Chapter 19

Pyre moved closer to the perimeter of the Font of Eternity, following Sister Halycon’s instructions.

He did not step onto the bridge leading to the bright column of light, and he certainly didn’t join the numerous souls lining up for the Long Walk.

This is far enough, he thought as he stopped just short of the threshold where the stone changed texture.

From here, he could see the Long Walk clearly. The bridge pushing into the sheer luminosity of the Font was much shorter than he would have expected, elegant in a way that made its purpose unmistakable.

It simply led forward, straight into the light, souls crossing one at a time and fading instantly. Some walked with confidence. Others trembled, their forms brightening as the light took hold of them.

Fewer souls gathered near the Font than along its outer rings, but those who stood closest carried a heavier presence. Most remained seated at the edge or stood with hands folded behind their backs, watching the Long Walk.

Pyre’s eyes settled on a man impossible to miss, nearly twice his height and broad enough to overshadow those around him. He sat at the edge of the stone ring, legs dangling over the void as he watched souls cross the short bridge toward the Font with their backs to him.

The man’s massive frame was wrapped in patched, layered robes that looked as though they had been repaired hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times. The fabric was mismatched in color and texture, stitched together without regard for symmetry or appearance.

There was no reverence in his attention, no judgment. Only something like tired interest.

Pyre lingered near the Long Walk for a heartbeat too long. The pressure there escalated without warning, forcing him back before he could resist it.

He turned from it and crossed to the old man. “May I sit?”

The man looked up slowly.

His hair was ruffled, brown threaded heavily with gray. His brows were thick and wild, casting shadows over eyes that looked older than the Nether itself. Scars crossed his face in uneven patterns to the point they had disrupted the natural growth of his beard, leaving it patchy and crooked.

“Only if you plan to meditate,” the old man told him with a grunt. “I do not wish to hold a conversation with you.”

“This is my first time here.”

“Clearly. And now you see the Long Walk,” the man said, pointing with his chin to the bridge, “which I have always found humorous considering how short the bridge is. It’s beautiful here, even if everyone in Aevum is a bloody bastard. Sit, watch, and be quiet.”

Pyre almost smirked at the bastard comment, then stopped himself. The familiar thoughts surfaced anyway—the Nether, the Hollow, the imbalance threaded through it all—but he left them untouched.

He lowered himself onto the stone instead, sitting a short distance from the man and leaving a deliberate span of space between them. After a moment, he matched the man’s posture.

He said to meditate, Pyre thought, yet the stranger sat casually, shoulders loose, chin down. Pyre followed suit, fixing his gaze on the Font until the brilliance began to ache behind his eyes. After a while, he closed them.

“You are Unclaimed,” the man said the moment Pyre shut his eyes.

Pyre looked at him to find that the man’s gaze had not shifted from the Font.

“I am, yes,” he said.

“Just getting started, then.”

“Not by choice.”

“Not by choice? All of this is a choice.”

“I didn’t make this choice,” Pyre said, forcing the flare of heat down before it could reach his voice.

The man curled his lips, irritation flashing briefly across his face. “Then who made the choice for you? If not you, Unclaimed, then who?”

“A realm raider.”

The stranger turned toward him, and a few of the scars across his cheeks tightened. “A realm raider? Describe them.”

“I met him right after the Hunger came to my realm,” Pyre said. “An angel from the Heavenly Host named Daedalus tried to stop it, but Karastella—”

“One of the worst of them, but they’re all the same,” the stranger said, interrupting. “Continue.”

“Karastella didn’t let Daedalus save us. He died soon after—killed himself.”

The man studied Pyre anew, something intent kindling behind his eyes. “There’s nothing Daedalus could have done anyway. And somehow, you picked up his fully formed Sigil. Curious.”

Pyre nearly jumped to his feet. “How did you know? No one knows.”

“Some may know when they see you,” the man told him, a strange tinkle in his eyes.

A deep breath did little to calm Pyre’s nerves. “The Sigil is broken. The blade, I mean, but it isn’t clear like the other Unclaimed Sigils. After that happened, I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t even know what a Sigil was at the time. Then I noticed a cathedral taking shape right in the middle of where the town square used to be. So I approached it, and that’s where I found this realm raider standing in front of the heart of my realm.”

“I ask again—describe him.”

“All I remember is that he was barefooted and that he had more swords than I’ve ever seen a man carry strapped to his back. White hair, too.”

The stranger started laughing. Not a chuckle. Not a snort. A deep, rolling laugh that shook his shoulders and echoed faintly toward the Font of Eternity.

“So Gaius is still alive,” he finally said.

“Gaius? That’s his name?” Pyre asked the old man. “How do you know?”

The man glanced around them, scanning the gathered souls, the bridge, the Font. “We should move somewhere else to speak. What’s your name, young man?”

“Velius Pyre. You can call me Pyre.”

“What happened after you met Gaius?”

“He killed me. Asked me if I wanted to be saved. I said yes, because what else would someone say in a situation like that? I had no idea what would come next, from the Shriving to this damned position I currently find myself in, a future pawn in a game between various factions. But before he killed me, he said something—something I’ve been asking others about since arriving here.”

“Oh? What did Gaius say?”

Pyre finally met the man’s gaze. “He said to find you. He said to find the Shepherd.”

The old man did not look away. “And you assume that is me?”

“A hunch,” Pyre said, feeling the word catch on the way out.

“Your instincts are good. You have found me, Pyre. And now, I believe our conversation here is done.” The Shepherd stood, impossibly tall, robes tugged by an unseen wind. “Will you now join me for a private conversation, or not?”

“Only if you’ll answer my questions,” Pyre said. “I’m not here to be toyed with.”

The strange smile on the Shepherd’s face widened. “You’re not here to be toyed with, are you? Then you will be disappointed,” he said, turning away. “But follow me anyway. Or don’t, and figure it out yourself. I sit here often, you know, expecting someone like you, because your type always ends up here somehow. Anyway, I’m going. Whether you’re coming or not is up to you.”

And without waiting for Pyre’s reply, the Shepherd stepped away.