran, Meliora stared ahead into the northwest. Somewhere there, beyond the hazy white horizon, it lay. The mountain of Khalish. The Keymaker. Hope for a crumbling nation. They raced onward.

JAREN

It was past midnight when the door creaked open and evil, cloaked and hooded, entered Jaren's hut.

Jaren had been up most of the night, healing the wounded of Tofet, guiding the dying to their rest, and whispering words of comfort to the grieving. Every night now, more wounded visited his door, and more dead piled up, a slow genocide, the old, the weak, the young, all perishing under the whips and heels of Saraph. Under Queen Kalafi's rule, the slaves had labored to build great monuments, and while they suffered, the queen had cared to keep most of them alive, to keep her labor force at work.

But Ishtafel, it seemed, delighted in torture for its own sake, delighted in working more and more slaves to death every day. And every day it was Jaren who prayed over the pits of the dead.

Days of labor in the heat. Nights of healing and prayer. A slow agony, a slow dying, an endless waiting for hope that might never come, for children who might never return. The torturous wait for an ancient race to fall—not in battle, not in glory, but a death stretched out, twisted, with more hope for the relief of death than for a savior.

Jaren lay on the straw on the floor. Shivering even in the heat. Alone in darkness.

"Be safe, Meliora, Vale, Elory," he whispered. "Return to me. Return with the treasures or return with your lives. We all pray for you, my children. We—"

The creaking door interrupted him.

Jaren pushed himself onto his elbows as the wooden door opened. A cloaked shadow stood outside, holding a lamp.

"Kerish, is that you?" Jaren asked, rising to his feet. "Is the wound on your leg still aching, is—"

The figure stepped into the hut, and Jaren lost his breath. Golden eyes blazed within the figure's hood, the pupils shaped as sunbursts casting out their rays.

A seraph.

"My lord!" Jaren said. "How may I serve you? I—"

The seraph pulled back his hood, and Jaren lost his breath.

A cold, handsome face stared back at him, ageless yet ancient. The jaw was square, the hair golden. An ugly scar rifted the man's face, crawling from the corner of the jaw, across the nose, and onto the brow—the mark of a flaming halo pressed against the flesh. The seraph's eyes were like flames themselves, horrible to behold, yet cold, soulless, the eyes of a beast.

Ishtafel.

"My lord," Jaren whispered, kneeling before him.

Every fiber inside of Jaren screamed. He wanted to charge at Ishtafel, to pummel him. He still had some strength in him. He wanted to grab the seraph's neck, to squeeze, to crush.

You murdered my wife, Ishtafel thought, trembling. You kidnapped my daughter and tried to rape her. You nailed my son to the ziggurat's crest. You murdered a hundred thousand of my people. His breath shook. You destroyed Requiem and put a nation in chains.

"Yes," Ishtafel hissed, looking down at him. "I see the rage in you, the hatred. That's good. Hatred will keep you alive more than hope, more than prayer. And it makes this little game so much more fun. Rise, Jaren Aeternum. That is your name, is it not?"

Jaren rose to his feet, unable to douse the rage inside him, but knowing that this seraph could shatter his bones like a child snapping twigs, knowing that he had to live, that he had to survive this night. For his children. For all the wounded who still needed him.

"Yes, my lord," he whispered.

Ishtafel nodded, lips stretching into a thin smile. "Aeternum, Aeternum . . . the name of an old weredragon dynasty, is it not? Your family once ruled the throne of the reptilian kingdom."

"That was a long time ago, my lord."

Ishtafel frowned. "And yet . . . and yet you long for those days to return, do you not?" He glanced up at the ceiling, at the Draco constellation that was engraved there. "You still dream of Requiem, I see."

Jaren lowered his head. "A man can still dream, my lord, even while serving."

Ishtafel's hand reached out, fast as a striking snake, and grabbed Jaren's throat. The fingers squeezed.

Jaren gasped for breath. Stars spread before his eyes. The tendons in his neck creaked. Bringing his face close, Ishtafel snarled, and now those eyes blazed with unadulterated hatred.

"You sent your children into the wild," he hissed. "Vale, the worm I pinned to my palace. Elory, the pathetic little wench who fled my bed. And Meliora . . . sweetest Meliora, my sister, your daughter." Ishtafel barked a laugh. "That makes us related, doesn't it, old man? You bedded my mother, didn't you? She was a fine woman. Beautiful. Lovely teats I loved to suck on myself as a baby. Of course, I enjoyed sucking her blood more."

"My—my lord!" Jaren managed. "If you would kill me, then kill me. I—"

Ishtafel released his grip, tossing Jaren down. He fell to his knees, clutched his throat, gasped for breath.

"Kill you?" Ishtafel laughed. "But then my fun would end! How would I torture you if you were dead? No, old man." Ishtafel drove down his heel, stomping Jaren's wrist, pinning his hand down, creaking the bones. "I want you to live, Jaren Aeternum. I want you to live to see your people die, your children suffer, your nation collapse."

"Why?" Jaren whispered, hoarse, his wrist twisted under Ishtafel's boot. "We build you monuments. We dig bitumen. Why—"

"I need no more monuments, old man. All my work in this world is completed, all my enemies conquered. But now I found a new task, a new game. To slowly destroy Requiem. Life by life. A slow death." Ishtafel licked his lips. "And you will be the last to die, heir of reptilian kings."

Ishtafel released his heel, and Jaren pulled his wounded arm to his chest, cradling the wrist. "Is that why you came here?" Jaren whispered, staring at Ishtafel. "To tell me that?"

Ishtafel raised his eyebrows. "Oh, but that would be so rude! To simply come unannounced to bandy words? No, Jaren. I came here to bring you something. A gift." He reached into his cloak, pulled out a bundle of cloth, and tossed it at Jaren. "A memento from Elory. Enjoy what remains of her, for you won't see the rest of her again."

With that, Ishtafel turned and marched out of the hut.

Jaren didn't want to look, didn't want to know, but his fingers seemed to move on their own, unfolding the bundle.

His breath caught and he wrapped up the cloth again. He closed his eyes, but he still saw it there: a bloody ear. Elory's ear.

His breath burst into a pant now, his heart into a gallop, and the hut spun around him.

Elory . . . oh stars, Elory . . .

Sweat soaked Jaren, and his head wouldn't stop spinning. He had to do something, to bury it, to find Elory, to save her if she still lived. He had to lean against the wall, and blackness spread across him.

Shivering, he stepped out into the night.

The huts of Tofet spread around him in the blackness. The land was silent but for the scattered sounds of weeping and moaning. The air was hot, soupy, and his sweat wouldn't dry. Jaren forced himself to walk, each step a struggle, each breath a battle, until he reached a patch of dry earth. He buried the ear there, buried a piece of his daughter, and the memory of burying his wife filled him, a memory like a demon, clawing inside him. He fell to his knees in the dirt between the huts, and his tears fell.

I spend my nights healing others, but how can I heal my daughter? How can I stop this pain?

He lowered his head and closed his eyes.

Please, stars of Requiem, if you can hear my prayers from this place, show me mercy, show me your light.

And in the darkness, the light of stars shone.

Kneeling in the dust, Jaren raised his head, and above him he saw columns woven of starlight, pale birches coated in frost, a glittering hall all in light. The pain, the fear, the weariness, all seemed to fade in this place, and Jaren floated through the halls of ancient Requiem.

Figures were moving between the columns, appearing, vanishing, cloaked in white. Harp strings played, echoing, fading, notes from many songs. He glimpsed ancient kings and queens, heroes and heroines, warriors and priests, the ghosts of old Requiem, those who had fought the demons, the griffins, the phoenixes, the countless enemies who had tried to topple these halls. All now memories, myths, beams of starlight, and fragments of song.

Ahead Jaren could make out three figures, all cloaked in light. When he drew closer, they came into focus, the light parting to reveal their forms.

A woman sat on a throne, golden locks framing her pale face. Her eyes shone blue-green, and she wore pale armor. Here was Queen Gloriae Aeternum who had raised Requiem from ruin and restored her to glory. At her left side stood a young prince, his yellow hair falling across his brow, his brown eyes eager—Kyrie Eleison, guardian of the throne. At the queen's right side stood a young woman, tall and clad in leggings and a tan vest, her mane of black curls cascading across her shoulders—Agnus Dei, the queen's twin sister, a woman who had slain many enemies of Requiem.

My ancestors, Jaren thought, kneeling before them. The great warriors of Requiem who rebuilt our nation from only seven survivors.

Queen Gloriae rose from her throne and held up her hand. "Rise, Jaren Aeternum, son of Requiem."

At her side, Agnus Dei tilted her head and squinted. "He looks a bit like me. Same noble eyes."

Young Kyrie snorted. "There are warthogs who look nobler than you do, Agnus Dei. Don't insult the man."

Her eyes widened, and Agnus Dei let out a roar. "Be quiet, pup! Or I'm going to ram into you like a warthog."

"You're thinking of bulls," Kyrie said. "Bulls ram. Warthogs just rut in the dirt and mud."

"Oh, you enjoyed rutting in the mud last time we went out on a hike," Agnus Dei said, smiling crookedly, and Kyrie blushed a deep crimson.

"Hush, Agnus Dei!" the boy said.

Queen Gloriae glared at the two. "Hush the both of you!" She returned her eyes to Jaren, and her gaze softened. "Forgive their frivolity, my son, for here is a realm where all worries, all pain have ended."

Kyrie snorted. "Not when Agnus Dei slaps me. That still hurts."

Agnus Dei raised her fist. "I'm going to pound you to prove it, pup."

"Hush!" Gloriae said again. She stepped closer to Jaren, placed her hands on his shoulders, and smiled. The starlight clung to her, spreading out to warm him, to soothe him. "Your stars do not forget you, Jaren. Nor do the souls of your ancestors. We've heard your prayers, and we weep for the pain we see in the world. We weep that we cannot fight for Requiem anymore, for our wars have ended, and the torch has passed. To you, Jaren. To your children. They are alive, my son. They still quest for hope, though the road is full of many dangers, and much darkness must pass before the light shines upon them. Do not abandon your hope, for hope shines even in the greatest darkness. So long as you can draw another breath, take another step, live for another heartbeat—there is hope." She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "Sometimes you cannot see the stars, but they always shine. Even when blinded, even in total darkness, there is always light."

That light now grew brighter, streaming all across Jaren, blinding him, healing him, and when he could see again, he was back in the dirt of Tofet.

Had he fainted, merely dreamed? Or had he seen a true vision of the celestial Requiem beyond the stars? He didn't know. A voice seemed to echo within him, perhaps his own, perhaps the voice of Queen Gloriae, fading like the last note in a harp's song.

There is always hope. There is always light.

"You're alive, Elory," Jaren whispered. "I know that you're alive. Stay strong, my sweet daughter. I love you. I will see you again."

Dawn broke. Jaren rose to his feet, and his work continued.

VALE

He woke up at sunset, lying on the sand, Tash nestled against him.

Soon their journey would continue, but Vale just wanted to lie here, to never get up. A blanket of fronds covered them, hiding them from the world; should any seraphim fly above, they'd see nothing but some scattered branches on the beach. The waves whispered, and between the palm branches, Vale could see the sky fade to deep blue and gold. He lay on his back, and Tash still slept, her cheek against his chest. Her leg was tossed across his, and his arms were wrapped around her, his hand resting on the small of her back. She slept naked, her skin soft and warm against him.

He looked at her in the dying light. When awake, Tash was always speaking, singing, mumbling to herself, and prancing around. Yet sleeping, she seemed so peaceful, so young, almost fragile. She knew so much more about the world, but Vale realized how young she was—barely more than a youth.

As am I, Vale thought. Yet I feel so much older.

On their journey, Tash had spoken of healing him, of bringing joy back into his life. But right now, lying here, Vale felt that it was his task to protect her, to heal her, to fight the world for her.

I love you, Tash, he thought and kissed the top of her head. I've never loved another, and you light my life. You light my life of darkness. For you, I will fight armies, I will burn the world to protect you.

She mumbled in her sleep, lips scrunching together, and opened her eyes. She smiled at him.

"Where's my morning tea?" she asked.

He ran his fingers up and down her back. "We have a few sips of water left. How's that?"

She pouted. "I demand that you fetch me tea and cupcakes, my handsome servant."

He gave her backside a playful pat. "Once you fetch me my slippers, my lovely maid."

She gasped. "You did not just do that! Not you!" She grinned and bit her lip. "I am teaching you to have fun, aren't I? I knew I could do it! Soon you'll be whistling and dancing."

"Not likely," he said.

"I'm going to make you dance. Make you!" She crawled atop him and chomped down on his nose. "A special kind of dance, at least."

As the sun set, she tossed back her head, straddling him, moving atop him. He held her slender waist, then ran his hands across her body, marveling at every curve of her, at the softness of her skin, and she grasped his chest so tightly it almost hurt. When he could not bear it any longer, he rolled her over, and she lay beneath him, wrapping her limbs around him, and he clutched her hands and squeezed them, and she cried out his name.

They lay together, breathing deeply.

"You are a good dancer," Tash said.

"I'm still not singing."

She nibbled his bottom lip. "Next time I'll make you burst into song. That's my new goal." She grew serious, then wrapped her arms around him and held him close, nuzzling his neck. "You're the best I've ever had, Vale. All the other men . . . that was work. Same as your work in the fields. You're the first man I ever made true love to." She rose to her feet. "So let's go find this Chest of Plenty, because I want to do this many, many more times."

He nodded and reached for her breasts. "How about Plenty of Chest?"

She groaned and slapped his hand away. "Now you're making jokes! Lovely." She looked down at her chest. "And sadly, these little pups aren't nearly plentiful enough." She tugged him to his feet. "So let's keep going."

As the sun vanished, they walked along the beach. Only the moon lit their way. The waves rolled across their bare feet, and sea shells gleamed in the moonlight. Tash reached out and held his hand, and Vale wondered what it would be like to be free—truly free, no collar around their necks, no people waiting for them to return with a magical chest. To just . . . go out some nights with Tash and walk. Walk as far as they wanted, for as long as they wanted. To make love whenever they pleased.

And to shift into dragons.

Vale thought back to that day—that most wonderful and horrible of days. For the first time in his life, he had been without a collar, tasked with carrying heavy stones to the top of columns. For the first time, he had used his magic, become a dragon, flown into the sky, battled his enemies. The day ended with his blood, with nails driving through him, with his death upon the wall and resurrection at the hands of Issari, the Priestess in White. That day he had learned that he still had a battle to fight.

Someday I will fly again, he thought. Someday we all will, not in battle, not for glory or blood. We'll fly together in peace, Tash and I under the moonlight.

As they walked, they talked of the Requiem that had been, the Requiem from the stories. He spoke of the first King Aeternum, his ancestor, who had founded a kingdom for those outcast, those hunted, those who could become dragons, and of that ancient king's war against an army of demons. Tash then spoke, telling him that she was descended from the great Kyrie Eleison, a prince of Requiem who had survived the griffins, who had fought with Queen Gloriae herself to rebuild Requiem from ancient ruin. They spoke too of the legendary King Elethor and Queen Lyana who had defeated the phoenixes, the wyverns, and the nephilim, and they told tales of Requiem's tragic civil war, and how Rune and Tilla, star-crossed lovers, had fought against each other in one of Requiem's darkest hours.

"Do you think that in hundreds of years, people will tell tales of us?" Tash asked.

Vale nodded. "They'll probably tell the story about how you ate centipede shit."

She gasped. "No!" She shoved him. "Never tell anyone that story. That tale will be buried in time. Damn goldshitters!"

