Chapter 40

“Just be ready,” Sura kept saying, her Sigil drawn, the shield with its clock face held in front of her body. “Just be ready.”

Pyre had never seen her like this before. The elven woman stood with her shoulders squared and her weight balanced forward, eyes darting left and right. The casual confidence she normally carried was gone, replaced by something sharper and far more dangerous.

The three Unclaimed had their weapons drawn as well. Pyre’s broken blade burned low and steady, Balefor’s translucent greataxe hovered near his shoulder, and Marrowsven’s bone Sigil rested loosely in her grip. They were prepared to fight, yet none of them truly understood why.

“At least tell us what the Synod of Yore is,” Balefor said.

“There are pantheons and their factions, as you know,” Sura said without looking to him. “Then there are factions that belong to none. Some splintered from a pantheon long ago. The Synod of Yore is one of them. They were once aligned with the Light Pantheon. I’ve never seen them myself—only their artifacts. Like the mask.”

“A bird mask,” Pyre said, glancing at it.

“They wear them to hide the facelessness that results from being enslaved into the Synod,” she said. “The Synod of Yore are not welcome in Aevum, so they stay out here in the Forlorn Plains, hunting for more souls to force into their cause.”

“And joining them involves facelessness?” Marrowsven asked. Near her, the Anima lantern cast long, warped shadows that bent in directions Pyre’s eyes struggled to follow.

“Yes,” Sura said. “Their recruitment process involves the removal of one’s facial features through a specific Anima chamber. The mask binds to the soul. It traps them.”

“So we have a mask here,” Balefor said slowly. “Meaning someone pried it off.”

“I don’t know,” Sura said. “I really don’t know.”

Movement rippled above them.

Pyre looked up just in time to see Tallow extending himself down the rock face, his body stretching unnaturally, waxy substance dripping from his limbs as gravity pulled at him. Ronark descended beside him; the dwarf appeared to be floating until a deep, resonant hum made it clear that Irix was lowering him with controlled force.

They touched down almost silently, followed by their Anima lantern.

“Well, you called. What is it, then?” Ronark asked.

“The Synod have been here,” Sura said, gesturing to the mask.

“Ah, bollocks.” Ronark picked up the mask and examined it. He turned it around to reveal blood smeared across the inside of the mask. “Argh.”

“It means one got free, right?” Sura asked. “There is blood on the walls near the opening there as well.”

“I reckon so,” Ronark said. “Which means they must be hunting this soul, or they have already found them.”

“Maybe…” Everyone turned to Pyre. He cleared his throat and pointed toward the open passageway. “Maybe there’s something in there.”

Ronark straightened and followed his gaze. “What am I looking at exactly?”

“We discovered a passageway that opens by putting pressure on one of the stones,” Sura said quickly. “It looks like what we’ve seen before.”

“A First Realm relic could be inside,” Ronark surmised.

“That was my thought,” Sura said.

“I can check,” Irix offered.

“No,” Ronark said immediately. “We should wait until the Shepherd comes. They sent up the flare; I’m assuming he saw it too.” He lifted the mask slightly. “He’ll know more about this. So we wait, just like he told us.”

It wasn’t long before the Shepherd came rambling up alongside Veylan.

Once again, the big man’s numerous maps were strapped to his back, scroll cases and instruments clinking softly with each step. As soon as he saw the mask in Ronark’s hands, he summoned his crook, the wood humming faintly as it solidified.

“The Synod of Yore,” Veylan said as he hobbled forward. He took the mask from Ronark and turned it over in his thin hands. “Yes. It was pried off. One of the enslaved souls freed themselves.”

“Then they’re still here,” the Shepherd said.

“We haven’t seen anyone aside from the dead mirthbeasts,” Balefor told him. “And blood on the walls.”

“The mirthbeasts have an explanation. The Synod use their fur for warmth.” The Shepherd leaned his weight on his crook. “We don’t feel the cold because of the lanterns and the Anima we currently have stored up. But the Synod can be out here for ages without encountering another soul. They need the warmth, hence the fur.” His gaze shifted to the open passageway. “Have we checked it?”

“No,” Sura said. “That’s what the signal was for. I believe something from the First Realm may be inside.”

“Likely so. I would go myself, but there isn’t a lot of space.” The Shepherd turned his head slightly. “Irix. You know what to do.”

The vibration slid forward, straight past Marrowsven. Irix pooled near the passageway and released a low, probing sound. It vanished into the stone and returned in layered echoes, each one thinner than the last.

“It’s not very deep,” she said at last. “And there is something in there. A body as well.”

“A body?” Balefor asked. “How dead?”

