Chapter 28

“Well?” Marrowsven asked Pyre as she approached one of the old leather chairs. She looked the same as she ever had, thin with angular limbs and a red circle on her forehead. “Are you going to sit?”

Pyre sat, the chair sighing under his weight, while Sura joined them without ceremony, her hand once again tucked into her vest pocket.

The study no longer felt like a temporary refuge. It was a place people waited, lingered, argued. Pyre saw it clearly now. What he had taken for clutter was arrangement—objects left where they were needed, not where they looked best. It felt like a place where things were charted, the maps spread across a pair of tables like a captain’s quarters.

“You’re the last person I expected to see,” he finally told Marrowsven.

“You mean because of my sponsorship with the Butcher’s Court? It wasn’t binding. And I didn’t like what I learned. And I certainly didn’t want to wear white clothing that has been splattered with blood.” A grin spread across her face, sharp and humorless. “But really, it wasn’t a fashion choice as much as it was their mission, the mission of the Dark Pantheon, for that matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“In my realm, the demonic factions are known, worshipped, portrayed as heroes when they are not much better than vultures.”

“So you were dissatisfied?”

“Disillusioned.”

“Why?”

“Because of how they salivated over my Domain, Executioner, for one; because of what they plan to do with the next realm that falls. I thought that these realms would be stripped to better all of eternity, all souls, but that is not the case. I learned that. It’s all about power, and not power for good.”

The words sat between them, heavy. Pyre felt the same tightening in his chest he had felt at the Font of Eternity, the sense that something vast was being framed in terms that were too small to contain it.

“So how did you end up here?” Pyre asked Marrowsven. “You could have come back to us.”

“Come back to be trained by the Ledger Kin? Yes, that was an option. I could have. And I still might. But I met the Shepherd at the Font. I was going to try to walk into it.”

“The Long Walk?” he asked, surprised. “You would have—”

“I know I’m not ready,” she admitted, “and I know what would have happened to me, Pyre.” Her gaze lowered. “I was unraveling.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“In a way, you understood it before I did—some of the things you said, Pyre. Which is ironic because you never prepared for any of this.”

“When were you there?” he asked. “I was at the Font today, just now, and I didn’t see you.”

“Last night.”

“I was here,” Pyre said. “I thought the Shepherd was somewhere else last night,” he told Sura.

“He was, and then he was at the Font dealing with the lanterns we’ll need in the future. He’s often there. That’s where you met him, did you not? Souls have a way of gravitating toward him. It brought you both to us.”

Pyre glanced back to Marrowsven, who had relaxed some, her clawed hands cradled in her lap. “So you’re officially joining the Unmoored?”

“I’m staying here, if that’s what you mean.”

“Where?”

Marrowsven gave him a look halfway between amusement and disbelief. “Upstairs. It’s a mansion, Pyre. There are dozens of rooms.”

“That many?” He shook his head. “Sorry. I never explored. Have you ever been to some place and wanted to explore, but you never looked around? That’s how I feel about this place.”

“The door is always open,” Sura reminded Pyre. “And there’s room for you here, if you want it. I’m glad you’re both here because I have an announcement the Shepherd would like me to share with you: something is coming. A significant realm will soon collapse into the Deep Nether. We don’t know where it will land or when, but it won’t take long once the Hunger gets to it.”

“As in tomorrow soon?” Pyre asked Sura.

“Probably not tomorrow, but certainly within a few days. The factions have already started making preparations, which I’m sure you noticed, Marrowsven.”

“Please, just Marrow,” she told Sura.

“Marrow, then. Soon, you’ll see more activity as the factions begin watching for signs of the collapse and preparing to push into the Outskirts and the Forlorn Plains from there. That’s one of the advantages of being here, you know. We have a fairly good view of it all.”

“So from that point it just becomes a race for resources?” Pyre asked, agitation bleeding through despite his attempt to keep his voice level.

“Collapsing realms mean a number of things, not just Anima,” Sura said. “Ronark likens a realm collapse to a sinking galleon, its holds bursting open as predators circle in the dark of the Deep Nether. But that’s not the reason the Shepherd is interested, or the rest of the Unmoored, for that matter.”

“What is the reason?” Pyre asked.

“The reason he has invited the two of you to journey with us when it happens?” Sura smiled faintly. “Is that what you mean?”

“Us?” Pyre asked. “You want us to come with you all? Our Sigils aren’t stable yet.”

“Yours is, even if your soul is unready.”

“We haven’t triggered our Domain Trials is what he means,” Marrowsven told her.

“What better way to understand what’s truly at stake?” Sura asked, a faint curve to her mouth suggesting she already knew the answer. “As you’ve likely realized by now, the two of you and the Shepherd already share a point of alignment. He wants you both to understand why the powerful factions allow the Hunger to consume worlds, and he wants to show you what it is we’re actually looking for.”

Pyre felt something tighten inside him. “Why do I need to understand that? They’re pillaging them for resources.”

“Yes, but think about what I just told you: some resources matter more than others, especially ancient secrets tied to the First Realm. The Shepherd believes those secrets may hold the answer to the question we all share—how to stop the Hunger.”

“The First Realm?” Pyre asked.

“The ancient world that created all this.” Sura gestured toward the large window overlooking Aevum. “The First Realm was destroyed by the actions of the First Gods, the pieces of which factions still battle for once the Hunger comes, be it resources from realms like realm hearts or ancient artifacts. The kinds of things are littered across the Deep Nether. You meditated before one of these First Realm fragments today.”