Vale was about to say more when a shrill cry rose in the distance.

He froze.

Tash shivered. "Ghosts," she whispered.

"There's no such thing as ghosts," Vale said.

She rolled her eyes. "Giant centipedes with human faces who poop out golden coins are real, but you think ghosts aren't."

They continued walking along the dark beach. The banshee cry did not return. The only sounds were the waves and the wind. Perhaps that's all that they had heard; the wind, no more. No clouds glided above, and the moon hung low, full and bloated and white as bone. Its light spread across the sea like a spine, rising and falling, and it seemed to Vale no longer a soft, beautiful light but sickly.

They walked onward until they saw a pale glow ahead on the beach, strands of greenish light wreathed around shadows. As they walked closer, they saw fluttering movements, dark spikes like blades, a living organism of light and darkness beached on the sand. A cry rose again, shrill and inhuman, a sound like an echo in deep chambers, soon fading.

Tash squeezed Vale's hand, staring ahead. Her face was pale in the moonlight, her lips tight.

They walked closer until details emerged, and they stood before it: a shipwreck on the beach, large as a palace. When working in Shayeen, Vale had seen many ships sail along the Te'ephim River, but he had never seen a ship so large. When still seaworthy, it must have held a thousand men. The hull now tilted, many of its planks shattered, the stern missing. The bow jutted upward, and the ship's figurehead reared toward the moon, forged of iron, shaped as a nude woman with the head of a goat. Black masts still rose, tilted, coated in mold, dripping strands of rotted rope and scraps of sails. The tattered canvas billowed in the wind, rising and falling like pale ghosts in the night. The wind moaned through the ship's hull, rattling the shattered planks, emerging from portholes and rusty cannons in a frosty haze like breath. The wreck seemed alive, moving, moaning, breathing, creaking. The moonlight limned its form, but a different light—greenish and gray—seemed to lurk within its ancient hull, seeping between the planks and bristly deck.

"We found it," Tash whispered, staring up at the wreck with wide eyes. "The ship of ghosts."

Vale grunted. "No ghosts, Tash. Just wind moaning through the hull and billowing the sails."

"There are ghosts." Tash shuddered. "Ghosts who guard the Chest of Plenty. It's in there, Vale!" Her eyes shone. "It has to be! Just like the tales. The greatest treasure in the world, a chest that can duplicate any treasure you place inside it, turning but a single coin into a hoard. And the dead guard it."

"I fear the living, not the dead. I fear the searing sunlight, not the darkness." His voice darkened. "I died in Shayeen. I died upon the ziggurat. There is nothing to fear from the souls of the departed, no more than there's reason to fear the shadows."

"But I'm afraid." Tash gulped. "We can fight the living with blades, with tooth and nail. But how can we kill those who are already dead? Many have tried to claim the Chest of Plenty, and none have succeeded." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "But we will. We have to. Meliora might fix her key, but we'll need half a million keys—one for every Vir Requis—if we're to ever rise together. And so I will enter this ship, and I will fight whoever guards that old treasure, and I will bring it back."

"Hopefully we won't have to fight anything more than wind and maybe a few crabs." Vale hefted the axe he had found in the centipedes' lair. "Whatever's inside, I'm ready for it."

Tash did not draw her dagger. "I doubt steel can cut whatever's inside. It didn't help those warriors from the tales who came to this place." She winced. "I'd wait until sunrise, but the sun brings seraphim. So we enter in darkness, seeking light."

They stepped closer across the sand. Until now the night had been sweltering hot, but now the air was icy. Vale couldn't suppress a shudder; he had never felt cold before, only heard of "cold" from the northern stories, yet now an iciness ran up his feet, trailed along his bones, and filled his belly. The sand felt like ice. Tash too was shivering.

As they moved closer, Vale looked at iron cannons that thrust out from the broken hull. He had never seen cannons before—the armies of Saraph did not use them—but he'd heard of these weapons from ancient Requiem tales, great guns that could blast out metal and fire.

"This ship belonged to men," he whispered. "Perhaps to Vir Requis. It predates Saraph's conquest of the world."

Tash nodded. "And now it belongs to the dead."

They crossed the last few feet of sand, and they reached the back of the ship. The stern was gone, perhaps lost in the shipwreck centuries ago. In its place gaped open a cavern, cloaked in shadows, leading into the hull. The moonlight did not reach this place; Vale saw nothing but darkness inside. Creaking, a whisper, and moaning wind rose from within. The air grew even colder, and their breath frosted.

Vale lifted the tinderbox and dragon-head lantern he had found in the centipedes' lair. He sparked flint against firesteel, then lit the lantern's wick. Orange light flickered through the iron dragon's eyes and mouth.

He glanced at Tash. She looked back, the light reflecting in her brown eyes, and she raised her chin. Holding the lantern before them, they entered the ship.

A nave of rotten wood awaited them. Vale had thought the ship looked large from outside; from in here, it seemed twice the size, large enough for dragons to fly through. All around rose curved planks like the ribs of a wooden whale. Portholes rose high above, peering out to the night sky; the moonlight filtered in, beams like pale fingers. Moss and algae hung from a bannister high above, and the skulls of men lay strewn across the sandy floor.

Tash started and drew her dagger with a hiss. She pointed. Vale looked and saw shadows scurrying, and he hefted his axe and raised his lantern. But the orange light only revealed a crab scuttling away. He lowered the lantern, heart racing.

"See any chests?" Vale said. He only spoke softly, but his voice seemed loud as a shout in here, echoing between the beams.

Tash winced and put a finger against his lips. Her eyes darted.

A shriek sounded across the ship.

The cry rose louder and louder, impossibly high pitched, until it shattered and broke apart into a thousand little cries that faded. In the silence that followed, Vale's ears rang.

"Still think it's the wind?" Tash whispered.

This time Vale wasn't too sure. "Let's find the chest and get out of here."

They kept walking, moving deeper into the ship. Ahead rose an anchor, taller than a man, the iron covered in barnacles and moss. Water pooled by a smashed balustrade, and white eyes shone there, then vanished with a pattering. A face in the shadows, stern and pale, made Vale start and raise his axe, but it was only an old painting still hanging from a wall, half the canvas rotted away.

Tash knelt, brushed sand away, and lifted a dark object. Vale brought his lantern closer, revealing a skull, snails nesting in its eye sockets. Tash grimaced and tossed it away. It knocked into femurs and scattered them.

They froze as the bones clattered, waiting for another shriek.

Instead they heard a deep voice.

"Go . . . go . . ."

Vale spun around. The voice had spoken right behind him. He raised his lantern and the flame swayed, casting dancing shadows like demons. Nothing. Nobody there.

"Did you hear that too?" he asked Tash.

She nodded. "It sounded so mean. I thought . . ." She peered into the shadows. "But nothing. Whoever spoke is gone."

Or still here around us, Vale thought.

"It wants us to go," Vale said, smiling grimly. "I think not. I think we'll stay for a while."

Tash nodded, sweat on her brow. "Just a short while."

They kept walking until they reached a dilapidated wall. A doorway led into a dark chamber, smaller than the grand hall they had entered. An old table stood here, covered with scrolls, the parchment so rotted it crumbled when Vale touched it. Sand rose around the table's legs. A skeleton still sat in a giltwood chair, its clothes rotted down to the buttons and buckles, and a beard still clung to its skull. No wing bones; this one hadn't been a seraph.

"Old Captain Bony here has seen better days," Vale said. "Wonder what tales he'd have to tell."

Tash looked at the skeleton and grimaced. "He'd tell us where to find the chest, I wager. I—" She started. "Vale, did you do that?"

He tilted his head. "Do what?"

"Grab my arm."

He shook his head. "I'm only holding your hand."

"Something grabbed me." She spun around, dagger lashing. "Somebody is here with us."

Vale looked around the captain's chamber. Nothing but the table, the scrolls, the skeleton in the seat. He lifted his lantern, banishing the shadows from the corners, the ceiling, the floor. Nothing.

"Nobody is here," he whispered.

Tash cringed. "He's here. I can feel him. I can feel his breath against my neck. I can feel his presence here. He's behind me." Her voice was a trembling whisper. "He hates us, Vale. He hates us so much."

"Who, Tash?"

"The captain. All of them! They're all here." She closed her eyes, taking a shuddering breath. "So much hate."

Vale groaned and squeezed her hand. "Tash, listen to me. Don't be frightened. They can't hurt us anymore. If they're here, they're nothing but echoes, just whispers, just spirits still clinging to old bones. But the danger in Tofet is alive and real, and it's what we must fight."

She nodded. "Let's keep exploring."

They kept searching the chamber, and when Vale kicked aside sand, he found a wooden trapdoor. The wood was so old and damp the iron lock tore out when Vale tugged it, and the trapdoor swung open. A staircase plunged down into shadows.

Tash grimaced. "I don't suppose you think the Chest of Plenty might be up on the deck, resting in the moonlight."

"I've never heard of treasures kept up on deck, Tash."

She gulped and nodded. "You go first."

Holding his axe and lantern, Vale took a step down, testing the staircase with his weight. The wood creaked but held, and he took another step. Tash followed, and they descended down a narrow staircase. Sand covered the stairs, mold spread along the walls, and the waves whispered outside, flowing across the outer hull. In the murmur, Vale thought he heard other sounds: the clanging of swords, the dull thunder of cannons firing, wind hitting sails, and many voices rising together, then screaming, endless screams, the sound so muffled he wasn't sure he wasn't imagining it.

"They're still drowning," Tash whispered. "Again and again, they're crashing. Do you hear them, Vale? So many lives lost."

He winced. "All right, so maybe there are a few ghosts here. But they can't harm us, Tash. No more than reflections in a mirror can leap out at you. They're just reflections on the beach."

He kept descending the staircase, heading toward a dark doorway, when eyes flashed below.

A creature emerged from the shadows, bloated and gray, like a waterlogged corpse, only half in this world. It unfurled from the cavern below like a mollusk from a shell. Alabaster claws reached up, and a jaw unhooked, lined with teeth, revealing organs that gleamed and pulsed within its gullet. Its eyes shone white, then became black pools, expanding, sucking in the light, and the creature screamed.

Vale did not hesitate.

With a wordless cry, he charged downstairs and swung down his axe.

The blade passed through smoke. The creature vanished, leaving only a cackling echo. The walls creaked, and strands of frost spread across them. The sounds of the ancient battle faded.

"Rephaim live here," Tash whispered, face pale. "These are not usual ghosts, Vale. I've read about them in the old scrolls. Most ghosts are souls who don't realize they died, souls trapped in this world. But not rephaim. Rephaim made it into the afterlife . . . and were banished, too cruel and hateful to rest in peace." She winced and touched her temples. "They're so hateful, Vale."

"And easy to kill, apparently." Vale nodded at his axe. "If you like, you can wait outside."

She shook her head. "No. You need my help down there." She looked down at the dark passageway the creature had emerged from, and she shuddered. "Let's go."

The lantern flickering before them, they stepped into the lower chamber. No moonlight shone through portholes here, and the lantern's light seemed so weak, barely piercing this darkness. Vale could see only several feet ahead, and even then the vision was smudged. Shadows lurched with every step, leaping, swooping, dancing around him. The air was so cold he thought it could extinguish the flame.

"Whole lot of junk down here," he whispered.

As he stepped forward, shining the light from side to side, he revealed piles of objects. Sacks hung from hooks. Jagged swords hung on a wall. Cannonballs piled up in the corner, and the bones of both fish and men lay across the sandy floor. Rusted chains coiled like cobras. Countless chests and crates lay everywhere, coated in grime.

"More like plenty of chests than a Chest of Plenty," he muttered.

Tash groaned. "You've already told that joke." She knelt, lifted a seashell, and nodded. "We're going to have to test them, one by one. I'll put my seashell into the chests. Whichever one duplicates it is our winner. Keep that axe handy!"

She stepped toward a pile of crates. Their wood was so rotted Vale was surprised they didn't fall apart. He raised his axe, prepared to slice through any other apparition that approached. In his other hand, he held his lantern.

Gingerly, Tash tugged open the lid on one crate, then yelped and fell back a step. Vale's heart leaped into a gallop.

"What is it?" He prepared to swing his axe.

Tash pointed. Vale brought his lantern down to reveal a collection of crabs fleeing out of the chest.

"Maybe this is it," Tash said. "Maybe it duplicated one crab into many." She placed her seashell into the emptied crate, closed the lid, then opened it again. Another crab escaped.

Vale blew out his breath. "Wonderful. You found the amazing seashell-to-crab chest. Useful when you're hungry for crab legs. Not very useful for freeing a slave nation, unless you plan to defeat the seraphim with a plague of crabs."

She sighed, retrieved her seashell, and approached another wooden box. This one was large as a coffin, carved of wood that had once been ornate. A rusty lock held it shut but fell apart at a tug from Tash.

"I'll try this one," she said and tugged open the lid.

Clawed white hands reached out from the box, grabbed her, and yanked her inside.

Tash vanished into the shadows.

For an instant, Vale could only stare in shock.

He gave a strangled yelp, leaped forward, and reached into the chest. His hands sank into nothing. Heart hammering, he shone his light into the crate. It was empty.

"Tash!" he cried. His pulse pounded in his ears. "Tash!"

Laughter answered him, coming from all around, spinning in circles. Countless voices were laughing—some deep and guttural, others shrill. They surrounded him, dancing an invisible dance. Vale spun around, raising his lantern, trying to see them, but he saw only shadows.

"Where is she?" Vale shouted. "Bring her back or I'll burn this ship down!"

The laughter rose louder, and he could see them, just glimpses—shadows, streaks of light, faces appearing and vanishing. A host of the undead, mocking him. Vale swung his lantern around him.

"Return her to me!" he demanded. "Or this ship will burn."

"Then she will burn too!" rose a shriek.

Another voice cackled. "She will join us! She will spend eternity in our drowned hull. Burn her, living one. Burn her!"

The voices chanted together. "Burn her, burn her!"

"Show yourselves!" Vale demanded. "Or are you cowards who hide in shadows? Face me."

In a ring around him, they appeared.

Vale inhaled sharply between his teeth.

The creatures creaked forward, raining dust. Skeletons, draped in scraps of ragged leather and rusted iron, their jaws unhinged in lurid grins. Crabs bustled in their ribcages, and barnacles clung to their bones. Wisps of pale light wrapped around them, holding the bones aloft, forming the vague shape of flesh—diseased skin, leering eyes, bloated faces. Their bodies had rotted centuries ago. Banished from the afterlife, the souls had returned to find nothing but old bones to nest in.

"Where did you take her?" Vale said.

Their jaws opened and closed, and the rephaim cackled. They raised old blades and muskets, and upon their rusted shields and breastplates, Vale saw faded paint forming red spirals.

He inhaled sharply.

They're Vir Requis! he realized. Minions of the Cadigus regime!

He knew the tales of Cadigus. All Vir Requis did, even enslaved in Tofet. Not many liked telling those tales, but still the whispers had passed from parent to child. Stories of evil Vir Requis, murderous, foul, Vir Requis who had stained their kingdom, who had dethroned the Aeternum family and created a reign of terror before losing their power in Requiem's great civil war. And here they stood before him! The rotted bodies of those traitors, risen again.

"She dances now in our halls!" the rephaim said, speaking together in dozens of voices. "You see but a shell of our kingdom, living one. But our realm is vast. And she dances for us. She dances!"

