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“We’re here,” he says, pointing at rusted, broken bars that nominally seal the opening.

I freeze beside him, staring through the broken bars.

Beyond them rise the struts of the stage—the one set against the base of the Black Tower, looming like a dark bone punched through rotting skin. The machine rests right above us. Massive. Cruel.

I remember the first time I was forced to bear witness to its horror. The grinding gears made a low mechanical scream that was bad enough, but it couldn’t drown out the sounds of the sacrifice.

Thousands of eyes attended the event. Every Urr’ki in the city and the handful of us humans there to bear witness to the Shaman’s twisted mind given shape.

I tried to look away.

The Urr’ki I was staying with at the time grabbed my jaw in a bruising grip, forcing me to watch.

I futilely struggled.

Every second of it burned itself into my mind. Into my soul.

And the Shaman?—

The look on his face was obscene. Like he was experiencing pure ecstasy, feeding on agony.

Z’leni’s fingers brush my face, jerking me back into the here and now. I shake my head and give him a half-smile, very much aware of Ryatuv’s hand pressing against the small of my back. Of how close they are, despite the god-awful stench desire manages to at least flicker.

I inhale a shaky breath, but choke on it. The scent is worse than the sewage alone. There are new scents, sulfur, copper, and burned flesh.

The large beams that are the struts of the stage are carved with ancient symbols. Some are smeared with ash or blood. I don’t know which. Throbbing tubes faintly glow, red and violet, snake through them and into the tower’s black stone hide.

“We must work fast,” Ryatuv says, dropping to one knee. He pulls out the charges, his voice low. “I’ll mark the joints and base supports. We don’t need to destroy it—only cripple it.”

Z’leni hesitates, his eyes locked on the machine. I don’t speak. Neither does Ryatuv. Something is unraveling behind Z’leni’s eyes. But, after a heartbeat, Z’leni moves. I follow and he hands me two charges.

“There. And there,” Z’leni says, pointing, but his voice is rough.

I set one charge beneath the thick metal brace he pointed at, then another at the edge of a rusted junction. Sweat trickles down my spine. My heart hammers like the machine’s grinding rhythm.

One more left. I crawl beneath a support pipe, forcing myself to not breathe deep. I place the last charge and slide back out.

“Done,” Ryatuv says with a sharp nod.

Then—

BONG.

I nearly jump out of my skin when the bell tolls—a low, thunderous boom that vibrates through my bones. Its booms like judgment. Then it tolls again, followed by another.

Three bells, Z’leni’s head snaps up and he stiffens.

“They’re calling the people,” he says.

Understanding hits like a punch right into my guts. It’s another sacrifice.

“No—” he moves toward the fuse, but Ryatuv grabs his shoulder, stopping him. He twists free, snarling. “We can’t. The square will be full. There’ll be children—elders—innocents.”

“We don’t have time,” Ryatuv snaps. “We have to move. If we wait, the Shaman starts again. More die.”

Z’leni shakes his head, fingers white-knuckled on the lit torch. “Not like this.”

“Z’leni.” I move closer, voice soft. “You said the machinetakesthem. And you know as well as I do that it doesn’t stop once it starts. If we leave it, he wins.”