“The Font of Eternity?” Pyre asked.

“Exactly. And there’s something else. But I believe the Shepherd will explain that. He would be upset with me if I told you.”

Pyre leaned back, the chair creaking. The Font. The Hollow. The destruction of his realm, the Swordsman going for its heart. He was about to ask about that when Marrowsven spoke again.

“So you’re inviting us to go with you, then?” Marrowsven asked Sura.

“You and Pyre, yes. Others as well, if you know anyone who would stand with us. It won’t be easy, but it will be interesting. And time is short. Do what you can now to strengthen yourselves, then decide.”

Pyre brought his hand to his mouth as he shifted his gaze to the view of Aevum, to the vertical power rising from its center. “How will we know when the realm is set to collapse?”

“It will be evident. Not all are, but this is a big one,” Sura said. “And the factions will start moving. Does this mean you will join us?”

“I’m thinking about it,” he said, still not able to fully commit.

“Good. In that case, Marrow, why don’t you lead Pyre back to Aevum?”

“I can find my way,” he told Sura.

“Well, in that case, at least show him out. And maybe show him your room as well.”

Marrowsven stood. “This way, Pyre.”

She led him out of the foyer and up the stairs, leaving the Shepherd’s study behind.

The manor’s upper level was clean but old, the steps creaking faintly beneath their weight. The walls were bare stone interrupted by the occasional hanging lantern, their light steady and practical. No tapestries, no ornamentation, no paintings, nothing meant to impress.

The upstairs formed a square corridor that wrapped around an inner void, with doors spaced at even intervals along both the inner and outer walls. They turned left, and Marrowsven stopped before a door with a polished brass handle, worn smooth by countless hands. She rested her palm against it for a moment, then opened it.

“I’m here,” she said.

The room beyond was modest. A single bed rested against the far wall beside a dark wooden armoire. A small table stood nearby with a chair tucked beneath it, and in the corner by the window sat an old leather chair much like the one in the study, cracked and worn from use.

A narrow window looked out over Aevum, the glow of the city visible beyond the stonework, while another opening gave a partial view down into the courtyard below, where he had sparred with Sura the previous night.

Nothing about the room suggested permanence or luxury, just a place to rest.

“Have you met any of the other Unmoored?” Pyre asked her.

“Yes, two. I met Tallow and Veylan.”

“Did Tallow mimic your form?”

“Yes. It was highly unsettling, and I forbid him from doing it again.”

“Yeah, that,” Pyre said, recalling what it had been like to look at an exact replica of himself. “I haven’t met Veylan yet.”

“He’s very old, hunched, a failed scholar by how he describes it. I don’t know what he can do, or his Domain, or what makes him think he failed. What about you? Who have you met here?”

“There’s Ronark, a dwarf,” Pyre said, remembering the cantankerous man. “And there’s a sound entity named Irix.”

“Huh.” Marrowsven sat on her bed. “I did notice a vibration in the hallway last night.”

“That was probably her,” Pyre said. The thought lingered longer than he expected. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well. I should get going.”

“See you tomorrow, then?” Marrowsven asked as he reached the door.

He turned back to her. “I honestly don’t know what I’m doing. Or maybe part of me does. Some deeper part.” He let out a quiet breath, half a laugh. “I just know I keep ending up here. Who knows? Maybe it’s just my Domain at work. Defying myself as much as anything else. Yours is Executioner.”

“Yes?”

“Why’s that? It seems like everyone’s Domains match some trait they shared in their former life. I was wondering about yours.”

“You really want to know?”

“Only if you want to tell me.”

Marrowsven studied him for a moment, eyes sharp but not guarded, then exhaled slowly. “In Kylindros, I was part of an assassin’s guild, one that worked toward ascension and used funds from the blood trade to make that happen. Think of it like this: I killed for a living and meditated on it. There were always targets, especially in the governments that ran the various continents of my realm. So my Domain fits. And the Dark Pantheon and its demonic factions especially like it.”

“Did you train with them?” Pyre asked. “The Butcher’s Court?”

She tilted her head slightly. “You aren’t bothered that I was an assassin. I was assuming someone like you would be.”

“Like me?”

“Someone from a militia; someone who was doing something to protect their community; a person like you, Pyre, who seems to have morals; someone… pure.”

Pyre shrugged off her statement, whether it was a compliment or not. “The realms differ, the rules differ, and yet we all end up here. Who am I to judge?”

“You are a strangely profound man, Pyre,” she finally said. “And yes, they gave me some training. But my Sigil isn’t yet mature or anything. And no Domain Trial. They have ways, you know, to accelerate maturation, but I declined.”

“How so?”

“Anima chambers. At least for a first Sigil, being in one long enough can trigger a Domain Trial. That’s one of the advantages of a sponsorship. The Ledger Kin don’t use techniques like this; I believe they see it as inauthentic and dangerous.” She glanced toward the wall that separated her room from the next. “You don’t have to go back, you know. You can stay in the room next door.”

“I know. I’m just not ready yet.”

“I admire that about you,” Marrowsven said. “And it makes sense considering your Domain. So, tomorrow? Will you stop by? Or are you going to show up randomly again?”

Pyre smirked at her. “We’ll see. Later, Marrow.”

“Bye, Pyre.”

He closed the door softly behind him. As he stepped back into the corridor, the manor felt different than it had when he first arrived. Less like a hideout, and more like a place people came when the paths offered to them no longer fit, before they chose where to go next.

Still, Pyre didn’t linger.

Not yet.