Their light flared, blinding, green and white and blue, and Vale saw it. Just a glimpse. A vision that shook the ship, that made him fall to his knees. In the light, he saw the ship restored, once more sailing upon dark seas. Hundreds of men filled it, clad in black armor, the red spirals upon their chests. Hundreds of other ships sailed around them, and dark castles rose on tors. Beneath stormy clouds flew thousands of dragons, roaring out their fire. The empire of Cadigus, traitors to Requiem, lingering forever in this mirror world.

And Tash—Tash among them.

"Tash!" he cried, reaching out to her.

He saw her upon a deck, again wearing many jewels, dancing like a wick in a flame, spinning, leaping, swaying, clad in black silk, tears on her cheeks, the haze of booze and spice in her eyes.

"Tash!" he cried, leaped toward her, tried to grab her . . . but she faded away, and the light dimmed, and Vale was back in the belly of the ship.

Once more the rephaim surrounded him. Their luminous, ethereal faces twisted atop their skulls, some snarling, others grinning. They stepped closer, raising their chipped blades.

"She dances for us. But we have no use for you, living one. Your soul we banish, and your bones we'll watch fade to dust."

A rusted sword swung his way.

Vale parried with his axe.

The blades slammed together, raining rust.

"Hear me, sons of Requiem!" Vale shouted. "Stop this. I know who you are. I—"

With a hiss, another undead warrior lashed a sword his way. Vale leaped back, swinging his axe. Another sword swung and slammed into Vale's armor, chipping the steel rings, knocking the breath out of him. A bearded warrior, an octopus nesting in its rib cage, swung down a hammer, and the heavy iron hit Vale's shoulder. He roared in pain.

"She will dance and he will rot!" they cried. "We will watch the crabs feast."

"Vir Requis, stop this!" Vale said. "I know your name. You are warriors of Requiem, soldiers of Cadigus. I am one of your number!"

They laughed, moving closer, lashing their weapons. "We care not. We fought Vir Requis, we slew Vir Requis! We fight only for ourselves. You are no brother of ours. The living are our enemy."

One of the rephaim swung a chain. The iron links slammed into Vale, most hitting his armor, but one link rose to hit his cheek. He cried out and fell. When a sword lashed down, he raised his axe, barely parrying. His lantern fell and extinguished; only the light of the rephaim now lit the ship.

"But you still fought for Requiem!" Vale shouted. "I know your story. I've heard of your pride, your vengeance. You fought to make Requiem an empire, even if you needed to slay the old king, to betray the old dynasty, to kill all those who opposed you."

Rage flared in their eyes, blasting out with white light. Their faces twisted and their shrieks rose, creaking the ship, cracking slats of wood on the walls.

"The old Aeternum kings were cowards!" they cried. "Weak, sniveling, pathetic—worms who let Requiem fall to ruin. Betray them? They betrayed all of Requiem with their wretchedness. The Aeternum dynasty had us kneeling in the dirt before griffins, phoenixes, demons, wyverns. We soldiers of Cadigus made Requiem strong!"

Vale shoved himself to his feet, axe swinging, knocking them back. "Yet Requiem has fallen! You could not save her. The children of Requiem now kneel in the dirt, enslaved to the seraphim. We wear the iron collars of slavery." Vale tugged at his iron collar. "Millions of Vir Requis are dead. Half a million of our kind, chained and beaten, now serve the enemy while Requiem lies in ruin."

Their cries rose to a deafening pitch. Crates shattered. The walls cracked. Slats of rotten wood rained from the ceiling.

"The living one lies! We built an empire to last an eternity. We hail Cadigus! Requiem will never fall."

"Requiem fell!" Vale shouted. "I came here to save her, to find a treasure to give her hope, to raise Requiem against the cruel seraphim who enslave her children. While you sing and dance in your ship, your descendants languish in chains. Help us, warriors of Requiem. Grant me the Chest of Plenty, so that we may create many weapons to fight the enemy." He raised his fist. "For Requiem!"

"You lie, you lie!" they cried. "Requiem will never fall."

Vale shook his head sadly. For over a thousand years, these poor rebels had hidden here, rotting away, unaware of all that had passed, forever guarding their vainglory.

Perhaps they are slaves just as much as we are.

"I speak truth," Vale said. "If you still have a doorway to the afterlife from which you were banished, if only a keyhole, gaze through it and hear the whispers of the fallen. A hundred thousand slaves were slain only days ago. Seek them. Speak to them. Hear the cry of dragons."

The rephaim stared at him, then vanished.

Darkness, complete and enveloping, filled the belly of the shipwreck.

Silence fell. Vale could hear nothing but his breath and the barely audible whisper of waves outside.

Were they gone? Had they fled in consternation at his words?

Tash . . .

His eyes stung.

"Tash!" he cried. "Rephaim, return her! Sons of Requiem, return now and—"

With blazing, white, blinding light, the rephaim reappeared.

Their spirits now shone so brightly they nearly drowned out the bones within. Their eyes blazed like smelters, white and searing gold, casting out steam. The fallen rebels of Requiem raised their heads and cried out in anguish, shrieks that snapped planks of wood, cracked the rotting crates, shattered bottles and jars within. The shipwreck rattled madly, and Vale fell onto his back, and it seemed that the entire beach shook. Holes opened above, water gushed into the chamber, and green light flared upward, crashing through the shipwreck like the horns of an underground predator rising through prey's flesh. Above he could see the sky alight.

"Requiem fell!" the rephaim cried, voices torn in agony. "Requiem fell!"

Vale nodded, head lowered. "I'm sorry, friends."

"Friends?" they shrieked. "We are no friends of pathetic slaves, collared, weak. We served General Cadigus! We are strong, proud, noble warriors who fought our enemies, not submitted to collars and chains." Their light blasted out, shattering more planks of wood, and their faces twisted into grotesque masks, the jaws opening impossibly wide, the eyes burning.

Vale pushed himself to his feet as the shipwreck shook. "I do not submit!" He tugged at his collar. "I fight. Even collared, I fight. Tash fights with me. We slew seraphim. We came here to find a weapon—to find the Chest of Plenty, to duplicate a key that would open half a million collars, that would let Requiem fly again. But you stole Tash! You hide the Chest of Plenty! If the last light of Requiem fades, her death will be upon you, sons of Cadigus."

"He lies, he lies!" they said. "We fought for Requiem. You let her fall. The blood of Requiem was pure! Lesser heirs weakened her, let Requiem fall to rot, to disease, to slavery."

"My blood is not weak!" Vale shouted into the storm. Winds raged around him. Waves pummeled him. The light seared him. "I slew seraphim. I died for Requiem, as you have died. I rose to the starlit halls. But I returned to life! The priestess Issari, our mother, gave me life again so that I may fight. I left the afterlife as you did. But I do not cower in a shipwreck, dreaming of old glory. I fight! Will you fight with us, sons of Requiem?"

They screamed. They stormed around him, and again Vale was there—in a sea full of ships, dancers on the decks, thousands of soldiers singing, chanting, banging drums, waving swords, and Tash dancing around them, her silks fluttering, jewels shining upon her, her eyes glazed with spice—the endless dance of afterlife on the dark seas. The dragons coiled above.

"We will fight!" they cried. "We fight always for Requiem. Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

The sea rose and fell, roared skyward, collapsed, and the ships sank, and cannons blasted, and everywhere shone that light, fading to darkness . . . shadows . . . silence . . . and the whisper of waves.

Vale lay on the sand.

He coughed, took a deep breath, raised his head, and looked around him.

The shipwreck had collapsed. Slats of wood, shattered balustrades, chipped masts, rotting sails, rusting cannons, chains, an anchor—all lay strewn across the beach. The eerie light had faded and the moon shone above.

A moan sounded at his side. "Vale?"

He flipped over, heart bursting into a gallop, and saw her there.

"Tash!"

She lay on her side on the sand, coughing. The jewels she had worn in the fever dream were gone. Once more, she wore her baggy harem pants, and only a single jewel shone in her navel. Sand and seaweed caked her hair.

For a moment, Vale couldn't even move. So much love for her filled him that it hurt.

I almost lost her. She is as precious to me as the halls of Requiem and all her heroes of the afterlife.

Vale pulled Tash into his arms, and he nearly crushed her against his chest, kissing her hair, her forehead, her lips.

"I . . . I was dreaming," she whispered, blinking in confusion. "I was dancing in a great fleet of Requiem ships. I saw dragons, Vale! Real dragons! Dragons of the past . . ."

Holding her against him, Vale looked over her shoulder. In the sand, hundreds of crates had shattered. A single chest stood among the wreckage, still whole. A faint light clung to it, then rose in wisps.

"Dragons will fly again." He kissed Tash's forehead. "Again we will soar."

ELORY

She sat in the dark valley, her shame burning like her wounded ear.

No, not a wounded ear, Elory thought. I no longer have an ear at all. A missing ear. She lowered her head. A deformity.

She glanced across the campsite. Meliora sat farther back in the valley, her hood dousing her fiery halo. But even in the pale moonlight, Elory could see her sister's beauty—the high cheekbones, pale skin, large glowing eyes, and short hair like softest golden fleece. Meliora's limbs were long, well-formed, the body of a goddess carved of marble.

At Meliora's side sat Lucem, conversing with her softly. While Lucem had none of Meliora's ethereal beauty, he was handsome in his own way. Rugged. Unshaven. Slender but strong. His eyes were bright, and he moved his hands animatedly as he talked, telling stories and jokes, making Meliora laugh.

Elory looked back at her lap. If before she had felt plain by Meliora—what with her scrawny limbs, short stature, and darker skin—now she felt downright monstrous. Meliora's wounded cheek was even healing nicely, only hours after the battle, her seraph ichor shrinking the cuts. Meanwhile, the left side of Elory's head was a nightmare. When she touched it, she winced. Only the shell of her ear remained around the canal. Most of the auricle was gone. With Elory's short hair—it had barely grown since leaving Tofet—the wound was exposed to all.

I'm ugly now, she thought. A deformed creature. I'll never be beautiful like Meliora, like Tash . . . never be someone whom a man could love.

She looked back at Lucem, cursing the feelings inside her. Why must those feelings surface? She had felt something for Tash, a low flame, perhaps a mere spark, something that could never grow, for Tash's kisses had been a thing of duty, not love. And now . . . now, even here in dark danger, Elory felt new love kindle within her, this love burning bright. Yet why would Lucem look at her when he could gaze at Meliora?

She noticed that Lucem had stopped talking, that he was looking at her. Elory's cheeks burned and her fingers tingled. Hurriedly she looked away, shame and embarrassment now battling within her.

"Elory!" he said. "Elory, come sit near us. There are some lovely, comfortable limestone recliners here." He patted the boulder he sat on. "Mmm . . . limestone! It's what Queen Kalafi used to sleep on."

Elory merely looked at her lap where she clasped her fingers.

Through the ringing in her ears, Elory heard Meliora whisper something sharply, but she couldn't make out the words. Pebbles cascaded as Lucem rose, walked across the emptiness separating them, and sat down beside Elory.

"Hmmm, not bad!" he said, patting the rocky ground. "My backside detects some granite pebbles—nice and sharp!—some dust, just a tad of chalk . . . very comfortable." He leaned toward her. "Nada? Not even a little smile?"

She couldn't help it. She gave him that little smile, but it soon faded. She couldn't even bear to look at him, and she turned her head away so he couldn't see her wounded ear.

"Does it hurt terribly?" Lucem asked, and his voice softened.

Elory shook her head. "It hurts, but not as much as I thought it would. It's just that . . ." She twisted her fingers. "I feel ugly."

His eyes widened. "You feel ugly? I once had a vulture attack my face; it thought I was a dead carcass. When I was a kid and looked out my hut window, seraphim kept trying to arrest me for mooning. I once turned milk to yogurt just by looking at it." He touched her chin. "You're beautiful, little one."

He's just saying that, Elory thought. He just wants me to feel better is all.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He gasped. "You don't believe me! I can tell. But it's true. And no missing little ear can change that. It can't take away your large, brown eyes, your smiling lips, the kindness I see in your face." Gently, he pulled her face toward his. "You're absolutely the most adorable little thing I've seen."

Elory looked over his shoulder, and she saw that Meliora had stepped away, was now a mere shadow, too far away to hear them. She looked back at Lucem, and she saw the honesty in his eyes. His hand reached out to caress her fingers, and her heart quivered.

He likes me? Lucem—likes me?

"You're not ugly either." She smiled. "I wouldn't say you're the most adorable thing I've ever seen—those baby pigs we saw yesterday beat you—but you're up there."

She leaned against him, and he wrapped an arm around her and kissed her cheek. For the first time in many days—perhaps in her life—Elory felt safe.

LEYLEET

She screamed in the caves, coated in blood and flesh. She tossed back her head, opened her arms wide, laughed, licked the blood.

"We slew the gods!" She rose in the cave, wreathed in black fire, her laughter shattering against the walls. "We slew the champions of the Eight. We are gods! We are gods! We are gods!"

She stared down at the corpse—the Living Creatures, now the Dead Creatures. She laughed. A hysterical laugh. A laugh that tore at her wounds, ripped her thigh open, spurted out her blood, yet still she laughed, spinning around, her voice so shrill it shattered the organs in the corpses.

"The Dead Creatures, the Dead Creatures!" she cried, and around her they chanted, her warriors, her comrades, the eleven survivors. The dark seraphim danced around the corpses, the macabre dance of death, slick with blood. "The Dead Creatures!"

Leyleet stared at them. Four bodies linked at the wings. Four heads on each—goat, lion, eagle, man. Their bronze hides torn apart, exposing the organs within. Around them lay the corpses of four dark seraphim, their limbs torn off, their flesh burnt and melting across the skulls. The survivors too bore horrible wounds. One dark seraph flew around the cave, laughing and dancing, his legs ending with exposed bones. Another dark seraph's entrails hung loose, yet still he danced and sang for glory. A third had been burnt as badly as the corpses, but he cackled and spat upon the dead.

Leyleet herself was wounded. The weredragons had thrust their blades deep into her thigh, into her belly. Already the wounds festered, stinking, the ichor sweet. She thrust her fingers into the wound on her thigh, dug around in the hot moistness, pulled her fingers free and licked the juices. Just to whet the appetite.

"Feed," she said. "Feed, friends. Feed upon the dead gods and fill your souls with their strength!"

They dived through the cave. They landed on the corpses of the Living Creatures. And the dark seraphim fed. They tugged open the cracks on the bronze bodies, pulled out organ after organ, and ripped into the flesh. They tore off the wings and chewed. They yanked free the jaws and ripped at the meat. They cracked bones, sucked out the marrow, played the bones like flutes. They paraded, gobbets of meat in their hands. And they fed upon their own dead—hunched over the fallen seraphim, ripping them open, picking at strips of meat and savoring the sweet, glistening treasures within. They licked the blood off the floor and walls, and they licked the blood off themselves, and they rutted in the puddles, slick, red, screaming with their appetites.

As Leyleet feasted, she tried to imagine feasting upon Meliora. Ishtafel needed her womb, that was all.

Your limbs will be mine, Leyleet thought and licked her lips. We will share your delicious legs. One for me, one for you. Your arms will follow, then your face. I will deliver to Ishtafel your womb as promised, wrapped in what remains of your body . . . and he will think of me as he spills his seed into it.

"Meliora fled these caves!" Leyleet cried. "Meliora fled as a coward, but we defeated her champion, and we absorbed its strength. The flesh of the Living Creatures fills our belly, and soon—"

Leyleet screamed.

Around her, the dark seraphim howled.

They doubled over. Pain. Pain! Agony coursed through Leyleet. She clutched her belly, shivering, gagging. Rotten meat! Foul meat! The Living Creatures coiled inside her, clawing at her organs. She screamed. Blood filled her mouth.

