Chapter 16

Pyre slept deeply.

It was not the guarded rest of a soldier half-expecting alarms, nor was it the fitful exhaustion that followed battle. It was heavy and complete, drawn down over him as Kesh’s song still lingered at the edges of his mind, a low resonance that smoothed sharp thoughts and pressed his anger flat. Whatever the bard had woven into the melody had not simply lulled Pyre into sleep, but it had held him there.

He dreamed of the bells of Farreach, of sunlight pressing through the forest canopy in spring, of the wonderful fish they’d bring from the sea and roast over open fires along the beach, and of the quieter moments of fall as the leaves fell and his people celebrated another bountiful harvest.

It was his peace, the place he clung to, and the moment something touched him, he felt it slipping away.

Pyre surged upright, heart spiking, hand already burning as his Sigil manifested. The broken black sword snapped into existence, flames licking along its fractured edge and throwing erratic light across the walls.

“Put that away,” Marrowsven hissed.

He froze, breath coming fast as his weapon vanished.

“Marrowsven?” he asked, staring at the woman in the dark, her pale face illuminated by the light of Aevum and accenting the red circle on her forehead.

Her eyes gleamed, alert and amused, like someone who had already decided this encounter would go her way. There was an edge to her presence that made Pyre keenly aware of the distance between them, of how small the room suddenly felt, of how strange the woman was.

“I want to go out,” she said. “Also, call me Marrow.”

“Out?” Pyre asked, confusion still lingering.

“Out.” She motioned toward his small window. “To Aevum. I want to see it. I’ve been kept in here far too long. I didn’t work this hard just to be stored away and tested for placement I may have no say in. Don’t you want to know more? I think we share that in common. So, Mr. Defiance, what will it be?”

“Why me?”

“Huh?”

“Why are you asking me to come with you? Did you ask any of the others?”

Marrowsven shrugged. “No, I did not. And I’m asking you because the voice at the back of my head told me it’s a good idea. I listen to that voice, you know. And you’re different from the others, anyway. It might do us both good to see Aevum. So are you coming, or not?”

“How do we get out of here?”

“We’ll figure that out in a moment.” She stepped toward the door, pausing with her hand on the frame. “Or stay here. Your choice, but I’m going. I’ll see you in the common area.”

Marrowsven left without waiting for an answer.

Pyre lay back, staring up at the ceiling. For a brief moment—only a moment—he wondered if this was a mistake, if there was wisdom in staying where the rules were clear and the consequences at least defined.

I’m not a prisoner, he concluded. At least to my knowledge. And I’m not going to find the Shepherd in here.

With this in mind, Pyre joined her to find the common area, which was now lit by a single lantern casting long shadows across the table. Marrowsven stood near the far wall, her posture relaxed, eyes catching the light as she waited for him.

Pyre had just opened his mouth to say something to her when he noticed the figure slumped at the table. Balefor sat with his head dipped forward, massive arms folded loosely, breathing deep and slow, the lion-man asleep, face practically buried in his mane.

Marrowsven brought a finger to her lips and motioned Pyre forward. They had just started through the exit together when they heard a familiar voice behind them.

“Where are you two going?” Balefor asked.

Pyre turned back.

Balefor was still bent forward, eyes closed, yet his ears twitched.

“Aevum,” Marrowsven said.

Balefor pushed away from the table and stood, where he rolled his shoulders, shook out his mane. “Is it morning already? No?” He looked between them, then smiled. “Good, then I will join you. I’ve been curious myself.”

“Have you?” Marrowsven asked.

“Who wouldn’t be?” he asked. “This is likely a terrible idea, but it will be good company. Or good enough,” Balefor said, raising an eyebrow at her.

“But how will we get out?” Pyre asked.

Balefor cracked his knuckles. “Through the front door. They never said we had to stay in here, you know.”

“They didn’t say that we could leave, either,” Marrowsven reminded him.

“Eh, I think it’s fine,” Balefor said. “Windscar went out earlier and has yet to return. I could have joined him, perhaps, but he’s a piece of shit and a literal bastard; I felt a little sleep would do me better. But now that I see you two are heading out, I believe I’ll join. I have to ask, though.” He yawned, tongue curling out briefly as he looked at Marrowsven. “Why him, anyway? I was asleep here. You could have asked me.”

“Because you were asleep.”

“And he was not?”

“I was awake,” Pyre said, covering for Marrowsven in case that was what she wanted. “Kesh’s song only put me out for an hour or two.”

“Ah, Kesh.`” Balefor chuckled. “I like him. A good man and an even better bard. Before we go.” He took a big step over toward the table and returned with a bottle of wine. “Just in case we need spirits.” He studied the bottle for a moment. “If I were a dead vigneron, I’d figure out how to strengthen the wine here, maybe even augment it with Anima. Seems smart, right?”

“It seems like something a drunkard would say,” Marrowsven told him.

“If I’m not mistaken, and my nose usually isn’t, you are a bit fox-drunk yourself.”

“Let’s just get on with it,” she told Balefor.

