Chapter 43

The new landmass that Veylan led them to was nothing like the last. It was formed of dark, porous stone, rough and pitted like cooled lava, its surface broken into uneven hills that rose and fell in jagged patterns. At its center, a massive hook curved upward, as if the land itself had been wrenched and left to harden mid-twist.

From here, with their lanterns hovering into a loose perimeter, Pyre could finally see how crowded the Deep Nether had become. Lanterns marked territory the way campfires once had on Farreach’s borders, except these did not promise shelter. They promised conflict.

Banners resolved first, visible from a distance.

The first thing that caught his eye, stark against the dark of the Deep Nether, was a long length of white cloth stained red, not dyed but marked, as though dipped again and again into old blood.

The Butcher’s Court.

Even from here, Pyre could see figures dressed in white moving around with smaller banners, their robes speckled and uneven, every stain unique. They did not cluster. They spread out, deliberate, as if already measuring where the killing would be most efficient.

A single glance at Marrowsven told Pyre enough, but his attention was pulled outward before the weight of it could settle. Something else caught his eye, just beyond the Butcher’s Court.

Gold-rimmed, sharp-edged, familiar—Pyre easily recognized a symbol he had seen for most of his life. The Heavenly Host’s triangular banner hung rigid in the air, unmistakable, three points tapering upward, pale cloth pristine and unmarred. He could not make out faces, only silhouettes gathered beneath it, their lanterns and banner brighter than most. The sight of it sent a pulse of heat through his chest, old and unwelcome, as he wondered if Karastella was there.

She has to be… Pyre thought, fists clenched.

He forced his gaze away to movement a bit closer to his current location, figures standing with almost ceremonial stillness beneath a banner that reflected light rather than absorbing it, the same one used by the Farbound Delegation, the faction that had sized him up and quickly rejected him, and also the same that Lyra had joined.

Beyond them were others, too many to count, their banners warped by distance and shadow. Some bore Sigils he didn’t recognize at all, shapes that twisted when he tried to focus on them. Light factions. Dark factions. Angelic and demonic, a few that Pyre suspected belonged to no pantheon at all.

It was clear now that everyone, Veylan included, had a general sense of where the realm was going to come down, that they were circling it like carrion birds, like scavels, he thought, no better.

Even though the Unmoored didn’t have a banner, their gate was positioned right after the swath of territory being claimed by the Heavenly Host, marked by the blue-green beacon, further away from the future epicenter than Pyre had originally anticipated but still dangerously close.

I’m surprised fights have started already, Pyre thought as their lanterns settled and the Shepherd turned to the group.

“There’s still time,” the Shepherd told them, a strange, almost serene calmness to his voice.

Beside him, Veylan gave a short nod. “Let them continue setting up their claimfields and preparing while we keep up the search for loot.”

“Do you really think something’s here?” Ronark asked, then snorted at himself. “Stupid question. Eh, let’s start looking.”

“Irix and I will head in the opposite direction,” Sura told the Shepherd.

“No, just one party this time. We need to be ready when it happens. Ronark, Tallow,” the Shepherd said. “When it starts, be prepared to join in. Mark anything you find if you can’t get it back to us in time.”

“We’ll be ’round before then,” Ronark assured him. “As long as we make this fast.”

“What are you looking at me for?” Tallow asked the dwarf, the cat’s tail curling.

“You are faster than I am in one of your forms in particular, you know, the one I’m able to ride.”

“Conserve power,” the Shepherd reminded them both before they could start their bickering. “On foot will be best. If you are forced to engage, send up a signal, and Irix will come.”

Ronark waved the concern off. “If we’re forced to engage, then we’ll engage.” He jerked his chin at Tallow. “Come on, then.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” The cat leapt up onto his shoulders as Ronark set off, already muttering about Tallow getting a free ride again when it ought to be the other way around.

“You three,” Sura said, the lantern rising to her side as she stepped toward the Unclaimed. “With me.”

“My power is fine,” Balefor said, already following along with the others.

“Of course, it is.” Sura surveyed the area and gave a small nod. “Your Sigil is not yet formed, and you won’t be participating in the epicenter of the fight. Sit. This area will suffice.”

Pyre and Marrowsven did as they were told. Balefor followed, grumbling only once before falling silent as Sura stepped directly in front of the lantern.

“Close your eyes,” she told them, hands drawn. “Good. Can you tell the difference between when I’m standing in front of the lantern and when I’m not?”

With his eyes closed, Pyre tried to notice something. At first it was subtle, almost nothing at all—but then it became abundantly clear. The warmth was gone. The pressure. The pull.

She must be blocking it, he thought.

The sensation returned a moment later, stronger than before.

“Eyes closed,” Sura said, directing it to either Marrowsven or Balefor—Pyre suspected the lion-man. “We have three lanterns left. By now you’ve likely seen other factions with similar constructs.” She shifted her attention across the group. “Understand this: when the battle begins, two lanterns will go with the rest of us as we navigate the fight in search of the realm heart and anything else the Shepherd deems important. One lantern will stay with Veylan. That’s the one you need to keep an eye on. Once we lose our two working lanterns, we leave. Yes, Balefor? You have a question?”

“Are we to protect Veylan’s lantern? You’re forcing us to replenish our Anima. You must be doing so with the expectation that we will fight.”

“You aren’t here to fight. You are here to observe, but things have a way of changing rapidly in a battle like this, especially as the realm comes down. Other factions use what are known as novitiates to monitor their claimfields.” She gestured toward the Farbound Delegation’s banners. “We don’t have a claimfield, not formally. But we do have a beacon. And your job is to stay close to it and the gate.”

“To protect it?” Balefor asked.

“Not exactly. Most factions avoid striking another gate. It’s an unwritten rule.” She glanced toward the open expanse beyond. “That said, we aren’t a recognized faction, which is why we’re positioned outside the claimfields, further from the main clash.” She nodded toward the beacon. “Stay near that. Understood? Veylan likely won’t need help, but be ready. One can never assume.”

“You don’t seriously expect us to stand by while you all battle it out?” Pyre asked her, breaking his focus.

“No, I don’t, Pyre. I expect you all to stay together on the outskirts of the fight for your own safety. If it comes to you, you may answer it. But do not go looking for it. Remember,” Sura said, nodding ahead, “beings nearly as powerful as gods will be battling there. You are not ready to stand among them.” Her gaze moved across the three of them. “Hold any more questions you may have for now.” She stepped back. “I’m leaving so you can focus.”

Balefor muttered a few complaints under his breath, but when it became clear that Pyre and Marrowsven were taking this seriously, he fell quiet.

Anima warmth spread across Pyre’s skin. He reached for Farreach in summer—the heat wavering above stone, wind threading through broken trees—but the memory wouldn’t hold. It fractured under the weight of what he knew was coming. Banners. Claimfields. The crush of bodies and magical weapons.

The vision steadied him. It was familiar—it was pressure, something Pyre was becoming increasingly used to embracing. He had just reached something like a true meditative space when the Shepherd shouted.

Pyre’s eyes snapped open.

Above the landmass, half a dozen winged figures hovered in the dark—each wearing the same beaked masks.

The Synod of Yore had arrived.