"Poison, poison!" the dark seraphim cried.

Leyleet screeched, tore at her throat, clawed at her belly, desperate to tug out the meal. Poison, poison! Bad meat!

She fell to her side, convulsing. Around her, the others writhed. Boils sprouted on their necks, bloating, growing to obscene size. As Leyleet thrashed, she touched her own neck, felt the boils rise there too, swelling to the size of her fists, then growing still.

Across the hall, the boils twisted, ballooned, opened mouths and screamed, opened eyes and wept. When Leyleet reached to the growths on her neck, she felt their tears, their teeth biting her.

She laughed.

"We absorbed them!" She spoke with four mouths. "We absorbed their strength."

She rose to her feet, and the others rose around her. Every dark seraph now sprouted four heads, each head topped with flowing white hair, each staring with blazing serpentine eyes.

"We are the dark seraphim!" Leyleet's mouths cried out. "We are the Rancid Angels! We are the living darkness!"

They all spun around her, shouting wordlessly.

They beat their bat wings, the twelve that remained, and flew through the winding caves. They burst out into the night. The dark hills spread around them, and they soared toward the bloated moon.

"We are stronger than we've ever been!" Leyleet called to them. "We are mighty. We have the strength of gods now. Hunt! Sniff them out! Find Meliora and our mouths will feed upon her. Fly!"

Beating their dark wings, the multiple mouths shrieking, they flew into the darkness, hunting ichor and blood.

MELIORA

Sunset spilled across the land when they saw Khalish Mountain ahead.

"Home of the Keymaker," Meliora whispered.

The mountain soared, charcoal and black. A few scattered trees grew around its base, fading higher up the slopes. Many fires burned on the mountain, and at first Meliora thought them campfires, maybe torches, maybe chariots of fire, but she saw no movement of men. High on the mountaintop she could see it—the ruins of an ancient fortress.

She turned toward her companions. Elory and Lucem were staring up at the mountain.

"It's as if the stars fell and now burn upon it," Elory said.

Lucem sighed. "If only the Keymaker could unlock our collars down here so we could fly up." He cracked his neck. "It's a long climb."

They started that climb as the sun dipped below the horizon. The way was steep, and many rocks threatened to trip them, and many boulders blocked their way. The moon had thinned and barely gave off light, but the light of many fires lit their way. The flames emerged from holes in the mountainside, though Meliora could see no fuel.

"I smell something like tar." Elory sniffed. "A little like the bitumen I used to haul in Tofet. The mountain is leaking it. That's what's causing the fires."

"We just need some sausages to roast," Lucem said. "A nice bottle of wine and a mandolin. Maybe some taters to bake."

"What's taters?" Elory asked him.

"Oh, you're a precious little thing," Lucem said. "Potatoes. I forgot that they don't exist in Tofet. I used to sneak into seraph farms to steal them." He smacked his lips. "One of these days, I'm going to cook you one, Elory."

"Taters must be a delicacy worthy of kings!" Elory said, eyes wide.

As Meliora climbed beside them, guilt filled her. While Elory had been surviving on gruel, and while Lucem had been stealing his taters, she had been dining on delicacies: honeyed duck on beds of wild rice and leek, pears and figs stewed in honey and wine, fresh crustaceans and clams and all other treasures of the sea, and countless other fine comestibles.

"May we all dine together in a rebuilt Requiem this time next year," Meliora said. "A fine tater feast."

They continued climbing between the fires. They were low on water; only a few sips remained in Lucem's waterskin. They had eaten nearly all the fruit and fish they had collected on the journey here. Meliora's belly ached with hunger and her throat was parched, but she knew her pain paled in comparison to those still suffering in Tofet.

They climbed all night, and their limbs were shaking, their bodies drenched with sweat, when they finally reached the mountaintop. Dawn rose, casting its pale light upon ancient ruins that soared before the companions.

Meliora had expected to find a castle built atop the mountain, but it seemed like the mountaintop had been carved down to form a fortress. The stony peak had been chiseled away—the work must have taken years—forming the shape of columns, archways, turrets, parapets, and colossal statues shaped as lions, goats, and serpents. Engravings covered the columns and walls, depicting men and beasts many times the size of men.

The castle must have once been spectacular, a marvel of architecture. But time had worn it down. The stone reliefs were faded and chipped; it was hard to tell which beasts they portrayed. The statues were cracked, and some parapets and turrets had fallen and lay strewn across the mountainside. The archways were crumbling, the parapets and columns smoothed by centuries of rain and wind.

"Do we just walk up and knock on the door?" Lucem asked.

"I don't see a door," Elory said.

Meliora pointed. "But I see an entrance."

An archway loomed ahead, leading into shadows. Perhaps wooden doors had once stood within, rotted away years ago. Two statues flanked the entrance, shaped as lions with long, twisting necks that ended with women's heads. The statues were so large they would have dwarfed dragons. Meliora led the way toward the archway, and the others followed.

"Lower your weapons," Meliora said. "We don't want to appear threatening."

Lucem looked up and down their bodies. "Scrawny, bruised vagabonds in rags sure are intimidating. The smell is at least." He sniffed and grimaced.

As they walked between the towering statues, it seemed to Meliora that the stone heads turned—just the slightest!—that the statues' eyes moved, following the companions as they entered the shadows.

A massive hall greeted them—larger even than the great banquet halls in the ziggurat of Shayeen. Dust and dirt covered the floor, hiding any fine tiles or mosaics that might lurk below. Columns soared, so wide that they could have formed towers, their limestone facades engraved with cuneiform writing in a language Meliora could not read. Iron braziers, large enough to boil men, rose from the dust, their embers long gone dark. Statues still stared with crystal eyes, shaped as hideous beings formed from different species: women with heads of snakes and wings of birds, men with the heads of horses, serpents with the faces of babes and the wings of bats. The statues too were covered in dust, and cracks ran across them.

"This place was built by the ancient Terrans," Meliora whispered. "Thirteen city states of humans once lived in this continent. Look, see that statue? A woman with a snake's head? She is Shahazar, an ancient goddess of men. See that statue there, the one of a man with his palms open? That's Taal, the Father God."

Lucem cocked an eyebrow. "For a seraph princess, you know a lot about the lore of men."

Meliora smiled thinly. "My brother used to boast of slaying the gods of men. He claimed he was the only true god."

"Lovely fellow, he is," Lucem said. "Can't wait to roast his godly arse with dragonfire. Now come on, enough sightseeing, more exploring. We need to find this Keymaker fellow." He coned his hands around his mouth and cried, "Keymaker!"

The cry echoed through the hall and chambers beyond, growing louder and louder. Dust rained from the walls. The palace creaked. Meliora and Elory cringed.

It seemed to take ages before the echoing died down and the dust settled. Meliora realized that she was holding her breath, and she shakily exhaled.

"Lucem, hush!" Elory said. "We don't know who else might be living here."

He looked around. "I see nobody but statues. I—"

The palace creaked again.

Dust showered.

Stones moved.

Meliora spun around toward the sound in time to see a great stone door slide down from above the archway, slam onto the floor, and seal them in the grand hall.

Darkness fell.

"Look what you did, Lucem," Elory whispered.

Meliora cringed and pulled back her hood. Her halo crackled to life, casting its light across the hall. In the dancing shadows, the statues seemed to move.

A growl rose.

Meliora wrapped her fingers around her sword's hilt.

"I don't suppose that was your tater-craving stomach, Mel?" Lucem whispered.

She dared not answer, not even breathe. The growl rose again in the darkness, and a shadow stirred. Two bright eyes opened in the hall ahead, gleaming yellow in the blackness.

At her side, she heard Elory and Lucem gasp and reach for their weapons.

Meliora forced herself to release her hilt, to raise her open palms in a gesture of peace, mimicking the statue of Taal which rose at her side.

"We are friends!" she called out to those eyes in the distant shadows. "We come seeking aid. We come seeking the Keymaker. I am Meliora, daughter of Queen Kalafi of the Thirteenth Dynasty. I—"

The growl rose again, louder this time, drowning out her words.

Meliora narrowed her eyes and stepped closer. Her halo cast back the distant shadows. She inhaled sharply. At first she thought the beast ahead just another statue, but its eyes shone, and its chest rose and fell with breath. It had the body of a great lion, thrice the size of any lion Meliora had ever seen in Shayeen's menagerie. Its tawny fur was matted and dank. Its front paws were clawed, but its back feet ended with hooves, and a goat's head sprouted from the lion's back, the teeth bared, the horns curling. When the lion flicked its tail, Meliora saw that a snake's head hissed upon the tail's tip.

"A chimera," she whispered.

Lucem leaned close to her. "It's mixed of different things! Sort of like you, Mel."

"Hush!" Meliora glared at the boy, then looked back at the chimera. "Guardian of the mountain! Noble beast! I've come seeking the man known as the Keymaker. Does he live here? Does—"

"I am the Keymaker," said the chimera. All three heads spoke at once—the lion, the goat, and the snake, their voices metallic, otherworldly. "I forged the ancient collars to block the magic of dragons. I forged the Keeper's Key. I emblazoned the runes upon them. I am the keeper of magic, the dealer of secrets, the master of power. I make keys and locks and riddles. I do not guard this mountain, but I guard the magic of men."

Meliora glanced back at the shut doorway, then returned her eyes to the chimera. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the crumpled Keeper's Key, and held it out in her palm. Her halo's light fell upon the crushed ball of metal, its runes hidden.

"The Keeper's Key is broken, Keymaker. I've come to beseech you to fix it."

The chimera's lion head growled, the sound so loud the chamber shook. Upon his back, the goat's head screamed, sharp teeth shining, horns rising. The snake tail lashed, hissing, baring its fangs.

"Broken!" the beast cried. "An ancient work of mastery—crushed as one crushes the skull of an enemy. Shame, woe! Shame upon the seraphim that they should mock our magic!"

Lucem and Elory reached for their weapons, but Meliora shook her head.

"There is a seraph who mocks you, chimera," she said. "One who breaks all things. Ishtafel, son of Kalafi, broke this key. He crushed it in his palm, spitting upon the mastery that went into its magic. He slew Kalafi, your ally. He sees the collars you forged as mere iron, no more impressive than scrap metal."

The chimera reared, clawing the air. "Scrap metal! The iron collars are works of great mastery, of ancient magic, each one a greater triumph than this entire palace. Scrap metal!" The lion roared. The hall shook. Stones rained from the ceiling. "I should tear Saraph apart for spitting upon precious gifts they cannot comprehend."

"Scrap metal is all they are now," Meliora said. "All they are without the Keeper's Key. Ishtafel now sits upon the bloody throne of Saraph, no key in his hand, the iron collars left to rust. But I fight him! I am Meliora, daughter of Kalafi, and I will see Ishtafel cast off his ill-gained throne. And I beg you, Keymaker—grant me a new key. I will treat it as a precious gift, as the masterpiece of a wise deity."

Somehow, Meliora figured that a monster that had created hundreds of thousands of slave collars cared not for tales of uprising and freedom. No. This beast worked for the art; justice or cruelty were meaningless to him.

The chimera stared at her, eyes glimmering, saying nothing. The snake hissed. The goat glared with red eyes. The lion contemplated.

"Well?" Elory said, stepping forward.

Meliora's heart skipped a beat. Elory would surely speak of Requiem! She would tell a noble tale of an oppressed people struggling for freedom, of trapped dragons who had to rise, of collars to discard—simply infuriating the creature further.

But Elory was, apparently, wiser than Meliora had given her credit for.

"Well?" the girl repeated. "Will you let Ishtafel simply treat your collars as useless, magicless trifles?" Elory scoffed. "I hear he's even collaring new slaves with iron collars made by seraph smiths. He forges them on anvils in the heat and sweat of Shayeen, and he calls them equal to these." She tugged at her own iron collar. "Without a key, Ishtafel says, his collars are just as good as yours, chimera."

The chimera roared. The creature bucked, clawed the air, and slammed his paws down. The palace shook.

"To compare works of brilliance to crude iron! That is like comparing the Frescos of Felinar to a scribble drawn in mud. You've come here to mock me?"

Meliora shook her head. "We've come to worship your skill, O Master Keymaker!" She stepped closer and held out the broken key. "Please, Master. Fix this key or forge us a new one, and I vow to you: For eternity, the children of Saraph will admire your masterwork."

The chimera stared at her, a slyness in his eyes. The snake's tongue slipped out with a hiss.

"I do not forge runes for free," said the chimera, speaking from all three heads. "Not for Queen Kalafi. Not for you."

Meliora winced. "Master Keymaker, I have no money. But I promise that if you grant me this key, I will return with payment once I dethrone Ishtafel. I will bring you many jewels, golden coins, gemstones, and—"

"Do not mistake me for a vain son of Saraph!" The chimera clawed the floor. "I care not for your glittering baubles. I care for wisdom, for locks, for keys, for artistry. I am a keymaker, a keeper of knowledge, a master of riddles." Sly smiles spread across the chimera's three heads. "Each of my heads will ask you a riddle, daughter of Saraph. If you answer all three correctly, I will make you a new key. But if you fail . . . your bones will join the dust on the floor."

Meliora looked down at the dust, wondering how much of it was comprised of old bones. She looked back up at the chimera and nodded.

"Ask me your riddles," she said.

* * * * *

In his mountain hall of shadows, the chimera seemed almost to enter a trace. His body relaxed, and two of his heads—the goat and the snake—drooped and closed their eyes. Only the lion head remained alert. With narrowed, gleaming eyes, the lion turned to gaze at those who had entered his chamber. He spoke with a low voice, like a spirit from long ago.

"I inspire the poet

And the warrior's sword.

I send forth rivers of blood.

I raise wonders

And heal broken lands.

I destroy like wildfire and flood.

All crave my wonders.

Men seek me

In fields of enemies slain.

Yet finally claim me

And gain my love

You'll find only yoke and chain."

Meliora frowned. She glanced over at her companions. Lucem too was frowning and tapping his chin, while Elory had closed her eyes and was mumbling to herself, repeating the words.

"What inspires poets?" she whispered. "Landscapes? Sunrises?"

"Beautiful naked women!" Lucem said, eyes brightening.

Elory groaned. "Beautiful naked women don't destroy like wildfire and floods."

"Oh don't they?" Lucem asked.

"Shush!" Meliora clenched and unclenched her fists, thinking over the words. "The answer is . . . something obviously powerful but dangerous too. Something men craved yet which enslaves them."

Lucem nodded sagely. "I told you. Beautiful women. The ol' yoke and chain."

"And I told you—shush!" Meliora glared at him.

And yet she wondered—was Lucem right? Surely men had fought wars over beautiful women, and surely beautiful women could be dangerous. But . . . no. Whatever the answer was, it healed broken lands—lands, not hearts.

"Answer!" said the lion's head. He bared his fangs. "Answer now, for I grow weary of waiting." He licked his lips. "Answer or I will feed upon your flesh, for I have no use for fools who cannot answer my riddles."

The chimera took a step closer to them.

"Wait!" Meliora said, and her halo of dragonfire crackled with fear. "Wait, we need time to think. We—"

"Answer!" demanded the lion, rearing and roaring.

Meliora winced and sweat dripped down her brow. She couldn't die here. She had to answer. She had to fix the key if she were ever to lead her people home. They needed her. Her father. All her people in chains. They needed her—the daughter of King Aeternum—to lead them home, yet would she die here in the darkness, food to an ancient beast? She wiped her brow. Her damn crown of fire was too hot, and—

"The answer is beauti—" Lucem began.