“Lead the way,” he said, gesturing with the wine bottle toward the door.

They descended into the main corridor to find it abandoned. Tapestries hung still against the crystalline walls, untouched by any passing air. No footsteps echoed ahead of them, and no sentries stood watch, no wards reacting as they moved through the space, which felt open and curiously indifferent to their presence.

“See?” Balefor said with a slow spin. “Not a soul. We aren’t being guarded, nor are we being held prisoner.”

“Instead, we’re met with a maze,” Marrowsven said as they reached a hall branching into many paths. Corridors split and curved away from one another, each framed by the same crystalline stone, lit just well enough to look inviting while promising nothing.

Balefor stopped, sniffed the air, then pointed. “That door.”

“And how do you know?” she asked.

He tapped his nose. “Must I tell you twice?”

The door opened onto a circular courtyard lined with steps and statues frozen in battle poses, each holding a Sigil. There was a man with a tall hat wielding a cane; a wolf-creature with a pair of curved swords; a heavyset woman with a book that had a dagger sticking out of its spine; and a hooded monster with broad shoulders, four arms, and a Sigil that resembled a pickaxe. The Nether sky stretched endlessly dark above the statues, filled with drifting marble landmasses that appeared as if they were orbiting Aevum.

“That way,” Balefor said, pointing to a gate nearly twice his height.

“And you can get us back here?” Pyre asked.

“Certainly. You needn’t worry about navigation with me.” He clapped an arm around Pyre’s shoulder and nodded ahead. “Come on. Marrowsven is already moving.”

“Call me Marrow,” she said without slowing.

Balefor smiled. “Marrow, then.” He lengthened his stride to catch up, Pyre close behind. “You’ve been quiet, Marrow, which makes me curious.”

He glanced back at Pyre. “Are you curious as well?”

“Sure,” Pyre said, unsure where Balefor was going with this.

Balefor turned his attention back to Marrowsven. “In that case, tell us a little about yourself. We already know you’re from a place of half-spheres, which I suppose explains the red circle on your forehead.”

She stopped walking. “My realm is known as Kylindros. What else do you want to know?”

Balefor opened the bottle of wine, took a drink, and gave it to her. “Well, what do you want to tell me, Executioner?”

Marrowsven took a drink and handed the bottle to Pyre, who declined. “Maybe you’re right,” she said. “Best to be levelheaded.”

Balefor took the bottle back from her and drank from it. “Argh. I would have to drink ten bottles of this swill to feel even the slightest rush.” He wiped his mouth with his arm. “Perhaps twenty.”

“They said we don’t need food,” Pyre reminded him. “So maybe that has something to do with it.”

“Perhaps, but old habits die hard,” Balefor said. “I honestly wasn’t much of a drinker in my realm, only on special occasions, but when I did, I preferred to enjoy myself.” The lion-man drank more and burped. “Apologies. Marrow, please go on. We know Pyre is from Farreach. I was an adventurer in my realm, and of course, there’s more to it than that, but it is also a bit self-explanatory. You, on the other hand…”

“We didn’t come here to talk,” she said firmly. “We came here to explore, which, if I’m not mistaken, fits the rationale of an adventurer, as you call yourself.”

“In that case, through the gate we go,” Balefor said, gesturing toward it again.

They passed through, and Aevum unfolded around them. Crystal and stone twisted into impossible architecture, the streets glowing faintly beneath their feet. Souls moved everywhere, alone or in clusters, some watching from balconies high above, all of which led to what appeared to be one of many squares where souls gathered.

Pyre saw angelic beings dressed in white, which instantly brought a sour taste to his mouth as he remembered Karastella. There were others, those that seemed more demonic, some shifting closer to human, others looking more like Devourers with their horns and sharp teeth. There were souls seated around tables, drinking and speaking, while a few played games.

Pyre caught the looks from some of them, the way eyes lingered before sliding away.

“Not a bad place to mingle,” Balefor said as raised voices broke out nearby, “but I’m more interested in that.” He gestured toward the Font of Eternity, the vast column of light rising from the city’s heart, visible above the rooftops like a fixed star. It was creation given shape, light with purpose and weight.

“What about the Hollow?” Pyre asked.

Marrowsven turned to him, eyes narrowing. “What about it?”

“Can we see that as well?”

She scoffed at the idea. “Why would you want to see a place like that?”

“If that’s where the people who weren’t worth saving are sent,” he said, his voice tight, “then I want to see it. We see the glory that is the Font. I’d like to know what lies on the other side.”

“I would as well,” Balefor said, serious now. He glanced around. “Since this seems to be a meeting ground between the various factions, one potentially connected to others,” he said, motioning toward a circular road, “someone here will know.”

“You ask, then,” Marrowsven told Pyre. “Or you,” she said to Balefor.

The lion-man straightened, confidence settling easily over him. “I was planning to.”

Together, the three threaded through the crowd until Balefor slowed before a woman dressed in white and gold. Light traced the embroidery of her robes before vanishing into fitted golden armor beneath. Her posture was exact, spine aligned, chin held with measured composure. Her gaze settled on them behind.

