Chapter 33

It was hard to focus at the Font with all the movement Pyre had seen along the way, harder still with what had happened to Kesh.

Now Pyre understood how a Domain Trial began. Not the theory of it, not the careful explanations Sister Halcyon had offered in pieces, but the reality. The way power gathered too fast. The way a Sigil changed just before it slipped beyond control, rendering the wielder unconscious.

Kesh’s Sigil took on a gold hue, he thought, still trying to settle his breathing. That was the sign, or at least one of them. I hope he makes it.

Pyre remained seated, legs crossed on the cool stone, thinking of his friend, of how quickly it had happened.

His eyes opened just enough to focus on the Font of Eternity for a moment before he closed them again. The light was overwhelming today, not brighter than usual, but louder somehow, heavy with intention. Souls moved constantly around its perimeter, groups gathering and breaking apart, factions on the move.

He soon realized he wasn’t going to find a good headspace, not with what had happened or the activity around him. And with this in mind, Pyre settled on a decision he’d been contemplating since his arrival.

“Balefor?” he asked, turning to the lion-man seated close to him, his broad shoulders tense, brow furrowed.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Balefor got to his feet and shook his arms out. “After what just happened to Kesh, I have to see with my own eyes; I need to understand what this is all about before I trigger my own Trial.”

“Agreed.”

“And I’m sure Sister Halcyon will understand if we suddenly aren’t there tomorrow for more preparations. The question is, do we try to sneak in and bid farewell to Kesh? Eh, probably not,” he said before Pyre could answer. “She did say to let them do their work. But I don’t like leaving him in that state, especially without telling him where we’re going and where to find us.”

“Agreed. Maybe we can find someone from the Ledger Kin around here to pass along a message.”

“Likely so,” Balefor said as he stood a bit taller to scan the crowd.

Even with the constant movement across Aevum, there were still myriad worshippers clustered around the Font. The flow thinned near its edge, forming loose rings of stillness around the light and the Long Walk. After a brief search, they found a man in gray robes tied off at the waist—the mark of the Ledger Kin—standing motionless before the Font, hands at his sides, eyes unfocused as he basked in its power.

The conversation was brief. The man listened without interruption, then inclined his head once. He agreed to pass the message along to Sister Halcyon that the two of them were going on an excursion with the Unmoored, as Balefor put it.

“Easy enough,” Balefor said once they turned toward the Hollow. “You want to lead the way, or should I?”

“By all means,” Pyre said.

Balefor set off with confidence, his sense of direction uncanny despite the shifting streets of Aevum.

Along the way, Pyre noticed how much had changed even since the day before. Faction banners now hung from balconies and crystalline arches where there had been none, their colors stark and deliberate. Processions moved through the streets with purpose, not wandering but flowing along preselected routes, escorts and standard-bearers clearing paths as they passed.

Symbols he did not recognize glowed faintly in the air like fireflies as they passed factions consulting strange instruments and translucent maps that refracted light into fractured geometries, lines and vectors constantly adjusting while messengers wove between groups, voices low, expressions tight.

They arrived at the manor sooner than Pyre expected, the iron bars of its massive gate framing the path up the hill. Beyond it, the mansion loomed quiet and watchful, ever-present.

Once they reached the top, the door creaked open on its own.

“This should be interesting,” Balefor said, rubbing his hands together. “Or at the very least, enlightening.”

“Or the Shepherd will give us hell.”

“Or that,” he said, a grin cracking across his face. He gestured, and Pyre took the steps first.

Inside, they found the Shepherd in his study. The giant man had a satchel slung over his back, one heavy with rolled charts and unfamiliar instruments. He spoke with Sura while adjusting the strap, already halfway prepared to leave.

Pyre took account of the others that were there. Marrowsven stood with them, arms folded, her expression tight but resolved; Ronark lounged near the far wall, legs kicked up, the dwarf’s boots resting on the edge of a table; Irix hovered by the window, barely visible, her sound-born form angled toward Aevum; and Tallow sat in his cat form on a shelf, tail flicking lazily as he watched Pyre and Balefor with his golden eyes.

“Good, you’re here,” the Shepherd said without looking up. “We were just about to join Veylan in the Forlorn Plains. He has found a gate there.”