"No!" Meliora shouted, leaping forward and shoving him aside. "The answer is: Crown!"

The chimera remained very silent, the lion head staring with narrowed eyes, the other heads still lowered. The companions stared, holding their breath.

Finally the lion nodded. "Truth." Its eyes closed, and it lowered its head.

Meliora breathed out a shaky breath of relief.

"I still think it was beautiful women," Lucem whispered. Elory gave him an angry elbow to the ribs.

Upon the chimera's back, the goat head rose, and its eyes opened. It stared at them, and its horns curled upward into the shadows. It too spoke.

"When the sun shines

I lurk in the shade.

When the moon glows

I stab like a blade.

Men create me yet cannot slay me.

Kill your enemies

And I'll soil your victory.

Escape a drowning ship

But you can't escape me."

The goat stared at them, waiting, and lowered its horns as if ready to thrust them.

The companions frowned again, thinking, mumbling to themselves.

This one seemed like it should have an easy answer, Meliora thought. It was something that was always there—even in the beautiful sunlight and moonlight. Something . . . man-made. Something you can't escape.

"Chains?" Meliora whispered to her companions. "Certainly chains would soil any victory, would ruin any beautiful day of sunlight or night of moonlight. Certainly they're something one could not escape."

"If not chains, maybe slavery?" Elory said. "Maybe even our iron collars? We can't escape those."

The goat let out a shrill scream, almost human-like, the scream of a tortured prisoner broken beyond any measure of pain. "Answer!" it cried. "Answer my riddle now, or my horns will gore your flesh."

Meliora grimaced and tugged her collar. "So what do we say?" she whispered to Elory. "Chain? Collar? Slavery? It has to be one of those."

"No," Lucem said. For the first time today, he appeared somber, no smile on his face, and his eyes were haunted. "One can break a chain, unlock a collar, but there is something one cannot escape." He lowered his head. "I know. I escaped Tofet but could not escape this."

"What?" Meliora whispered.

Lucem turned toward the chimera. "Guilt," he said.

The goat nodded, closed its eyes, and lowered its head.

Meliora exhaled in relief, not even realizing she had held her breath. Elory stepped closer to Lucem, held his hand, and leaned her head against his shoulder.

The chimera's tail—a slithering snake—rose next. It turned its head toward them, its tongue slid from its mouth, and it hissed out its riddle.

"I give the warrior his courage.

I'm medicine to the ill.

Men seek me through shadows

Upon mountain and under hill.

Struggling souls crave me

Like a hungry man craves bread.

Let me out of your door

And death steps in instead."

Silence fell. The companions pursed their lips, thinking.

"Answer!" hissed the snake.

"You haven't given us any time!" Meliora said.

The chimera approached, and the lion snarled, the goat sneered, the snake hissed. "Answer! We grow weary. Answer or we'll feed upon you."

Meliora stepped back, wracking her mind. "All right!" She glanced at her companions. "It's . . . what is it?"

Already the riddle's words were slipping out of her mind. The chimera advanced and raised its claws. Lucem raised his spear, trying to hold it back.

"Wait!" Meliora said to the chimera. "Give us a moment."

"You've waited long enough!" The beast pounced.

Meliora grimaced and leaped aside. She drew her sword. "You cheat, chimera! You must give us time to think."

Her heart thudded and her fingers tingled. It wasn't fair! The chimera obviously didn't want them to win, didn't want to forge them a new key. Yet without a key, Requiem would languish in slavery, slowly dying. Without a key, there was no hope, there—

She froze.

The chimera leaped at her, and Meliora cried out and fell back, swinging her sword before it.

That's it! Meliora thought.

"Chimera, it's—"

But Elory cried out the word before Meliora could. "Hope!"

The chimera stepped back. Its three heads rose and spoke together: "You have answered our three riddles."

Meliora exhaled in relief, and sweat dripped into her eyes. Lucem fell to his knees and just breathed. Elory stared up at the chimera, eyes damp.

The chimera's heads rose high, and their eyes closed. Rings of light coiled around the creature, blue and white, spinning faster, soon forming a dome around it. The mountain hall shook. Dust and pebbles danced on the floor. Winds blasted out from the light, blowing the companion's cloaks.

The light faded, the winds died, and the chimera stood before them again. One of its paws was held out, and upon it rested a crimson key.

ELORY

They stood outside on the mountain, three collared slaves.

Three people hurt, beaten, brutalized, healing.

Three exiles from a fallen home, still clinging to hope after so many tears, so much blood.

Three Vir Requis.

The sun set around them, painting the ruins, the mountains, and the land beyond gold and bronze. Wind blew, ruffling their cloaks. They stood in a triangle, facing one another, staring, silent.

Meliora held the key in her hand. Waiting. Hesitating. Not sure how to approach a moment of such importance, a moment that would be branded upon the song of Requiem with dragonfire.

"Five thousand years ago," Meliora finally said, "new stars began to shine in the sky, shaped as a great dragon. They chose a few blessed souls. Hunters. Gatherers. Priests and healers. People scattered across a world just rising from darkness. And the stars blessed them, gave them a holy magic . . . the magic of dragons." Meliora's voice dropped to a whisper. "And they were hunted. Cruel warlords and kings raised armies of demons to slay those who could grow wings, breathe fire, and rise as dragons. Yet one man gathered these hunted souls together. In a forest of birch trees, King Aeternum founded the kingdom of Requiem—a kingdom to last for eternity."

Elory and Lucem moved closer together, reached out, and clasped each other's hands. Their eyes shone damply.

Meliora continued speaking. "Today, the Vir Requis believe that Jaren is descended of that ancient king, that I myself bear that old blood of royalty. Yet for five hundred years, we did not fly. We did not sing among the birches. We suffered in chains, our magic stolen from us." She reached up and touched her collar. "The time has come to fly again."

Elory and Lucem looked at each other, then back at her. Meliora looked at them. Lucem, the hero of Requiem, the first to escape Tofet—a young man who taunted her, told jokes, smiled readily, yet hid deep pain and guilt. Elory, her sweet sister whom Meliora had only just met, small and meek yet strong as the greatest heroines of the Requiem that had been.

I love them more than all the palaces in the world, more than my life. I love them like Requiem.

"Step forth, Lucem," Meliora whispered. "You were first to scale the walls of Tofet. You will be first to spread your wings."

His eyes widened. "Mel! I mean—Your Highness! I'm nothing but the son of a bitumen refiner. I'm not worthy of flying first."

Elory leaned toward him and whispered from the corner of her mouth, "She's testing it on you. You know, just in case the new key causes collars to constrict until they squeeze your head off."

"Ah." Lucem tugged at that collar. "Puts a damper on that whole holy moment for Requiem. But I accept!" He stepped forth. "Unlock me, Meliora Aeternum, Heiress to Requiem, and if my head pops off and rolls downhill, tell everyone that I died battling Leyleet in the caves."

He cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and raised his chin.

Meliora hesitated. What if it failed? What if hope died here upon the mountain? What if—

"Mel!" Lucem whispered. "It's itching. Hurry."

She nodded, took a deep breath, and pressed the key against his iron collar.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Meliora caught her breath, staring, waiting. Her hope began to fizzle. It wasn't working! It—Wait!

She gasped.

The key was warming up in her hand, soon almost intolerably hot. The runes upon it brightened, then glowed, then cast out bright light. The corresponding runes on Lucem's collar shone with their own light. The key thrummed madly in Meliora's hand, shaking so violently she almost dropped it. She gripped Lucem's shoulder with her free hand, keeping the key pressed against his collar, letting the light flow. Lucem sucked in breath, eyes closed, jaw clenched, fists tightened, and she was hurting him, oh stars, he was in pain, and—

With a crack, his collar opened.

Meliora gasped and stepped back.

Her key dimmed and cooled. The iron collar fell to the ground.

Meliora and Elory froze, staring. Lucem brought his fingers up to his neck. The skin was raw, scarred—the wounds of a thousand times he had tugged, hammered at, tried to melt the iron.

"Well," he said, "my neck's a bit cold already. Anyone got a scarf? At least now I can wear that ruffled collar I've always wanted. Though I'm not sure I'm quite as safe from axe blows to the neck, which I hear is a real problem these days in Tofet, and—"

Suddenly tears filled his eyes, and Lucem lowered his head and trembled.

Elory rushed forth and embraced him. Meliora smiled tremulously and touched his arm. They stood together for a long time, overwhelmed, tears on their cheeks.

"It's . . . I can't tell you how many times . . .," Lucem began, then rubbed his eyes. He took a shaky breath and embraced Meliora so tightly he nearly crushed her. "Thank you, Meliora. Thank you."

She laughed through her tears. "Are you going to keep standing here hugging me, or are you going to fly?"

He blinked. "Blimey, I forgot the most important part. Better step back." He took a few paces away from Meliora and Elory, inhaled deeply, and spread out his arms.

No light glowed across him. No angelic choirs sang. No beams of starlight fell in a crown of luminescence. And yet a miracle occurred upon the mountain that evening, a miracle that brought fresh tears to Meliora's eyes and song to her heart.

Scales flowed across Lucem, red as rubies and fire and the blood of dragons. His fingernails lengthened into claws, fangs sprouted from his mouth, and wings unfurled from his back, creaking and leathern and deep crimson like wine. His body lengthened, widened, and he fell onto his hands—only they were no longer hands but great dragon feet. Smoke blasted out from his nostrils, and a tail flailed behind him, tipped with black spikes.

He stood before them, a dragon.

Meliora fell to her knees before him. She lowered her head. "A dragon. A dragon of Requiem."

Elory too knelt. "Requiem rises."

The red dragon nodded. "Not bad, this. Little mortals kneeling before me." Lucem still had the same voice, albeit stronger, fuller, echoing in his elongated jaws. "Now let's see what these wings can do."

He spread his wings wide and beat them several times. Dust rose in clouds. Pebbles cascaded down the mountainside. Air blasted Meliora. The red dragon began to rise . . . then wobbled and crashed down onto the mountainside, cracking a boulder.

"Might take a bit more practice," Lucem said.

Elory patted the dragon's red scales, then stepped toward Meliora and raised her chin.

"I'm ready," she whispered.

Meliora placed a hand on Elory's shoulder, then raised the key in her other hand.

The light glowed. The collar fell.

Elory stood before her, her collar gone for the first time in her life. She sniffed and embraced Meliora, resting her cheek against Meliora's breast.

"I love you, sister," Elory whispered. "Always."

Meliora kissed the top of her head. Elory's hair was growing out, thick and brown and soft. "I love you too, sweet little sister. Forever."

Elory stepped back, closed her eyes, and she too became a dragon. Lavender scales gleamed across her, deep purple near her belly, lightening to violet on her back. White horns grew from her head, and white spikes ran down her tail in a palisade. She was a smaller dragon than Lucem, slender and short, but when she puffed out smoke and let fire fill her maw, she looked just as fierce.

"It's real," Elory whispered. "The magic inside me. It's always been real, waiting all these years." She lowered her head and shed a tear, then reared and clawed the air and roared. Her cry tore across the mountain, rolled across the land—a great wordless cry of freedom, of magic restored.

Finally Meliora brought the key to her own collar, the light shone, and the collar fell. As she stood in human form, Meliora felt the magic inside her, and she hesitated.

The one time I summoned Requiem's magic, I still had my seraph wings, she thought. I became a dragon of both scales and feathers, great swan wings growing from my back. If I shift now, will I be wingless?

"Come on, join the fun!" Lucem said, beating his wings and rising several feet into the air again. "Fly with us, Mel. Fly like—ah!"

Again the red dragon crashed down, cracking another boulder.

Meliora sucked in breath, closed her eyes, and reached deep inside her for that warm, tingling magic.

She felt her body growing. She heard scales clattering. Fire heated her belly. Her claws sank into the mountain.

When her transformation was complete, she kept her eyes closed, not daring to look. But she could hear the others gasp.

"Oh, Meliora . . .," Elory whispered.

"Blimey," Lucem said.

Meliora cringed. She had been right! Surely her wings were gone! She braced herself, opened one eye to a slit, and looked over her shoulder at her body.

Such shock filled her that she spurted out fire.

"Stars," she whispered. "Thank you, stars of Requiem."

Her body was long, slender, covered in small silvery scales like pearls. No more feathers grew from her tail; that tail was thin and quick as a whip, tipped with ivory spikes. Instead of swan wings, great leathern wings, white as drifts of snow, grew from her back, tipped with golden claws. Fire crackled above her head, its orange light falling upon her snout, and she realized that even in dragon form, she wore a crown of dragonfire.

I'm a dragon. A true dragon of Requiem.

She flapped her wings. She soared into the sky.

She spun as she flew, pointed upward in a straight line, rising and rising, and she blasted up her fire. The flames shot skyward, a white pillar. Her wings spread wide, and she laughed as she spun, sending forth her flame.

With a cry of joy, Elory flew too. The lavender dragon shot up beside her, laughing, and blasted her own fire—orange flames flaring out into yellow. She was a smaller dragon than Meliora, but when Elory roared again, the mountain shook.

Grumbling curses, Lucem finally managed to fly up with them. He wobbled, dipped, yelped, beat his wings madly, and finally steadied his flight.

"I think I'm getting the hang of this," the red dragon said. "I—whoa, careful, Elory!"

The purple dragon laughed and playfully slammed against him, tossing him into a tailspin. Lucem cursed, righted himself, and kept flying.

The three dragons spread their wings wide, found a wind current, and glided. The mountains and hills rolled below in an endless landscape, and in the distance, the Te'ephim River spread in a silver line.

"It's beautiful!" Elory cried over the wind. "All my life, I knelt in the dust, looking up at the sky, dreaming of it . . . and now I'm here, looking down. A dragon. No longer afraid."

"I'm afraid!" Lucem said, wobbling and dipping in the sky.

Meliora breathed deeply as she flew and smiled. She had never felt such peace, not in all her years in the ziggurat. She had never seen such beauty, not among all the artwork of Saraph. She had never felt so noble, not even as a princess in an empire's palace.

"Requiem!" she whispered. "May our wings forever find your sky."

Elory and Meliora repeated the ancient prayer—the same prayer the children of Requiem had been singing for five thousand years, the prayer of outcasts in forests, of warriors in battlefields, of survivors in ruins, of freed slaves seeking to return home.

"We fly now in the sky of Saraph," Meliora said. "But we will fly in Requiem's sky again."

She turned to look north. She could see far from up here, farther than she had ever seen. The horizon lay many miles away, yet that distance was but a fraction of the way to Requiem. Vast deserts, plains, and seas lay between here and her lost home, but Meliora vowed that she would see that home, that she would fly in Requiem again.

But not yet, she thought, turning away from the northern view. This day we fly south. She let fire fill her jaws, and she growled. This day we fly to Tofet.

TASH

He slept beside her on the grass, covered in a blanket of palm fronds, and Tash's heart twisted at the pain she would cause him.

"Sweetest Vale," she whispered and kissed him.

The hint of a smile touched his lips, but he did not wake. Tash lay beside him, looking at him. His face was thin, still careworn, but handsome, she thought. She had let so many seraphim into her bed—men tall, fair, of purest form and beauty—yet she had loved no man until this one, until her sweet Vale, despite all his scars and the pain written across his face, even now.

I began to heal your pain, Tash thought. To see you smile, to hear you laugh. To place love into your heart . . . only for me now to break that heart.

Silently, she slipped out of their bed of grass and leaves. The landscape rolled around them: hills, valleys, and the river that flowed between them. Somewhere in the west lay Tofet—a hive of disease, chains, agony, death. Somewhere in the north or south lay other lands . . . new lands, unexplored, lands of freedom.