“I can’t tell,” she said. “Something is preventing me from getting a good reading on the space. Which means—”

“Which means there is indeed a relic inside,” Veylan said, as though confirming a calculation. “It always has an effect on your powers, you know.”

“Yes,” Irix admitted. “In that case, a relic and a body.”

“It could be a sarcophagus with a body inside.” The Shepherd tightened his grip on his staff. “Or a traveler who found themselves trapped in there long ago. Pyre, your sword will help. You, Tallow, and Ronark head in and see what you can find. Irix, you will run communication. The rest of us will stay here, guarding the entrance. Once we have uncovered the relic, we need to move. If one of the Synod has escaped, there will be a hunt, and it would be better for us not to be part of that. And there is still time to explore if we hurry.”

“Yes,” Veylan said, already lifting his monocular. “I will start looking for one in the vicinity.”

“So that’s the plan,” the Shepherd said, glancing away from Pyre. “Good luck. All of you.”

“As you wish,” Ronark said as he pushed forward, boot lifting toward the pressure plate that would trigger the stone door.

“Careful,” Sura said sharply.

He stopped, and Tallow strutted past, tail lightly flicking against Ronark’s leg. “Well?” the cat asked, turning back to Pyre and Ronark. “Are you coming or not?”

Why me, again? Pyre wondered as soon as he stepped inside.

The answer came quickly, once the flames from his sword spilled across the walls. The chamber was narrow and low, the stone smoothed by deliberate shaping rather than erosion. The light from Pyre’s Sigil revealed shallow reliefs and broken statues pressed into the walls, their forms warped by time.

“Irix, you still there?” Ronark asked aloud.

“Here,” came her reply. “Just focus on reaching the end.”

“Trying to,” Ronark said as he slipped around what he first assumed was a rock formation.

Pyre’s fire painted it clearly.

A soldier?

It stood frozen mid-stride, sculpted from pale stone, its features worn smooth. Before Pyre could speak, Tallow snapped his tail against it. The figure collapsed instantly, disintegrating into dust.

“What was that?” Pyre asked.

“Something we’ve encountered before in a looted vault,” Tallow said, golden eyes gleaming with mischief. “The First Gods had these made out of a material that doesn’t do so well over time. It’s fun knocking them over. I wish I could do the same for some of the Heavenly Host.”

“You hate them as well?” Pyre asked.

“Hate is a strong word,” Tallow said. “A strong word that fits how I personally feel about the Heavenly Host.”

“Why does everyone seem to hate them?” Pyre asked. “I have my reasons, but it seems like everyone in Aevum is against them.”

“Because of the Light Pantheon—they are the cockiest faction.” Ronark stopped beside another statue and flicked, the piece crumbling to the ground. “Fuckers, really.”

“You should be focusing on the task at hand,” Irix said, her voice everywhere all at once.

“I am focused,” Ronark said. “I’m helping the kid here better understand why everyone hates the Heavenly Host.”

“But you haven’t told him anything,” Irix said.

“That’s because you’re bloody interrupting me!” Ronark told her. He glanced back to Pyre. “The Heavenly Host were once known to partner with other factions only to betray them in the end. They have the most resources and realms of the Light Pantheon, which leads them to bragging about it, whenever they’re out and about. They live in the best part of Aevum, right behind the Font of Eternity. They can simply move out onto their balconies to absorb power and don’t have to mingle with the masses.”

“Elitest angelic scum,” Tallow said as he collapsed another statue with his tail. “Cocky bastards.”

“So they’re right behind the Font? Pyre asked. “I really need to see a map of Aevum. All I know is the Hollow, how to get to the manor, and where the Radiant Fold lives.”

“The Radiant Fold is not much better,” Ronark said matter-of-factly. “About the only factions I actually like are the Ledger Kin, because at least they’re trying to do something, even if it’s all about bribes. Them, and the Named Mothers—only because they are helpful and most of the women are quite strong. Muscular, like dwarven women. Heh. I like that.”

“If you want me to morph into your sister, I can,” Tallow said.

Ronark whirled on him. “I told you about doing that!”

Movement flickered just behind Ronark.

Sword raised, Pyre slipped past the dwarf to engage. Fire swept across the stone, revealing a shape reaching toward them—porcelain-white skin, a face worn smooth to nothing. No eyes. No mouth. Only a blank surface. Hooked claws tipped its fingers, flexing in slow, deliberate twitches as it tried to drag itself toward them.

“Synod,” Ronark said, summoning his bellows. He paused. “Actually, you do it. Pyre. The sword will be cleaner in here.”

“I can handle it,” Irix offered.

“No,” Ronark said calmly, watching the faceless thing advance without hurry. “Let him do it. Swords were made to put monsters out of their misery. Deal with the thrall, Pyre.”