Madarame and Seraphiel arrive in the capital of Verez. The air is stagnant and gloomy; the sky is void of clouds, as if the smoke has been wafted away. It smells sour and coppery. The ancient trees have long withered and vibrate slowly, while the newer ones stand unnaturally still. The ground is in a constant state of tremor, though the residents have long grown accustomed to it.

  Their uncovered eyes—those not hidden behind eyepatches—are relaxed to the point that their upper lids obscure much of the eye, giving them an intimidating glare as others pass by. Yellena is not far from the capital; they should make it by nightfall if they walk, which they choose to do.

  "I wonder how the others are," Madarame says, reminiscing on the verge of slipping into a daydream.

  "Who?" Seraphiel responds aloofly.

  "Everyone back at the parlour. You know, Seriol—we haven't been gone that long."

  "Oh yes, I recall," Seraphiel replies, staring straight ahead.

  "You and Hiro really hit it off, hmm?" Madarame's eye pierces the side of Seraphiel's head.

  "Yeah. He's a good kid."

  Strange, coming from a teenager.

  They walk the rest of the way in near silence, commenting only on the flora and fauna.

  Upon arriving, both glance toward the cathedral at the very centre of town, built upon the site where the Child descended.

  "I suppose we look inside," Madarame says, exhausted.

  Seraphiel marches ahead.

  Peering through a window, he sees a pulpit. Figures have gathered—some hooded, others wearing masquerade masks. A ball in the middle of a cathedral? Strange. Seraphiel signals to Madarame, who looks as well.

  A man approaches the pulpit. His mask is rose gold, cut in the shape of a plague doctor's beak. The eyes are hollow sockets; the nose extends and curves downward slightly.

  He raises his hands as if to recite a sermon.

  A foreign language fills the room as the congregation sings in unison. It is more dirge than hymn—deep, mournful, melancholic. While the singing continues, cloaked men bearing the same emblem as those in Rea roll in a cart carrying a decapitated Rodion.

  "Oh people of the cosmos, chosen by the ??????—"

  Only the serpentine body remains, writhing as though trying to swim in darkness. The singing maintains its tone and cadence.

  Madarame and Seraphiel shrivel, adrenaline and fear flooding them like children caught in a nightmare. The others—the men with the cart and even the speaker—react the same way.

  The preacher grips the edge of the pulpit, exhaling sharply.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  "We—"

  He breaks.

  "We, the people of Verez, were chosen for this rite. Not the charlatans of Cairnreach. No. We were chosen, and this is why we must—"

  He collapses.

  As if on command, more figures emerge and carry him away.

  No one in the room reacts.

  Another man, identical in mask and bearing, approaches the pulpit.

  "—fulfil the wishes of our superiors, so that they might allow us to ascend with them."

  He turns to the headless Rodion, lifting it.

  "Ephemeral beast, who has committed sacrilege against you?"

  The tail writhes.

  "Who has interrupted the offering… the… ??????—"

  He falls.

  The same reaction ripples through those who hear it.

  Like clockwork, another takes his place.

  "—has ordered it and stood in our path."

  The men with the cart draw a scimitar and approach the flailing tail, slicing into its tip where the scales begin to peel away.

  Blood pools across the floor—far more than should be possible for a creature of that size.

  It turns inky black.

  Madarame ducks, grabbing Seraphiel's head and forcing him down.

  Entranced, Seraphiel snaps out of it. "What?"

  "We shouldn't be seeing this," Madarame whispers. "Even the inaudible sound they make shakes my bones and fills my head with pressure. Whatever this is, we're in over our heads. We need to leave."

  Seraphiel stares ahead, eyes blank.

  "Leave," he hisses. "I have business here."

  "No you don't. What the hell are you talking about?"

  Seraphiel ignores him, still watching through the window.

  The inky blood dissolves into the ground.

  Not all of it. Some remains—and what remains turns clear.

  Madarame Seraphiel.

  Their names form in blood on the floor.

  It curls and bubbles as if alive. After a moment, it dissolves once more.

  "Oh dear," Seraphiel says, sounding only mildly inconvenienced.

  "Oh dear what?"

  "MADARAME AND SERAPHIEL, THE FOOLISH SORCERERS RESIDING IN REA."

  Madarame jolts upright.

  "We have a request, oh… leader," the preacher cries. "With tonight's performance, take them as your next playthings and allow us to fulfil your will."

  "That can't happen," Seraphiel says, turning to Madarame. "You still want to leave?"

  He smashes his talon against the window.

  It does not break.

  Instead, he is repelled—launched backward.

  The candle is lit, not all 5 but only the first and last. The preacher pulls it as if trying to rip it out the ground.

  Inside the cathedral, the congregation lowers as the floor itself descends like a platform. In moments, the ground resets as though nothing occurred—no blood, no stains, no sign of what had just taken place.

  "What the—" Madarame blurts.

  He rushes to the door. "Some kind of forcefield stopping the cathedral's destruction?" It opens normally.

  Seraphiel flies in beside him, his hair a mess and one talon chipped.

  "But this is all supposed to be a myth—the alien that visited, the Child—it's all rubbish. There's no evidence," Madarame says, trying to reason through it.

  "How dare you speak, you stupid ingrate". The cloaked man from the Rea ritual has appeared.

  "Ingrate?"

  "You walk our grounds, are blessed by our ritual in your home kingdom, and you defile it—then come here?"

  Madarame and Seraphiel are at a loss for words. So much nonsense is hurled at them so quickly.

  In an instant, Madarame conjures a rope, lassoing it from above. He leverages the ceiling beams, yanking down on the candle. The floor lowers—taking the man with it.

  The man launches toward them, combustion flaring at the soles of his feet as he propels himself forward. Madarame dodges—and falls into the descending floor.

  "Oops," he says, as he drops beneath the cathedral.

  "See ya, king!" he shouts.

  Seraphiel turns his focus to the man of flame. The speed of his attack has torn the cloak from him; his hair is ashen, streaked with fire, his skin a dark cacao brown.

  "King? King of wh—"

  Before the man can finish, Seraphiel closes the distance and impales him with his talon. His foot sticks fast. The man coughs sparks; the wound cauterizes instantly. Seraphiel's foot begins to burn with it.

  "Aaargh!" He strains, trying to pull free from flames far hotter than anything naturally produced.

  The man conjures a whip of fire and coils it around Seraphiel's wings, dragging him closer and setting him fully ablaze.

  "Arg—"

  The flames roar. A tornado of fire engulfs Seraphiel.

  The air smells foul—burnt, dry hair.