Tash stared at the Chest of Plenty.

It lay in the grass beside them, so small. She could have cradled it in her arms. And yet it was wealth. Freedom. Hope. Life—life away from war, from pain, from death. It was the treasure she had dreamed of all her life. So many times as some drunken lord had bedded her, Tash had closed her eyes, ground her teeth, and imagined finding the Chest of Plenty. So many times, Tash had lain awake at night as the other girls slept, working on her map, coming up with a thousand plans: how she'd escape Shayeen, find the chest, build a great treasure and sail away to freedom.

Tash fingered the jewel in her navel. As Vale still slept, Tash unpinned the jewel and pulled it free. She held it in her palm. A small diamond, impure and pinkish, inlaid in a ring of gold. Some seraph or another had gifted her that jewel in the garden. It wasn't worth much on its own; perhaps enough to trade for a sturdy cloak, boots, and a leather belt, with enough left over for a couple nights in a tavern and a bottle of wine. Hardly a fortune. But with this chest . . .

Tash closed her eyes. It'll be like I always dreamed. Enough diamonds to bribe seraphim guards at any port in the empire, enough to book passage on a ship—to buy a ship! Enough to sail far away, find an outpost in the distance, someplace far from Ishtafel. Maybe she would even reach the end of the empire, find a land beyond that still stood, where seraphim would not find her. She could buy a mansion, servants, all the fine wines and food in the world. The collar would remain around her neck, but she would gild it, encrust it in jewels, be a queen in a distant land.

Fingers trembling, Tash opened the chest and placed her jewel within. She closed the chest top.

Nothing happened. No glowing light. No angelic song. Not even a rattle to the chest. She opened the lid.

Diamonds spilled out. Thousands of tiny diamonds on golden rings. Tash bit her lip, dipped her hand into the chest, and ran her fingers between them. She was wealthy. Just like that—wealthy. She turned the chest upside down, spilling them all out into the grass, then placed a single diamond back inside. She closed the lid. She opened it. Thousands more diamonds shone inside.

"Endless wealth," she whispered. "Endless freedom."

She looked back west and winced.

And there lies endless pain.

Tash closed her eyes, shuddering. How could she go back to Tofet—after all she had seen there? After Ishtafel had murdered a hundred thousand souls, after all the pits of corpses, the dead upon spikes, so much pain, bloodshed . . . How could she walk that path when the other way lay freedom and wealth?

Tash opened her eyes. She lifted the chest, leaving all but one diamond in the grass. Vale would find them, at least. Have a treasure to carry with him wherever he wanted to go.

"I wish I could take you with me, Vale," she whispered. "But you'd never understand. You'd never go with me."

She looked away from him. She could not stare at his face for an instant longer; it stabbed her full of pain, as cruel as spears. Holding the chest under her arm, tears in her eyes, Tash began to walk north.

She took ten steps, then stopped, trembling. Her body shook. Her tears fell. She wanted to return to Tofet. She couldn't. She couldn't.

I can't go back there. I can't. I've dreamed of this for so long. I can't go back.

Weeping, she took another step away.

"Tash?" rose his voice behind her.

Her heart sank to her pelvis and shattered.

Stars, no. Stars, don't let this happen.

She turned around and saw Vale standing there, the diamonds around his feet. At first he seemed confused. He stared down at the treasure, then up at her, head tilted. Then his eyes narrowed, and he understood. Something terrible filled his eyes, something not angry, but more pained than a slave under a whip. The shattering, icy pain of betrayal.

"Tash," he whispered.

She wept. She trembled. "Come with me," she whispered.

"Where?" He spoke so softly she could barely hear.

"Anywhere." The chest under her arm rattled as she trembled. "Away from war. Away from pain and torture. Away from this empire. We can be rich, Vale! We can be free." She placed the chest down, walked toward him, and tried to embrace him. "We can find a new life, and—"

"You tried to leave me here." He stared at her with shock and agony in his eyes. "You tried to take it. To steal the chest away. To . . . to leave me and Requiem, and—"

"There's no hope for Requiem!" Tash shouted. "Don't you understand, Vale? Don't you see? Millions of dragons fought Ishtafel in the old days. Millions of dragon warriors, soldiers in a great army, trained for battle. And he killed them! He killed them all, and he took everyone else captive. And now you think slaves can kill him, even without our collars? He's going to kill us, Vale. Kill us all! There's nothing in Tofet but pain, blood, death—"

"Then I will die!" he shouted, face red, gripping her arms. "Then I will die again, as I died upon the ziggurat. I will die a thousand times for Requiem. Tash!" His tears fell. "How could you do this? How could you betray us? You're a daughter of Requiem, a Vir Requis, a—"

"A slave!" She shoved against his chest, trying to break free. "Just a pleasure slave! Not even a whore. Whores get paid. I'm nothing but a slave to them, Vale, and I won't do it anymore. Never again. Never! I won't let them touch me, bed me, toss jewels onto my naked body. I . . . I finally found someone I love, Vale. Someone I love truly. And now you just want to go there, to go back to what we fled. You remember what it was like. The whips, the spears, the fire. You want to go back and die. And I can't see that. I can't see that happen. I can't . . . I can't . . ."

She wanted him to embrace her, to comfort her, to stroke her hair, maybe even tell her that he'd go with her. But he only stared at her, the pain in his eyes. And a new emotion crossed his face.

Rage.

His lips peeled back, his eyes blazed, and his cheeks flushed. His hands balled into fists.

"Still you lie," he whispered. "Love?"

"I love you—" she began.

"You lie!" He raised his fist as if to hit her, and she cringed. "All you do is lie. Love me? You tried to leave me! To betray your people, to leave us to torture, to death. You tried to leave Requiem to ruin. Do you have any notion of what you've done?" He gripped her so tightly his fingers dug into her arms. "For thousands of years, we fought for Requiem, we died for Requiem, we—"

"Do you know who you sound like?" she shouted, struggling to free herself, her hair whipping around. "You sound like them! Like the ghosts in the shipwreck. Like the cruel Vir Requis of the Cadigus regime. They too boasted of fighting and dying for a cause. But I don't want to fight, Vale. I don't want to die. I don't want to suffer, to bleed, to kill for some ideal, for some nation that fell five hundred years ago. Requiem is gone, Vale. It's gone forever, but I'm still here. We're still here. You and I." She gave up on freeing herself and lowered her head, sobbing. "We can leave all this behind. We can find a better life—a life of wealth. We have all the money in the world now, enough to sail away, to buy palaces, or just buy a humble home if you prefer, somewhere beyond the empire. I only tried to leave without you because . . . because I knew you wouldn't want this, and it broke my heart. It broke my heart, Vale."

"The only heart you broke is mine." He shook his head, his whisper barely audible. "How could you? After all we suffered . . . knowing that Meliora and Elory are out there, fighting for Requiem, that my father is back in Tofet, that . . . that we finally had a chance. How could you?"

Tash fell to her knees in the grass. She wept. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She tried to hug his legs. "I'm sorry."

He lifted the fallen chest. He stared down at her, and she saw it inside those eyes—shattering, eternal pain of betrayal. He spun around and began walking.

"Wait," she whispered. "Vale, wait . . ."

But he would not turn back. He kept walking.

"Wait!" she shouted, still kneeling in the grass.

He only walked faster, heading west across the land, taking the Chest of Plenty. Tash shoved herself to her feet, shaking so wildly she almost fell again. She followed him, blinded by tears, leaving her jewels behind, and as she walked, it filled her—the crushing guilt.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

She kept following him, not knowing if he'd ever forgive her, and if she could ever forgive herself.

VALE

She kept trailing behind him, calling his name, but he would not look back. She kept begging him for forgiveness, voice rolling across the land, but he would not answer.

He traveled by night, hidden in shadows, carrying the Chest of Plenty under his arm. Traveling to Tofet, for a hope to reunite with Meliora, to duplicate her key and raise Requiem again. In those long nights, Tash calling behind him, the stars shone above in a great blanket, and Vale felt very alone, very small, carrying the hope of a nation . . . as the traitor of that nation followed.

"Vale!" she cried out. "Vale, wait. Vale, forgive me!"

And yet, whenever she called, he walked onward through the darkness.

In the days, he slept, hidden in caves, in burrows, in tall grass. Tash would creep up to him then, try to stroke his hair, to kiss him, to plead forgiveness. And each time he shoved her away, rose to his feet, and walked onward, leaving her behind.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Won't you forgive me?"

Yet how could he? He had loved Tash. After so many years of pain, he had allowed himself to feel love, to feel joy. And she had betrayed not only him but Meliora, Elory, Jaren, all of them.

Had she come on this quest not for Requiem, but only for herself? Had she seen him as only a bodyguard, protecting her until she found the chest, until she could stab him in the back?

He walked onward through the nights, ignoring her, forcing her out of his mind. He thought only of Requiem, only of meeting Meliora again, of raising the dragons.

It was a new moon, the land cloaked in blackness, when Vale finally saw the lights of Shayeen ahead.

Vale stopped, the sight stabbing him like nails driven into his palms.

The lights were still distant, a mere cluster on the horizon, but bright as the fallen moon. The capital of Saraph. The greatest light in the world. The City of Kings, home to Ishtafel, to those who had destroyed Vale's own home.

Ahead of that city spread a dark land, enclosed by walls. No lights shone within this prison. No towers or golden domes rose. No lanterns hung over bustling streets. There in the distance, in shadows, lay Tofet, the land of pain.

Vale grimaced. Pain flared in his hands and feet. Again he could feel it—Ishtafel swinging the hammer, driving the nails into Vale, pinning him to the platinum crest of the ziggurat. Again he felt his life ending, the agony of the soul tearing from the body . . . only to see stars, to feel Issari's hands upon him, to return to the pain. To fight. To face the battle ahead, the great battle for Requiem.

Will that battle begin now? Are you heading back too, Meliora, with the key?

He tugged at his collar, aching to get the Keeper's Key from Meliora, to fly again.

He looked around him, struggling to see the cave in the darkness, the place where he was supposed to meet his sisters. Yet it was still too dark. He could barely even see the river; only when squinting could he make out the dark surface of the water in the jagged blackness. The landscape still smelled of the old fire, and the earth was bare and burnt.

He walked slowly, and finally he came across it, almost by accident—the cave in the hillside. The meeting place.

"Meliora?" he whispered, standing outside the cave. "Elory?"

No answer came. Vale dared light his lantern, only for a moment. He cast its light inside the low, shallow cave. Empty.

A sudden pang stabbed him.

Here is where we spent our first hours of freedom, where Tash nestled against me.

He lowered his head. Suddenly he wanted to forgive her, to turn back, to find her in the darkness, to hold her again. To stroke her hair, kiss her lips, feel her warmth, protect her from the evil in the world. To love her again. Yet as soon as those feelings surfaced, so did the memory: Tash walking away, holding the Chest of Plenty.

Maybe she never truly meant to leave, he thought. Maybe another step, and she would have regretted it at once, turned back, resisted temptation. Maybe—

A shriek sounded in the sky, cutting off his thoughts.

Vale spun around and stared upward, clenching his fists.

He saw nothing. Only the blackness of night. Another shriek rose, closer this time, and others answered the call—creatures in the sky. Yet he didn't see the fire of chariots.

Standing on the burnt earth, he opened the Chest of Plenty. He placed the axe head inside and as much of the shaft as would fit, closed the lid until it banged against the handle, then opened it again. A second axe thrust out. As the screeches filled the night, Vale raised a weapon in each hand. He stared upward. He still saw nothing.

"We smell one, comrades!" rose a feminine voice, demonic, so shrill it raised Vale's hackles. "We smell a weredragon! Sweet meat! Sweet blood!"

Vale's heart pounded. Where were they? He could see nothing. Those were not the voices of seraphim above.

There!

He glimpsed them, just shadows blotting out the stars, and he could smell them—a smell of blood and rot. They spiraled down, eyes white and glowing, claws pale as bones. As they flew lower, Vale saw that they had the bodies of men and women, clad in black armor. They beat bat wings, and they held sickles. Each had four heads, cruel and pale and fanged. Only the light from their eyes lit them.

"We smell it, Rancid Angels!" cried one, a bloodied woman; her four heads cried out together. "Another weredragon, a reptile! Kill it, drink it, eat it!"

Vale cursed. He could not defeat so many; a dozen or more flew above. A part of him craved to swing his axes, to fight them, to die, but he had to live. He had to survive just a little longer, to deliver the chest to Meliora.

He hurried toward the cave, crawled inside, and hid in the shadows. Outside he heard the wings beat, the screeches, smelled the stench of them.

Another weredragon? Had these creatures seen his kind before, slain them? Had they . . . had they hurt Meliora and Elory?

Vale crouched lower in the cave, praying they hadn't seen him, that they'd miss the cave in the darkness of a moonless night. He readied his axes just in case, prepared to swing them, to cut them down before they could enter. The Chest of Plenty stood at his side, his treasure to protect—the hope of Requiem, here, only his humble blades to defend it.

"Down, Rancid Angels! There, in the shadows! We smell it, we see it, we will drink it!"

The wings beat in a fury, the creatures cackled, and Vale tightened his grip on his axes, teeth bared.

But the creatures were not flying toward him.

He hissed.

Outside the cave, he saw them—the light of their eyes glinting against their claws—flying away, past him, downward toward the valley.

They howled and a woman screamed.

For a second Vale froze.

"Tash," he whispered.

She screamed again, and Vale burst out from the cave. His body thought on its own. He ran, axes raised, and roared.

"Rancid Angels!" He leaped toward the valley. "Come, meet my blades!"

They were flying over the valley, swooping toward a shadow. Tash! Tash knelt there, her hair fluttering, raising her humble dagger. She met his gaze for just a second, and at that second, Vale felt nothing but that old love again.

Then the foul creatures flew toward him. Their sickles swung.

Vale flashed his axes.

He knocked aside one sickle. He slammed aside reaching claws. They flew all around and above, laughing, mocking him. Another claw thrust down, and he knocked it aside. He leaped up, swung his axe, hit armor. A sickle slammed into his back, chipping his chain mail. They flew faster around him, dancing in the air, eyes lurid.

"A meal, a meal! A weredragon meal! Chop him up, tug him out, pull him to pieces. Feed, drink!"

Tash leaped to her feet, ran forward, and stood beside him. She flashed up her dagger as the creatures flew all around.

"You came to save me!" she cried.

Vale growled and knocked aside a sickle. Another blade hit his armor, cracking the rings, cutting the skin beneath. Vale beat the creature back with the swipe of an axe. "I'm not sure I saved anyone."

"Then you've come to die with me!" Tash grinned. "I knew you still loved me. I knew it! It's very romantic, dying together."

"I'm not dying without a fight!" Vale leaped upward, axe swinging, and managed to cut a creature's leg. Sizzling golden blood rained down.

The beasts screeched, and their faces twisted, losing all amusement.

"He cuts us, he hurts us! End this game. Kill, kill! Eat, drink!"

The creatures swooped down together, no longer dancing. Pale hands grabbed Tash, yanking her skyward, and claws slashed at her. She screamed, blood spurting. Vale roared, swung his axes, knocked a creature aside, but hands grabbed him too, tugging him upward, and fangs bit into his shoulder, and he knew that hope was lost, that here—so close to the end of his journey, so close to raising the dragons again—here he died in darkness.

"Vale, I'm sorry!" Tash cried, dangling before him in the creatures' grasp, bleeding. She stared into his eyes. "I love you. I'm so sorry, and I love you."

