Chapter 31

Pyre led Balefor past the Hollow without speaking.

The district anchored the edge of his awareness, its mist clinging low to the ground. Bells tolled faintly from within, irregular and distant, the sound swallowed almost as soon as it emerged. Pyre kept his eyes forward, and Balefor did the same, though Pyre could feel his attention straining sideways, drawn toward the darkness.

Beyond the Hollow, the outskirts of Aevum had changed.

Banners hung from balconies and temporary spires, symbols unfamiliar to Pyre, a few radiant, others jagged or abstract, all unmistakably factional. Groups gathered in tight formations. Some tracked the marbled realms in the twilight beyond. Others watched one another. Conversations happened in murmurs and sharp gestures toward opposing sides, their intent clear: this wasn’t preparation for defense—it was positioning, signs of imminent war.

Pyre could feel it in the air, the same way he had felt storms gathering back in Farreach before the clouds broke, right before the long-prophesied Devourers and the Hunger showed up at his doorstep.

“We’re not far,” Pyre told Balefor once the mansion came into view on the hill ahead, the sound of his own voice bringing him back to the present. He caught a procession of armored figures passing in the distance, their vertical gray banner snapping in a wind that hadn’t existed a moment before.

Balefor stopped short. “Wait, wait, wait,” he said. “I think I need to know a little more.”

Pyre turned to him. “About what?”

The lion-man gave him an incredulous look. “You said the Unmoored is a faction that isn’t a faction, but you never said what they stood for, why they are the way they are, what makes them different, only that they were led by the Shepherd and that Marrow has joined them.”

“The Shepherd wants to stop the Hunger,” Pyre explained. “He thinks that the pantheon and all its factions should be working together to find a solution, not fighting among themselves. And in the time I’ve been here, I have to say I agree. Are you familiar with the First Realm?”

“No, I am not. We Leoline don’t learn about such a thing, only techniques to ascend past the Shriving.”

“I’m not the best one to explain it,” Pyre said. “But from what I’ve been told, the First Realm existed before all the others. It was destroyed by the First Gods, creating the other countless realms, including ours. That destruction also left behind artifacts, the most famous of them being the Font of Eternity. The Shepherd thinks that more of these objects from the First Realm could help us understand and ultimately stop the Hunger.”

The lion-man exhaled slowly. “So when a realm falls, the Shepherd’s faction don’t actively seek out fights with the others.”

“To my knowledge, no.”

“But the battles are inevitable, especially when they are essentially pirates. Pirates for a cause.”

“I don’t know if I’d call them pirates, but yes,” Pyre said, “from what I’ve come to understand about their mission, yes. I believe, given the power behind these kinds of artifacts, that there would be a fight to control them.”

“Huh. Well, let’s hope the Shepherd is there.”

“He hasn’t been the last several nights,” Pyre said as he started forward again, “but if he’s not, you can at least meet Sura and see Marrow.”

They climbed the final stretch toward the manor in silence. The gate stood open, as it always did, but the front door was closed.

It creaked open the moment Pyre crossed the threshold.

Balefor glanced at him; Pyre didn’t comment. Instead, he led the way inside, past the foyer and down the familiar hall toward the study.

Look who it is, Pyre thought as he found the Shepherd seated on his stool before the window, the old man impossibly large even while hunched, his shoulders rounded forward as if bearing invisible weight. His patchwork robes pooled around him,r and the light from outside traced over the jagged scars across his face, catching in the uneven growth of his beard.

Tables around the Shepherd were cluttered with instruments and maps. Armillary spheres rotated slowly on their own, while crystal lenses on iron stands angled toward the sky beside sheets of parchment covered in charts and notations Pyre couldn’t read.

At first, Pyre assumed the Shepherd’s attention was on the city below.

It wasn’t.

Outside, in the side yard, Marrowsven and Sura traded blows, fast and precise. Steel rang once before Sura’s body softened and flowed, wax-like flesh reshaping into a massive, muscled form that no longer held to a human outline.

That must be Tallow, Pyre thought as he glanced from Balefor to the Shepherd.

Pyre cleared his throat.

The Shepherd ignored him.

Pyre and Balefor exchanged glances again.

This time, Balefor spoke. “The Shepherd, I presume.”

The giant turned, as if waking from a deep and private thought. His eyes focused, and a slight smile formed. “Pyre,” he said, coming alive. “You’ve brought company.”

“This is Balefor,” Pyre said, gesturing toward the lion-man. “One of the Unclaimed.”

