Chapter 7

The noises rose as Pyre advanced forward with the crowd, voices colliding into a harsh, shapeless din.

What had once been distant shouting grew into something overwhelming, the layered shouts crashing into one another, echoing off crystalline walls that rose higher with every step he took. The sound came from different directions, all converging, all pressing forward toward the same impossible destination. Demands. Promises. Declarations of faith, vengeance, loyalty, hunger.

Souls pressed together, colliding and sliding past one another as the flow narrowed until it felt less like walking and more like being carried forward by a living current.

Pyre nearly lost his footing as the mass tightened around him.

Souls packed tighter, shoulder to shoulder, chest to back, a relentless crush that soon grew chaotic, surging, and dangerous. A sudden force shoved Pyre sideways, then hurled him forward again, his feet barely skimming the path beneath him.

Instinct flared, and for a heartbeat, he considered summoning the sword. The heat stirred in his chest as the crowd swelled around him, Pyre closer than ever to fighting his way through the masses.

Flame would part this sea easily, he thought. Fear would do the rest.

Then he remembered the look another survivor had given him earlier—wary, measuring, afraid.

Pyre released the thought and was swallowed by the surge.

Soul slammed in from all sides, buffeting him forward, sideways, then forward again, the path vanishing beneath a press of feet. The crowd carried him where it wanted, grinding him along whether he fought it or not.

The open gates loomed ahead, impossibly tall, formed from the same gray crystal as the walls, and cut with deliberate precision. Their surfaces were etched with faces, packed so tightly they blurred together as the crowd surged.

Above them stood rows of statue finials fused into the stone, stretching upward without end. Some faces looked peaceful, others mournful, others locked in terror. Many were caught somewhere in between, expressions frozen at the moment of realization.

Beyond the gates stretched a vast courtyard, its press far heavier than anything he had passed through so far. Platforms were erected on either side of the courtyard, draped in long vertical flags that fluttered without wind. Figures held positions upon them, elevated and watchful.

As Pyre pushed closer, the shouting resolved into individuals, into language. Not one tongue, but many braided together, ancient and raw, until they all converged into something he could finally understand.

On one platform were angels—mighty, radiant, and graceful—their wings spread wide, though not with the same overwhelming presence Daedalus had carried. Some held elaborate carved staffs. Others bore strange instruments or read loudly from scrolls, spit flying out of their mouths as their voices rang with authority, the angels calling out to worshippers of unknowable faiths, naming gods Pyre had never heard of, pantheons that had never reached his realm.

On another platform, demons leaned forward eagerly, twisted and alluring, their forms both monstrous and enticing, grinning with too many teeth. They promised power, vengeance, indulgence, freedom from every chain Pyre had ever known. A few of them bore shapes that made his stomach knot. Limbs too long. Movement too fluid. Faces that echoed the Devourers he had fought at the colony.

Elsewhere, ascended mortals called out. They looked closer to human, closer to actual people. They shouted names Pyre did not recognize but felt weighty all the same. Realm names. Bloodlines. Families. Banners long fallen.

Some gray souls broke from the flow, rushing toward voices that called to them with desperate certainty. Others hesitated, torn, pulled in multiple directions at once as the crowd stirred.

The noise drove straight into Pyre’s skull, folding him forward as his hands clamped over his ears. The crowd slammed into him from behind, surging toward the demons and carrying him with it. Heat flared in his chest, sharp and immediate, and for a moment he nearly called the broken blade back into his hand.

Then he saw it.

A recruiter stood bearing the markings of the Heavenly Host, of Karastella herself, the same authority Pyre had grown up worshipping. The sight struck him like a physical blow. This was the faith his colony had prayed to, the power that had never answered, the Host that had abandoned his people—and now it was recruiting souls.

Something inside Pyre hardened into something darker than hatred.

He did not answer any call as anger flourished anew, nor did he move toward angels, demons, or mortals shouting at the soul. He remained where he was, standing amid the tide of humanity as it broke and reformed around him, Pyre’s defiance grounding him.

Souls who responded to the recruiters were drawn aside, some gently guided by unseen hands, others abruptly yanked from the flow as if caught by invisible chains.