The fangs dug deeper into Vale, and the claws yanked his axes free, and his feet no longer touched the ground. They were drinking his blood.

"I love you too, Tash," he said. "I love you always, in this life and the—"

Light blinded him.

Fire shrieked.

Air blasted against him, showering sparks.

Roars tore across the sky, and Vale looked up, and he saw them there, flying in from the west.

"Dragons," he whispered.

MELIORA

She roared out her fire.

Her wings churned smoke and sparks.

A white dragon, she charged forth, claws stretched out.

To her left flew Lucem, a red dragon, fire in his maw. To her right flew Elory, lavender scales reflecting her flames. Three streams of fire lit the night.

Ahead of them, the dark seraphim screamed. They dropped those they held—the bloodied Vale and Tash. Wings beating madly, the creatures stormed toward the dragons.

"Dragons fly, dragons burn!" they cried. "The curse is broken, kill them, eat them!"

Meliora counted eleven of them. She grinned, letting fresh fire fill her maw.

Now they will see the wrath of Requiem.

Her white fire streamed forth. A dark seraph screamed. The flames washed across him, heating his armor, melting his skin, tearing holes through his wings. At her sides, Elory and Lucem blasted their dragonfire, and the inferno blazed across two more dark seraphim.

The demonic angels stared with their white eyes. Each one now sprouted four heads—the curse of the Living Creatures—and each of those heads screamed.

Three of the survivors stormed toward Meliora. They were tall beings, seven feet of dark steel and claws, yet so small by her dragon form. A sickle swung her way, and she knocked it aside with her claws. She thrust forward, closed her jaws around a dark seraph, and bit deep, denting his armor. She tore out a chunk of flesh and metal, spat it out, and clawed the seraph down. Another flew from behind. She lashed her tail, knocking it aside, then bathed it with fire.

She glimpsed her fellow dragons. Lucem shredded a dark seraph's wings, then swiped his claws, knocking the creature down. Elory flew in rings, spurting fire, burning the enemies.

Steel flashed.

A voice yowled.

Meliora glanced up in time to see Leyleet, Queen of the Dark, swooping toward her. Before Meliora could react, the dark seraph landed on her back, and twin sickles flashed.

Meliora screamed.

The blades cracked her scales, dug into her, and her blood dripped. She bucked madly, struggling to tear Leyleet off her back.

"I will ride you down to your grave!" Leyleet shrieked from all four mouths, lashing the sickles again. Silver scales flew through the night, and agony flared across Meliora.

"Sister!" Elory cried, but dark seraphim flew toward her and Lucem, shoving them back.

"I will bring you to Ishtafel!" Leyleet screeched, straddling Meliora's back, lashing her sickles again and again like a fisherman scaling a fish. "Your womb will be his, but when he's done with you, you will be mine to toy with, you—"

With a scream, Meliora released her magic.

She fell through the night.

Above her, Leyleet tore free from her back, roaring with rage.

As Meliora tumbled down, she glanced up, saw the dark queen swoop with her blades. The ground rushed up from below.

Meliora summoned her magic again.

She soared, blasting up a blaze of white fire, a great pillar like King's Column in the north. It lit the dark like a beam of starlight.

Leyleet screeched, tried to dodge the fire, but the flames washed across her. The dark seraph thrashed, caught in the blaze. Her four heads bloated, tore apart, dripped their innards. Her wings shredded, the skin curling back to reveal the bones. Her armor melted. And still the creature screamed, again and again, an endless cry, refusing to die. All other dark seraphim fell, crashed onto the earth, lay as shattered corpses, and still their queen howled, clinging to her mockery of life.

Meliora had no more fire within her. Her flames died.

She landed on the ground, a silvery white dragon, splashed with blood.

Leyleet landed before her.

The dark seraph was melted flesh over bones. No more skin remained. No more eyes. But those four heads turned toward her, red skulls, and the jaws opened, and they spoke together, voices impossibly deep and distorted.

"You will fail, daughter of Aeternum. Your dynasty will fall. You will never see Requiem, daughter of dragons. With my dying breath, I curse you: You will never see Requiem."

Meliora released her magic, returning to human form. Amerath, the Amber Sword of Requiem's monarchs, reappeared at her side. She drew the ancient blade. She stepped toward Leyleet. She thrust her weapon.

The blade drove into Leyleet's charred, exposed chest, slid between the ribs, and crashed into her heart.

Meliora tugged the blade free, and Leyleet crashed down upon the hill, spurting blackened ichor. Her body fell apart, gobbets of flesh turning into beetles, bones melting into worms, and the little creatures fled into the shadows and were gone.

The red and lavender dragons landed beside Meliora and returned to human forms—young, yellow-haired Lucem and thin, brown-eyed Elory.

Meliora turned around.

In the light of the burning corpses, she saw them.

"Tash," she whispered. "Vale."

They stared at her, hesitating for a moment. Blood dripped from cuts and scrapes across them.

"You're wounded!" Elory said, rushing toward her brother. "You're—"

Vale ran forward, scooped Elory into his embrace, and grabbed Meliora and pulled her close too. He squeezed them, eyes shut, holding them against him.

"My sisters," he whispered. "My sisters."

VALE

With heat and light, his collar opened and fell.

Instantly, before he could even rub his sore neck, Vale summoned his magic and shifted. Upon the dark hills several miles out of Tofet, he became a dragon.

Earlier that year, he had become a dragon in Shayeen, chained and whipped, forced to haul stones. But now he stood as a free dragon, head proudly raised in the night. Fire flickered in his maw, illuminating his blue scales.

Three other dragons stood before him on the hill: Meliora, a silvery white dragon with golden horns; Elory, a slender lavender dragon; and Lucem—the actual Lucem, hero of Requiem!—a long red dragon.

Only one among them still stood in human form.

Tash stood holding her collar in her hand; the Keeper's Key had opened it. Yet still she did not become a dragon. The wind ruffled her long brown hair and baggy pants, and her eyes kept moving back and forth between the dragons. The Chest of Plenty lay at her feet.

Vale stared at the young woman.

When the dark seraphim had attacked, why had he leaped out of his cave to fight for Tash—to die for her? Why, looking at her, did he still love her? She had betrayed him! She had nearly betrayed all of Requiem. He wanted to hate her. He wanted to hate her with the heat of dragonfire, to blast that dragonfire her way, to burn her, at least to exile her, at least to tell the others what she had done.

And yet still that love for her filled him.

She was afraid, a voice whispered inside him. She lost her faith in Requiem, too weak to resist temptation, to follow her old dream, and she regretted it. She would have turned around after another two steps if I hadn't stopped her. She's good at heart. She wouldn't have truly left. She fought bravely against many enemies.

That voice inside him begged Vale to forgive her, and yet he could not. The hatred and love battled within him.

"Aren't you going to shift?" Elory asked, bringing her scaly head down near Tash's.

Tash looked at her collar, then lowered her head. "I'd like to. I'm just . . ." She glanced up at Vale and met his gaze, pain in her eyes. "I'm not sure I'm worthy of becoming a dragon."

"Tash!" Elory said. The lavender dragon released her magic, once more becoming a slender, short-haired girl with brown eyes. She held Tash's shoulders. "Why would you say something like that?"

Tash looked down at her feet. "I'm not a warrior. I'm not brave or noble. I'm just . . . just a pleasure slave. And . . ." Another look at Vale, then back at her feet.

Vale looked away, ignoring her attempts to meet his eyes again.

She still seeks my forgiveness, still seeks absolution before joining us as dragons. I saved your life, Tash, and I love you, but I cannot give you what you want.

"All right," Tash whispered as if she had heard Vale's thoughts. She was looking at Elory, but Vale knew that she was speaking to him. "Let's try this magic thing."

The young woman closed her eyes, took a deep breath . . . and gasped. Golden scales flowed across her like coins. Horns sprouted from her head, and wings burst out from her back. She flapped those wings, rose into the sky, and gave a spin.

"You're beautiful!" Elory said, shifting back into a dragon and rising to fly beside her friend.

The golden dragon looked down at Vale, maybe hoping he'd call her beautiful too, but he looked away.

"Enough," Vale said. "Back to human forms, everyone. Into the cave. I see fire in the distance."

He pointed. On the dark horizon the balls of fire rose from Shayeen, heading their way. Chariots of fire. Vale grimaced. Had they been seen, or was this a routine patrol?

The dragons all returned to human form, raced toward the cave on the hillside, and entered. Complete darkness fell, and Vale dared not even light his lamp.

"Were we seen?" Meliora whispered, kneeling at his side.

"I don't know." Vale sneered. "If they saw us, we burn them. We fly out. We fight as dragons. We—"

"Wait." Meliora touched his arm. "Wait, brother."

Fire crackled and red light lit the land outside. The thunder of firehorse hooves filled the sky, and the smell of fire and brimstone wafted. Vale stiffened, prepared to burst out of the cave, to fight as a dragon. His muscles tensed, and he longed for the battle.

His fists unclenched as the chariots of fire flew over the cave, heading into the distance. At his sides, the others exhaled in relief.

"Lovely place, this," Lucem said, wiping sweat off his brow. "I forgot how much I missed Tofet. We're miles away and already dark seraphim and chariots of fire are trying to kill us." He shuddered. "Remind me—why didn't we decide to just fly to some nice little island, get rich and fat off duplicating coins and coconuts?"

Lucem laughed at his own joke, but Vale cringed. He couldn't help but glance at Tash. She crouched at his side, her cheeks red, and stared down at the floor.

When finally the firelight outside faded, they all stepped out of the cave and onto the dark hills. Meliora, a tall woman, her halo of dragonfire crackling above her head. Elory, dark and small and quick, her eyes shining. Tash, still staring down at her feet in shame, her hair hiding her face. Lucem, the legendary hero of Requiem, revealed to be only a young man with a ready smile and eyes that hid old pain.

And me, Vale thought. With nothing but pain inside me. Pain for what the seraphim did to me. Pain for what I saw Tash do.

Perhaps pain was all they knew, all Vir Requis could ever know. In the old tales, Requiem suffered tragedy after tragedy. Every generation brought war, genocide, slavery, nearly extinguishing that light. Every generation the columns of Requiem fell, only for heroes to build them anew.

Why do we keep fighting? Vale thought. Why do we linger on, struggling to maintain our torch of dragonfire, when darkness so often falls? When we suffer so much?

He looked at his sisters, at Lucem, at Tash . . . and he thought he knew.

Because between the dark nights the day still shines. Joy can still bloom through suffering like flowers between cobblestones. Perhaps Requiem will never know peace. Perhaps our kingdom will never enjoy an era of prosperity and grandeur. But with every death, new life shines. With every fall, we rise anew. We suffer, but we also love. We hurt, but we also feel joy. For those little flickers, like starlight in darkest night, I will always fight. If not for a Requiem of eternal peace, I will fight for a Requiem of blood and starlight. If that is our fate, that is better than endless darkness where no stars shine.

"What do we do now?" Elory whispered. "Our boat is gone. How will we sneak back into Tofet with the Keeper's Key and the Chest of Plenty? Do we swim? Do we scale the wall like Lucem once did?"

Vale smiled thinly at her. "We don't need to swim or climb, my sister." He stared up at the dark sky. "Dawn is still an hour away. We fly."

ELORY

The five dragons flew through the night, silent, their fire hidden inside closed jaws, shadows high above the landscape of ruin.

At first flying had felt strange to Elory; she had wobbled in the air, no more graceful than a toddler first learning to walk. Yet this night she would have to fly with the grace of the bellators, the legendary and ancient knights of Requiem.

The others flew at her side. Tash, a golden dragon. Lucem, red. Meliora, silvery, her feathers gone. Vale, blue and burly. She knew their colors, yet Elory could barely see them in the darkness, only the faintest hints of them. No moon shone in the sky, and the only light came from below.

A path of fire stretched across the land, semicircular, several miles long. The wall of Tofet. Upon its parapets the seraphim guards stood, halos bright, torches brighter. A wall of fire, of holy light, of death to any who dared approach it. Across the river, a few miles away, Elory could see the bright lights of Shayeen shining upon towers and temples. The City of Kings, home to seraphim masters, was bright as day, even now. Yet that was not her destination, and Elory hoped she would never enter that hive of light and gold and splendor again.

She looked down. Now her destination lay there below—in the vast stretch of darkness. From up here, higher than eagles, Tofet was but a black pool across the land. Barely any lights shone, only the moving flickers of seraphim patrolling the streets, holding torches. No towers rose here, no temples, no warm homes with firelight in the windows. A place of darkness, of chains, of death.

A place we will liberate, Elory swore. I swear to you, my people, you will be free. You will fly with me in the sky of Saraph and in the sky of Requiem.

Firelight flashed below.

Elory stared down and hissed.

"Chariots!" she whispered.

Three of them were rising from below, crossing the river, soaring skyward. Three perhaps the dragons could handle, but a battle would raise the others, and soon a thousand chariots would light the sky. No. This was not the time for war, but the time for silence, for shadows.

The other dragons saw and nodded. They flew higher, fanning out—so high the air grew thin and cold, barely letting Elory breathe. Her head spun. She glided, flapping her wings only when she began to dip.

The chariots streamed below them.

Please don't let them see us. Don't let the firelight illuminate our bellies.

She flew eastward, Meliora at her side. The other dragons flew westward.

The chariots below charged onward, flying across the walls of Tofet and into the wilderness.

Elory let out a shaky breath of relief, and the dragons glided downward, back to where the air was thicker. She took several deep breaths, calming the spinning of her head and the thrashing of her heart.

She glanced at her fellow dragons, then down below. A dark patch sprawled in the south—the fields of bricklaying. A darker patch spread beside it—the pit of bitumen. Near them, lit by only a few scattered torches, spread the city of huts, a small place—far smaller than Shayeen across the river—where over half a million slaves lived.

That is where we land, Elory thought. In the heart of suffering. From darkness will rise fire.

She began to spiral down, wings wide, jaws clenched shut to hide her fire. Only the faintest glow filled her nostrils; Elory still thought it strange to be able to see her nostrils, but she had a good view of them in dragon form. The other dragons spiraled down around her, their scales giving the slightest of chinks.

"Hush!" Elory whispered. "You're chinking, Lucem."

The red dragon grimaced at her side, stiffened his body, and wobbled down beside her.

They glided lower. Soon Elory could make out individual huts in the darkness. They seemed so small from up here, as if they were toys, as if she could reach down and pluck them up.

Firelight flared below.

Another chariot of fire—just one—rose from the walls and soared.

Elory cursed silently. The chariot was heading toward them, casting its light.

She swerved sideways, silent. Lucem flew with her. The other dragons scattered to other directions. They were too low already to soar and hide in darkness. Elory's heart beat madly against her ribs.

Did he see us?

She stared down and saw the chariot still rising. Four firehorses tugged it, wings casting out sparks. A single seraph stood in the chariot, lit by the firelight.

He saw her. Their eyes connected.

The seraph's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to shout.

Elory snarled and charged.

She streamed through the air. She reached the chariot in a second. The seraph began to cry out, and his voice died within her jaws. She snapped those jaws shut, severing his head. Hot, sticky blood spurted, filling her mouth with its coppery taste. Her heart beat madly. She spat the head out.

The firehorses reared in the sky, and Elory released her magic.

She landed in the chariot in human form, blood still in her mouth. The headless corpse lay at her feet. She grabbed the reins.

The firehorses calmed.

Elory gave the reins a gentle tug, nudging the beasts to glide through the sky, pulling the flaming chariot behind them.