“So he is,” the Shepherd said, looking Balefor over. “What have you told him already? Surely you have revealed something.”

“I told him how our interests align.”

“Ah,” was all the Shepherd said as he looked Balefor over again, who seemed to stand just a little taller, shoulders back, chest out. “What is your Domain?” the Shepherd asked.

Balefor looked to Pyre, as if asking permission.

Pyre nodded.

“Conquest,” Balefor said.

“Conquest is a very desirable Domain. The factions must be interested in you,” the Shepherd said, leaning back slightly. “Which would tell me you aren’t interested in them.”

“Something seems off about all of it, so I remain uncommitted. But you would know better than I, according to Pyre, here.”

The Shepherd waved the concern aside. “It takes a special soul to end up at the manor; many in Aevum would tell you this is a lost soul, but I don’t see it that way. A soul that questions is one that lives still, even if we traded a single lifetime of war for an eternity shaped by them. Would you care to meet the others?”

Pyre felt a tinge of unease. The Shepherd hadn’t pressed Balefor at all—no probing, no provocation, none of the sharp edges Pyre himself had been met with.

“Yes, if it’s possible,” Balefor said.

The Shepherd tapped on the window.

Outside, Tallow stopped defending against Marrowsven’s advances. She glanced past him, spotted Balefor, and visibly relaxed.

“They should all join us soon,” the Shepherd said, “at least the ones that are here. Did Pyre tell you what is happening in the near future?”

Balefor shifted his weight, ears twitching as he took in the room again, the charts, the instruments, the view beyond the glass. “No, but I’ve seen the build-up. I would assume a realm is collapsing.”

“Correct,” the Shepherd said. “The wars will start again for its resources, but we’ll move out to intercept what we can before that happens.”

“When?” Pyre asked.

“Tomorrow evening. Best to leave then, according to Veylan, whose Domain gives him an edge in these things. He’s here, you know, one of the Unmoored that you haven’t met. I do not like the title given to us,” he added quickly for Balefor, “but it does somewhat define what we do.”

The door opened behind them. Marrowsven entered, and Balefor turned immediately, surprise tracing across his face. “Marrow,” he said, arms spreading wide. He lowered them. “Perhaps we aren’t at a hugging stage yet.”

She offered him a clawed handshake instead. “Balefor, Pyre.”

“Yes, it’s always nice to see old friends,” the Shepherd said.

More movement followed. Tallow padded in first, already in his cat form, tail flicking lazily. Sura entered behind him, composed as ever, her watch ever-present in the pocket of her vest. Ronark followed, boots heavy on the floor, beard bristling. Then Irix flowed in, her form shimmering, edges vibrating softly.

Last came an ancient-looking man, emaciated, hunched, barely more than a thin layer of flesh stretched over bone, his eyes bleached white and unfocused, beard long and braided.

After introducing the others to Balefor, the Shepherd gestured toward the weathered old man. “And finally, this is Veylan.”

“Hello, hello,” Veylan said, his voice barely a whisper. “Nice to meet you both.”

Balefor shot Pyre a side glance—an instinctive, wary look Pyre remembered from the militia camps of Farreach, when city officials came with polite smiles, measuring cracked armor and poor gear while pretending not to judge them.

“I detect skepticism,” Veylan said, white eyes flickering.

Ronark snorted. “Not the first Leoline Knight whose confidence got the best of him.”

“We are more formidable than we look,” Irix told Balefor, her words vibrating all around them.

Balefor showed them the palms of his hands. “I never said a word.”

Tallow chose that moment to change. Wax flowed, limbs stretching through a line of fire, fur forming until the cat became a splitting image of Balefor himself, large, broad-shouldered, and menacing with his armor and inherent power.

Balefor summoned his axe instantly, offense flaring hot and bright.

“No, Tallow,” Ronark said as he braced for a fight. “Their kind take offense to this. Change, now.” He turned his focus to Balefor. “Easy, there, big guy. Your realm has shifters, does it not?”

“Yes,” Balefor said, still seething, who clearly hadn’t seen Tallow’s earlier transformation outside.

Tallow melted back into a cat. “If it makes you happy, I’ll be a smaller kitty,” he said before strutting away, tail perked.

“Well, he isn’t one of them,” Ronark told Balefor. “Calm yourself. And, I hate to ask, but you already know what I’m about to say, Shepherd. Is this demonstration over? I’m helping Veylan track something, you know.”