“A gate?” Balefor asked.

Sura picked up the explanation. “The Outskirts ring Aevum. Beyond them lie the Forlorn Plains, the last boundary before the Deep Nether. That’s where the fragments of fallen realms drift. The Deep Nether is vast and mysterious, which makes locating those remnants difficult, but right before a realm collapses, it often tears open temporary gates in the Forlorn Plains, which give us a way to move closer.”

“And to return here?” Pyre asked.

“We are tethered to the gate that we take, which Veylan handles. It will be similar to the draw you feel from the Font. Both of you, you as well,” the Shepherd told Marrowsven, “survived Shriving. You’ve drifted in the dark before. It can be a bit like that but more manageable, plus you will be there with others.”

“What about the realm heart?” Pyre asked him.

“What about it?”

“That was what Gaius took from my realm. Could something like that exist?” Pyre went on. “I know you’re not so different from the other factions, except in motive—”

“We are different,” the Shepherd said, a faint, crooked smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “but you’re not wrong. We’re all bastards. Resource pirates.”

“Speak for yourself,” Ronark told him.

“I do not consider myself a pirate in the least bit,” Irix said, her voice seemingly all around Pyre, as if there were multiples of the strange woman standing around him and speaking at once.

The Shepherd continued. “Those hearts can contain powerful, forgotten secrets of the First Realm. I hasten to say we’re like the others, but if we encounter one, we’ll gladly use its power. The more Anima, relics, and realm hearts a faction can accumulate, the better their status, the stronger the pantheon. Think of this as managed loss.

“Managed loss in the sense that ultimately, these pantheons consume faith, which creates Anima, and then they abandon the realm to the Hunger once they no longer find it useful. Who was it you were angry with? Karastella? In case it isn’t clear, Pyre, she’s no Goddess, although she may have appeared to be, and she likely assumes she is in her head. Karastella isn’t at the top of the Light Pantheon; no, she’s merely a Divine Being, a Divinity, that your realm likely worshipped. And the sword that you have?”

“From Daedalus,” Pyre said, the pieces beginning to align in a way that made his stomach tighten.

“He was under her somehow,” the Shepherd said. “As to why he cared about your realm, I do not know. But I can say with certainty that Karastella would have been his point of communication to someone higher up. So that’s what we’re heading into.”

Ronark grunted and pushed to his feet. “Even with the Hunger, there are more realms than sense, and stripping them for parts is more profitable than stopping the thing that’s going to swallow everything eventually. I guess that sort of makes us pirates, but pirates for the cause.”

“That’s right,” the Shepherd said, a flicker of annoyance crossing his expression at having his point made for him more succinctly. “Anyway. We need to get the lanterns. They’ll be our fuel once we move past the Forlorn Plains.”

“Because we won’t be close to the Font,” Balefor said.

Tallow hopped onto the couch beside Ronark and sat on the headrest. “The lion-man gets it.”

Balefor shot the shifter a dirty look, the hairs of his mane bristling as his posture stiffened.

“No, we will not be anywhere near the Font,” Sura said, her tone even, practiced. “But we still need Anima for the battles we will soon face. This is one way we use the resources we collect when these realms fall. We use them to power our journeys in search of other fallen realms and answers.”

“Managed loss.” The Shepherd shook his head once and focused on Pyre. “And this is a particularly important realm that is falling. It’s one of the oldest and closest to the First Realm. This is why you’ve seen mobilization in Aevum. More distant realms don’t always enjoy the same kind of attention.” He paused, then exhaled sharply through his nose. “There’s one final thing I should say.”

“Yes?” Pyre asked.

“Your Sigil may be structurally complete, solid under pressure, but you haven’t completed your Domain Trial,” the Shepherd said, his gaze shifting from the lion-man to the tall assassin. “Balefor and Marrow, you two are in an even worse position. You are not here to wage war; you are here to observe. You’ll need to pay close attention to your Anima. Attempting a Domain Trial without proper support is dangerous, and it’s far harder to manage when you’re in a pitch-black void, lit only by dim lanterns, under constant threat. We are there to take things while the others are fighting.”

“Resource pirates,” Balefor said.

The Shepherd smiled thin, knowing, and utterly uncomforting. “Correct. We leave in an hour.”