Finally Elory could breathe, could think. She trembled, and sweat drenched her.

What have I done? Oh stars, I killed a man, I bit off his head.

She stared around, fearing that somebody had noticed. But no other chariots of fire flew. The other dragons glided around her, staring with wide eyes, and Elory directed her chariot down. She landed on a patch of bare earth outside the hut city. The other dragons glided down farther away from the light, vanishing between the huts.

Her knees trembled. Her pulse pounded in her one ear, and sweat drenched her. Elory couldn't think. Her mind was a storm, her body felt on fire, she was going to faint, she—

Calm yourself, Elory, spoke a voice in her head. Right now you must remain calm.

Refusing to think, to fear, just operating on cold logic, she climbed out of the chariot. Glancing around, she resumed dragon form. She dug a hole with her claws, tugged the headless seraph out from the chariot, and buried the corpse. She sniffed, looked around, found the head a few meters away and buried it too.

She return to human form. Leaving the chariot and firehorses on the field, she headed between the huts, vanishing into the shadows.

Please, stars of Requiem, don't let any other seraphim see us, don't let them know, don't let them suspect—not until we're safe.

A shadow approached between the huts, and Elory's heart leaped into a gallop, and she nearly shifted and lashed her claws. But it was Lucem, slinking forward, back in human form. She rushed toward him, and he wrapped her in his arms and kissed the top of her head.

Other shadows approached. Meliora, a hood dousing her halo. Vale, tall and grim. Tash, tiptoeing forward, glancing around nervously.

"We made it," Meliora whispered.

Lucem rolled his eyes. "Once again, Mel, the sky is up."

Firelight fell onto the road. The Vir Requis hurried behind a hut. A seraph walked down the dirt road, holding a torch. Hiding behind the clay wall, Elory held her breath and squeezed Lucem's hand. When finally the light faded and the guard had walked by, the Vir Requis released their breath.

"Come," Elory whispered. "I know the way."

They walked between the huts, avoiding the larger dirt roads, slinking hut to hut. Vale carried the Chest of Plenty under his arm. Elory carried the Keeper's Key, while Tash carried a humbler iron key—the one she had used to unlock Elory's shackles back in the pleasure pit long ago.

Another chariot of fire streamed above. The Vir Requis froze and hid again, pressing themselves against a hut's wall. When the firelight passed them, they walked onward.

Finally Elory saw it ahead. It looked like any other hut, but she knew this was the place.

Home.

Her eyes dampened. After all Elory had seen in the world—the great ziggurat of gold and ivory, the open wilderness of forests and hills, underground caverns of ancient days, a mountaintop palace full of magic—this hut seemed so small, so sad. So many bad memories filled this place. So many times Elory had lain in this hut, shivering from the wounds of the whip, her father stitching and healing her. So many times her mother had embraced her in this hut, soothing her tears, applying balms to her wounds, and singing to her old songs of Requiem. For eighteen years Elory had lived here, and seeing it now nearly broke her heart.

Home. A home of pain, of death, of fear, of love. The only home I've ever known.

Meliora looked at her, smiled sadly, and placed a hand on her shoulder. Vale stood at her other side and placed an arm around her.

The three siblings—the three Aeternums, heirs to a dynasty, hurt, broken, fighting for their nation—walked forward together.

They entered the hut.

He knelt inside in prayer. Her father, tall and gaunt, bald and bearded. He looked up, and his eyes widened, and Elory's eyes flooded with tears, and her body shook with sobs. She raced forward, fell to her knees before him, and nearly crushed his thin frame in her embrace.

"Father," she whispered, sobbing against him. "Father."

He wept too, holding her close. "Elory, Elory. You're alive. I knew you were alive. You're alive. Oh stars, you're alive."

Vale joined them, and even the gruff young slave shed tears, squeezing them close, shaking. Meliora knelt too, wrapped her arms around them, and held them silently.

"I'm here, Father." Elory smiled and blinked away her tears. "I'll never leave you again. I promise."

Lucem and Tash stood at the doorway, glancing around nervously. Elory rose to her feet and approached them. She took their hands in hers, ushering them into the hut. Her heart trembled at their touch. Tash—her closest friend. Lucem—the first man she had ever loved. They were her family too, just as much as her father and siblings. All of Requiem was her family.

"Father, you remember Tash, and this is Lucem."

The young man bowed. "Yes, the famous Lucem himself! I heard I'm something of a legend around these parts. But not like you. I'm honored to meet you, King Aeternum. At least, the descendant of King Aeternum, hopefully to be our real king soon. Not here. Bit too crowded here. In Requiem, I mean. If we get there. Um . . ." He glanced at Meliora. "Mel said there would be taters."

Elory rolled her eyes.

Jaren looked down at the Chest of Plenty which Vale had placed on the floor, then up at his son, then at Meliora and Elory.

"Did you . . .," the old priest whispered. "Did you find them? The chest and key?"

Elory reached into her pocket and pulled out the Keeper's Key. She stepped forward and brought the key to her father's collar.

The collar opened.

Elory removed it from around Jaren's neck and tossed it to the floor.

"We found them, Father." She stared into his eyes, and her rage seared her tears dry. "We found them, and now, Father . . . now we fight."

TASH

She kept glancing at Vale, trying to meet his eyes, hoping he'd forgive her, but he hated her, he hated her still, and Tash hated herself.

I would have turned back, she thought, kneeling in the hut. I just had to take another step toward my freedom, to hesitate, to feel the guilt, to turn back toward Vale and curse my stupidity. She hung her head low. But you had to see me, Vale. You had to call out, to try to stop me when I would have stopped on my own. I would have. I have to believe that I would have. And I'm so sorry.

She raised her head, trying to meet his eyes again. But Vale stood across the hut, pointedly looking away from her, talking instead to Lucem.

Tash's shoulders stooped.

I'm going to show you, Vale. I'm going to make amends for what I've done. I'm going to show you that I love Requiem, that I'll fight for her, that I'm sorry for my betrayal.

Elory approached and sat beside her. "Are you all right, Tash?"

Tash looked at the girl, and fresh guilt filled her. Back in the pleasure pit, perhaps she had treated Elory too harshly, commanding her as if she, Tash, were a seraph herself rather than a slave. The girl was kind, meek, truly believed in Requiem's cause.

Another one I mistreated, Tash thought. Another one I must prove my worth to.

Suddenly Tash hated who she was. Hated herself. A pleasurer who, while the others toiled in the dust, had serviced seraphim with kisses and caresses. A slave who had looked down on other slaves as if she were superior. A traitor who had almost ruined Requiem, who had almost fled with the Chest of Plenty.

I don't belong here with these noble, kind people, she thought, looking at the others. I'm not like them. I'm not good and brave and strong like they are.

"Tash, are you all right?" Elory whispered.

Tash nodded. "Yes, and I'm ready. Let's try this."

She took a deep breath, opened the Chest of Plenty, and placed the Keeper's Key inside.

The others all gathered around her. Meliora, Lucem, Jaren, Vale; they all stared. Tash gulped and opened the chest.

Hundreds of crimson keys, engraved with golden runes, spilled out.

"It works!" Tash whispered.

Lucem whistled. "Now all we need is a mug of beer, and we're set for life."

Instead of beer, Tash grabbed her collar, which she had opened outside the city but kept with her. She placed the iron around her neck, took a deep breath, and snapped it shut. Next she lifted one of the duplicated keys. For a second she hesitated, worried that the duplicate would fail, that the chest had copied the key but not the magic inside it. Yet when she brought the replicated Keeper's Key to her collar, the runes glowed, and the collar opened anew.

Hurriedly, Tash reached into her pocket, and she pulled out her second key—a smaller, humbler key. A key she had used long ago on the shackles around Elory's ankles. She placed this key into the chest too, duplicating it a thousand times. Keys to open chains.

The pile of keys—some crimson and gold, others simple iron—piled up in the hut.

"Dragons," Tash whispered. "Thousands of dragons. Thousands of warriors of Requiem."

Elory grabbed Tash's hand and squeezed it. "Let's make more."

JAREN

He labored in the dirt under the blinding sun, but this day, hope filled Jaren.

The whips hit his back, but he thought of Requiem.

His joints ached, his skin burned, his head swam with weakness, and he thought of dragons rising.

His body was almost broken, his life almost spent, and thousands languished around him in chains, the overseers taking their lives day by day. But Jaren clung to his life.

Because his children were back. Because there was hope.

That night, as always, he limped back to the huts—breath rattling, back torn open, spine nearly cracked with the agony. That night, as always, instead of sleeping, Jaren stood outside his hut. As always, the children of Requiem came before him—the wounded, the dying. Mothers too thin to produce milk, their babes starving. Elders beaten, whipped, kicked, their limbs broken, begging for healing or a blessing before death. Young men and women in the prime of their youth, yet frail as the elders, coughing, shivering, bleeding. They all came before Jaren Aeternum as they did every night.

He was descended of kings, but here in Tofet, he was a priest, he was a healer.

The first of his people approached, limping—a young girl, no older than twelve or thirteen, her arm crushed. Her father walked with her, face pale, eyes damp.

"Please, Papa Jaren." Sweat glistened on the girl's brow. "It hurts so bad."

Jaren prayed, calling upon the stars to heal her wound, to ease her pain. She cried out as he set the bone, then shivered, whispering her thanks.

Before they stepped aside, Jaren held the father's arm. He passed a sack into his hand.

"Keys," Jaren whispered. "Keys to remove your collars. Keys to remove the chains around your ankles."

The slave's eyes widened. "Do you jest?"

Jaren shook his head. "A blessing, my son. A miracle. Keep them secret. Hand them out to every hut around yours; there are two hundred keys in this sack. Spread the word to wait. To wait until the Night of Seven."

Night of Seven. Among the holiest nights in Requiem's calendar. It was the night that Requiem remembered the great fall two thousand years ago—the genocide that had slaughtered all but seven Vir Requis, the Living Seven who fought the tyrant Dies Irae, who rebuilt Requiem from ruin. Queen Gloriae Aeternum had sat upon the Oak Throne that night two thousand years ago, and now—here, far from Requiem, chained in a distant land—the slaves of Requiem would rise in new defiance.

"Two nights from this one," whispered the slave, accepting the sack. "May the stars bless you, son of Aeternum."

Another slave approached, the whip lashes on his back infected. Jaren prayed, applied ointments, and stitched the wounds. To this man too, he gave a sack of keys. Inside were Keeper's Keys and simple, iron keys for the shackles around the slaves' feet.

He stood out in the night for hours, handing out the keys. He finally slept, allowing Elory to continue the work.

In the daylight, they toiled again.

In the darkness, they healed more slaves, handed out more keys.

"Keys for your collars," Jaren whispered to the ill and wounded approaching. "Keys for your shackles. Tomorrow night we rise. May our wings forever find Requiem's sky."

"Bless you, Papa Jaren!" they said. "The stars will forever shine upon you. Tomorrow night we rise."

Dawn rose.

"Toil!"

Whips lashed.

"Faster!"

Boots kicked.

"Die!"

Slaves fell into the dust, fading, flickering out.

Darkness fell.

They gathered in the hut. Slaves. Rebels. Children of starlight. An old priest and his children. A young hero. A young woman who'd fled from darkness. Those who had stood up against the shadows, who had shone a light, who had bled and prayed for their lost kingdom. Heroes of Requiem.

Jaren stood before them, and he spoke softly.

"Two thousand years ago, a tyrant named Dies Irae raised an army, and he toppled the halls of Requiem, and he slew all but seven of our people. Those seven Vir Requis—the great heroes of our nation—raised Requiem again from ruin. We've all heard their names in many tales: Benedictus, Lacrimosa, Gloriae, Agnus Dei, Kyrie Eleison, Terra, Memoria. Seven names we remember and praise even now, so many generations later."

Vale's eyes flashed. He had always imagined himself strong and noble like the great King Benedictus. Elory's eyes shone. She had always loved tales of Queen Lacrimosa, the great mother of Requiem.

"Tonight is the night we remember those old heroes," Jaren said. "And this night again, Requiem lies in ruin. Our people are dying. Our kingdom lies across the sea, its halls fallen. And this night again, heroes rise. This night we fight. And every night hence, for thousands of years, the Vir Requis will remember new names. Lucem. Tash. Elory. Vale. Meliora."

He looked at them, one by one, as he spoke their names. They stared back, eyes determined.

"And Jaren," Meliora whispered, reaching out to hold his hand. "My dear father, the kindest, bravest man I know."

Jaren squeezed her hand, looking at her—his eldest, his sweet Meliora.

You are Kalafi's daughter, and for so many years, I never knew you, but I love you, Meliora. I love you all. You are all my children.

"Let us pray," Jaren said.

They all held hands in a circle, and they spoke together. "As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home." Their voices dropped to whispers, and tears shone in their eyes. "Requiem. May our wings forever find your sky."

They left the hut together.

They stood in the darkness in a land of pain, of fire, of blood . . . and they called upon the starlight.

Their collars clanked to the ground, and scales chinked across them.

For the first time in his long life, Jaren Aeternum summoned his magic and became a dragon. Green scales rose across his body, green like the birch leaves of home, like the old flags of Requiem. Silver spikes grew from his tail. He was a frail dragon, too thin, too hurt, too weary, but as he soared skyward, he was as a great king of old.

His children rose around him. Red. Gold. Lavender. Blue. And one silver dragon with golden horns, no more feathers upon her.

They rose into the sky, and they blew their fire upward, lighting a great beacon.

"Requiem!" they cried.

And from the land below, the voices rose in answer. Hundreds of voices, then thousands, then a nation crying out together. One word. The word that meant everything to them, the word that had meant everything for over five thousand years.

"Requiem!"

From below they rose. One after another. Soon a hundred, then a thousand, then too many to count—a kingdom of dragons, rising from the darkness, blowing their fire.

Collars and chains clattered down, and the light of Requiem shone.

The story continues in . . . 

PILLARS OF DRAGONFIRE

Flame of Requiem, Book Three

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AFTERWORD

Thank you for reading Crown of Dragonfire, the second novel in the Flame of Requiem trilogy. I hope you enjoyed the book.

The next Flame of Requiem novel is titled Pillars of Dragonfire. Click here to grab your copy or search your favorite ebook store for "Pillars of Dragonfire."

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Thank you again, dear reader, and I hope we meet again between the pages of another book.

Daniel

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

THE MOTH SAGA

Moth

Empires of Moth

Secrets of Moth

Daughter of Moth

Shadows of Moth

Legacy of Moth

REQUIEM

Dawn of Dragons

Requiem's Song

Requiem's Hope

Requiem's Prayer

The Complete Trilogy

Song of Dragons

Blood of Requiem

Tears of Requiem

Light of Requiem

The Complete Trilogy

Dragonlore

A Dawn of Dragonfire

A Day of Dragon Blood

A Night of Dragon Wings

The Complete Trilogy

The Dragon War

A Legacy of Light

A Birthright of Blood

A Memory of Fire

The Complete Trilogy

Requiem for Dragons

Dragons Lost

Dragons Reborn

Dragons Rising

The Complete Trilogy

Flame for Requiem

Forged in Dragonfire

Crown of Dragonfire

Pillars of Dragonfire

The Complete Trilogy

ALIEN HUNTERS

Alien Hunters

Alien Sky

Alien Shadows

OTHER WORLDS

Eye of the Wizard

Wand of the Witch

Firefly Island

The Gods of Dream

Flaming Dove

KEEP IN TOUCH

www.DanielArenson.com

Daniel@DanielArenson.com

Facebook.com/DanielArenson

Twitter.com/DanielArenson