“Such a good little friend,” Veylan said, lips quivering into a smile.

Ronark turned to him. “Watch it with that shit—”

“Yes, you may all return,” the Shepherd said sharply.

The tension snapped. One by one, they filed out—Ronark muttering under his breath, Irix vibrating softly as she passed, Veylan shuffling along with measured slowness, Tallow already halfway gone.

Marrowsven remained, settling onto the old leather divan. Sura stayed as well, the elven woman, taking her place beside the Shepherd at the window.

“This is the entire faction?” Balefor asked the Shepherd. “The Luminous Concord had dozens upon dozens of members. Hundreds. Probably more.”

“And so they do,” the Shepherd said, irritation creeping into his voice. “When you have that many members, there are more of them to do the smaller tasks that please their overseers. We operate at a much smaller scale. We’re nimble. Do we have Anima chambers? No. Can we throw bodies at a problem until the problem goes away like the Heavenly Host? No. Do we have a charter, any official recognition in the upper echelons of Aevum? Also, no.”

Beside him, Sura maintained a tight grin on her face, one that was nearly cracking.

“And there are more of us, dammit,” the Shepherd said, slamming a fist into his palm. “But they come and go. Anyway, that’s not what’s important. Tomorrow night, if you want to see for yourself what this all looks like up close, join us.”

“A bit premature to invite me to your club,” Balefor said.

“I wasn’t inviting you,” the Shepherd said, glancing at Pyre. “I was inviting you. Balefor, if you wish to accompany Pyre, you can. But we will not be mocked, and you will show respect when you are around souls that have been here longer than lions and wolves were walking upright in your realm. It was nice meeting you,” he said dismissively. “Marrow, please see him out.”

Marrowsven stood, moving toward Balefor.

“Just like that, huh?” Balefor asked, struggling to process the abruptness.

“Did you have any other questions? No?” the Shepherd asked. “Then good. Besides, I need to speak to Pyre privately. It will only take a minute.”

Balefor shuffled out of the den with Marrowsven, shoulders tight, annoyance radiating off him as silence settled across the study, silence that seemed like it would stretch until all the realms were consumed by the Hunger when Sura spoke.

“Hi, Pyre,” she said, her first words since introducing herself to Balefor. “Are you making progress?”

“I think, yes,” he said, reaching for confidence, or perhaps Defiance.

The Shepherd’s eyes darted toward the door. “Balefor. Is he hot-headed?”

“Not any worse than me,” Pyre admitted. “He will get going during a battle, but he’s easy to get along with and loyal. That’s how I would describe him.”

The Shepherd considered this with a grunt. “I ask because a short temper seems to be a common trait among the souls who find their way here. Not universal, but frequent enough to notice. Next time, let me do the explaining,” he added. “I’d rather you not arrive with people who already know where I stand.”

“Even if it’s similar to how I feel?” Pyre asked him.

“Even so. You can speak for yourself, and I’ll speak for us, at least at this stage. This is only meant for me to be sure of the message I’m getting across.” The Shepherd paused, letting this sink in. “But that’s not really why I asked you to stay back. Or not the entire reason. Sura tells me that you now understand the First Realm and its destruction, how it created the Font, Aevum, the Nether, and all other realms.”

“She did. She also said you would have something you wanted to tell me yourself.”

Sura gave Pyre a quiet thumbs-up.

“Yes,” the Shepherd said.” I do have something to tell you myself because it matters. Because it makes what happened to you and why you were sent to me far more interesting.” He gestured toward the city, toward the sky beyond it. “The First Gods destroyed the realm that came before all others. Everything you see traces back to that act.”

Pyre frowned. “I don’t follow.”

The Shepherd looked at him for a long moment. “And believe it or not, you’ve already met one of them.”

Pyre felt the words settle before their meaning caught up. “I’ve met one of the First Gods?”

“The man who killed you. The one who sent you here to collect on a favor I owe him. Gaius.” The Shepherd’s mouth twitched. “I personally believe he is one of the First Gods. I thought you deserved to know that.”

The memory struck hard. The barefoot man with a half dozen swords bent over the heart of his realm, unhurried and alone, as if destruction were routine, pedestrian.

“If you’re ready, and only if you’re prepared to understand what you’re truly facing, what it means to join our group or any other faction for that matter, come back tomorrow. Same time. Charge at the Font before you do.” The Shepherd turned away. “If not, join us another time. There’s always a realm on the brink of collapse.”