Balefor offered her a gracious, toothy grin. “Excuse me, milady. The Hollow. Might you point us in the right direction?”

He turned his palm upward, and she took it.

“Unclaimed,” the angelic woman said as Balefor dropped to one knee to kiss her hand.

“At your service.”

“Flattery will get you somewhere,” the woman told Balefor as he got back to his feet.

The grin remained on his face. “I hoped it would.”

“The Hollow is to the east,” she said. “But I do not know why you’d go anywhere near there.”

“Is there another place we could see it from?” Pyre asked the woman. “Maybe a balcony, or something.”

“I remember what it was like to be eager,” the woman said, not answering his question. “You show up Unclaimed, and then you are whisked away to a private area, where you are tested, prodded, and sometimes broken.”

“Only one of us has broken so far,” Marrowsven told her.

The woman smiled at all three of them. “To be expected. As for the Hollow, your manners have earned you a courtesy. It’s good to make an impression on the Unclaimed. I will show you the way. I am Lady Freja of the Luminous Concord.”

“The Luminous Concord. Is that like the Heavenly Host?” Pyre asked.

“Hardly,” she replied, smile cracking. “We may share a pantheon, but we would never allow ourselves to stoop to such lows. Some of the Divine Beings of the Heavenly Host are especially terrible.”

Pyre didn’t need to hear the name to know who she meant. The way Lady Freja spoke carried old disdain, barely concealed.

Karastella—she has to be talking about her, he thought as they followed the woman away from the crowd and toward a rising passage cut directly into the crystal.

The ascent was gradual but unbroken; each step carried them farther from the din of the crowd, the light changing from radiant gold to a cooler, more distant glow.

“And remember, I am not a tour guide,” Lady Freja said as she gestured toward the sunken district below. Great trees rose from the mist, their branches draped with rope-like growths that chimed faintly as they swayed. “If you are sponsored, the faction will show you around.” Her gaze lingered on them a moment longer, cool and appraising. “That said, this is where you will find the Luminous Concord. If you decide to pledge yourselves to us. Or, more likely, if we decide to accept you.”

She did not wait for a response.

Lady Freja turned and led them onward, past the outer edge of the district and into a narrowing lane that sloped away from the light. The white-and-gold faded behind them, replaced by bare crystal walls and hanging mist.

The lane ended at a suspended overlook, its edge open to the void below.

“There it is,” Lady Freja said once they reached the suspended platform.

Below them, the Hollow sank into the easternmost side of Aevum.

Structures leaned at wrong angles, half-swallowed by drifting mist, their surfaces stained dull and lifeless. Pale, semi-translucent figures moved through the streets in loose clusters, some dragging themselves along walls, others simply standing where they had stopped, faces slack and blurred, eyes unfocused. Bells tolled from somewhere below, slow and irregular, their sound warped by distance and fog, nothing like the joyful bells Pyre remembered of Farreach.

“It’s somehow worse than I thought it would be,” Balefor said as he looked out over the Hollow.

“What did you expect from such a place?” Lady Freja asked. “It is a place populated by those whose spiritual journey has fractured or stalled, not too far away, really from wandering in the Outskirts.”

Resentment tightened in Pyre’s chest. After all their struggle, to arrive in a place stripped of glory and tucked away on the eastern edge of Aevum felt like a deliberate slight.

“Let’s go,” Marrowsven said, either picking up the thoughts twisting through Pyre’s head or simply getting bored. “We see the Font and then return to our quarters.”

Lady Freja gestured down the steps toward a different path. “That direction will take you there. The Font is visible from most of the city, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. I will stay here. When the time comes to choose a faction, remember the Luminous Concord. We are among the best.”

She turned away, her interest in them already spent. They headed down the stairs, Marrowsven taking the lead. The path soon widened into a broad boulevard that skirted another square filled with ascendants.

Beyond it, the city gave way to something else entirely.

A vast stairway rose ahead of them, its steps broad enough to swallow processions whole, each tier carved from polished rock that caught and refracted the light pouring down from above.

The Font of Eternity towered at the far end, a roaring column of radiance that seemed less contained by the city than anchored to it, light surging upward in a ceaseless cascade.

It dwarfed every structure Pyre had seen in his life, mortal or otherwise, grand enough that his sense of scale failed him outright.

Souls were gathered everywhere, lining the steps and filling the surrounding terraces, praying and prostrating, meditating and chanting, some wading directly into the light as though drawn by instinct alone. All of them bathed in the glow, their forms softened and reshaped by its brilliance as the Font roared on above them, and there was a long path of souls that seemed to be walking directly into it.

“Glorious, simply glorious.” Balefor made a gesture and dipped his head toward the power.

Next to him, Marrowsven twisted her fingers together in a strange way as she shut her eyes.

Pyre felt its pull, yet something deep inside him answered, not with hope, but with refusal. This place isn’t meant to save anyone if it will not move to stop the Hunger’s destruction, he thought, eyes fixed on the light until the strain forced him to look away.