Pyre resisted it all, and the moment his feet found what felt like solid ground, the pressure shifted.

He was pulled forward, then diverted sharply sideways. He stumbled as the current changed, Pyre forced into a smaller group that had been shunted away from the main surge.

Dozens of others were pushed with him, the smaller group funneled through a narrower archway that opened into a quieter courtyard beyond the main gate, where the shouting dimmed, muffled by distance and crystal walls.

Pyre took stock. The people around him were… uneven.

Some were entirely gray, their forms dulled, features smoothed and indistinct. Others showed patches of color amid the gray—faces or hands still vivid, the rest washed out. Only a handful remained fully whole, sharp and intact, people unlike any Pyre had ever seen before yet all with color to their forms, same as him.

Robed figures stepped forward to meet their group, not angels or demons this time but attendants in flowing gray garments tied off at the waist. They moved with calm efficiency, practiced and almost cheerful, as if shepherding lost souls was routine.

One moved to the front, a woman with kind eyes and a measured smile, her auburn hair braided in a ring around her head. “Welcome to the Nether, Unclaimed,” she said, gesturing upward. “And specifically, to Aevum.” She turned to the city beyond and admired it for a moment before focusing on the group again. “The Nether is the mother realm of all existence. All realms are born from it and return to it. Aevum is its city, and the Font of Eternity, at its center, empowers all that is here. Some of you already know this, but if you do not, now you do. Reaching this place as you have is proof.”

Proof? Pyre thought, the distant roar of the other courtyard bleeding faintly through the walls. A few in the small crowd pushed closer as she continued, her tone smooth and rehearsed.

“Ascension is natural. Desirable. Something all beings should strive for. This is a place for souls who have grown beyond what their original realms could sustain. But this transition is difficult; even strong souls struggle to shed the burdens of mortality through the process of Shriving. Some require assistance.”

Pyre looked around again.

Only then did he notice the lion-man, who stood a head taller than Pyre, shoulders broad enough to occupy the space of two people. The man’s body was thick with layered muscle, built for violence and endurance. A vast mane of tawny-gold hair framed his face and spilled down his shoulders, wild and untamed.

The lion-man’s armor was blue and battle-worn, forged for war rather than ceremony, scratches and dents marring its surface. His face was leonine without being monstrous, his jaw strong, noseflattened, and brow heavy. His blue eyes were sharp and alert, tracking everything with predatory calm.

He stood at ease, yet nothing about him was relaxed.

Another survivor caught Pyre’s attention.

This one stood near the lion-man, thin and muscular with short white hair that was perfectly kept, clad in dark armor with sharpened protrusions lifting off his shoulders and arms. This man’s eyes were white with vertical red slits, and he held his chin high as if he were judging the entire experience from a place of quiet superiority.

The woman’s voice cut through Pyre’s thoughts before he could look at any of the others whose forms remained intact.

“You will notice that some of you have turned gray,” she said, “meaning more Shriving is required. Others retain partial color, indicating partial Shriving.” She gestured toward Pyre and those like him. “And some of you remain unchanged,” she continued, a smile forming, “which means your soul is fully intact. You resisted Shriving. You did not dissolve. You retained memory, emotion, and identity.”

A murmur rippled through the group as a few of the gray souls turned, their looks toward Pyre and the others edged with jealousy.

The robed woman raised her hand, drawing their attention back to her. “Failure to Shrive fully can occur for many reasons,” she said. “Lingering magics. Unresolved sins. Emotional burdens carried over from one’s former life.” She let that settle before continuing. “Do not be afraid. We will complete your Shriving now, after separating you into groups.” She gestured to one side. “Grays, here.”

Some moved willingly. Others froze, eyes wide. Once it became clear they wouldn’t move, attendants stepped forward and dragged them toward the correct location without ceremony.

The woman leading it all gestured to the opposite side. “Those partially Shriven, there.”

This group moved more readily, drifting off under their own power, though a few glanced back at Pyre and the others as they went.

Finally, the woman’s gaze returned to the ones who remained. “The nine of you who have survived Shriving may take the southern exit, where you will manifest your Sigil.” The woman’s gaze lingered on Pyre for just a second too long. “Good luck.”