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W RYTH BOWED HIS way through a tangled forest of copper and glass. He took care not to snag his gray robe on the metal thorns of the vast machine surrounding him. The ancient device—the great instrument of the Iflelen—filled the domed chamber of the order’s inner sanctum, its shine reflecting off the polished obsidian.

As Wryth aimed for the instrument’s center, he ran fingers along a branch of copper piping. The oldest sections had tarnished long ago. Only the newest additions at the edges of the device shone with unblemished metal. He cast his gaze toward one spot, where the latest bloodbaerne bed had been constructed.

The thirteenth— nine more than half a year ago.

He noted a shadow bent over the new site. Phenic, a gangly-limbed acolyte, had been tasked to watch over the bloodbaernes. The latest, a girl of four or five, lay atop the bed. Yesterday, Wryth had installed her himself, wanting no mishaps. He had administered the soporific elixir, cleaved her chest open, exposing a quivering heart, and wired her vessels into the bed. Even now, her pink gossamer lungs billowed up and down, pumped by bellows through a tube down her throat.

But for how much longer?

He imagined the girl would burn out within the next four days, her life sacrificed to the machine. Of late, most lasted no more than a week. The machine’s hunger had grown insatiable, steadily rising with every turn of the moon. Fortunately, with tensions high and war looming, filling those thirteen beds had become easier. The disappearance of an urchin, beggar, or waif raised few questions.

But even that could end—especially if this hunger continues to escalate at this pace.

Nagged by this worry, Wryth turned away. He knew there was no other course but to continue along this path. As he forged onward, he listened to the burble and pulse of the instrument’s fluids, steaming through crystal pipes, glowing in hues of amber and emerald. It all served one purpose: to feed the life of the bloodbaernes to the mystery hidden at this forest’s heart.

From ahead, Wryth heard the whispers of his fellow Iflelen, those Shriven who had been hand-selected to assist him in this grand endeavor. Few knew what transpired here, including the bulk of Wryth’s order. Only the most trusted had been given knowledge of the miracle that had woken in the bowels of the Shrivenkeep six months ago.

From that moment onward, the doors to the sanctum had been placed under heavy guard. Rumors spread and expanded, but only a handful knew the truth. Complaints persisted, fueled by bruised spirits and malign curiosity.

And with good reason.

Prior to this, the sanctum—the order’s most holy and revered space—had been open to all Iflelen. In this chamber, each member knelt and swore an oath to Lord ? reyk, the dark god of forbidden knowledge.

Wryth had done the same.

Sixty-four years ago…

Of late, Wryth felt his age. Even the potions he consumed to extend vitality no longer spared him such discomforts. He touched the leather bandolier—his Shriven cryst—strapped across his chest. Its length was studded with iron and lined by square pouches, each etched with symbols. His fingers inspected the sealed pockets. Most of his brethren’s crysts held nothing but mawkish charms, each intended to memorialize one’s long path to the holy status of Shriven.

Not so his own cryst.

His fingertips read the symbols burned into the leather. Each of his bless’d pockets hid dark talismans and tokens of black alchymies: powdered bones from ancient beasts, phials of elixirs leached from the dread creatures, ampoules of poisons sapped from venomous fiends. But the most treasured of all were the scraps of ancient texts scrolled into pouches, their faded ink indecipherable but hinting at the lost alchymies of the ancients, of the darkest arts hidden before this world’s histories had been written.

In truth, Wryth cared little for the here and now, except where it served his ends. This world, he sensed, was but a shadow of another, a place of immeasurable power, and he intended to gain access there. To that end, no knowledge would be forbidden to him. And no brutality too harsh to acquire it.

For this reason, he had bent a knee to Lord ? reyk, joining the Iflelen order—first as an acolyte and now as its master. Though, in many respects, he had lost that position to another six months ago.

Even Wryth’s arrival this evening had come upon the orders of another: a new god who had woken in this chamber, a being who would make Lord ? reyk quail.

Wryth finally reached the heart of the machine. Six others in gray robes labored around a stout iron table, serving now as an altar. Typical of all Shriven, their long hair had been braided and tied in nooses around their necks. Their eyes were banded by a stripe of black tattoo, meant to imitate a blindfold, representing such men’s abilities to see what all others could not.

The leader of the six, Shrive Bkarrin, noted Wryth’s arrival by straightening and offering a deferential bow of his head. “It’s good you’ve come. Since the ringing of the last bell, his ire had grown heated. Two bloodbaernes burned out under the fire of his fury.”

Wryth glanced toward where he had spotted Phenic. No wonder the young man had been so diligently inspecting the latest addition.

Facing back around, Wryth shooed the others from the iron altar. “What has so roused him?”

“I do not know.” Plainly distraught, Bkarrin gripped the braid of stone-gray hair under his chin, as if fearing it would strangle him. “He just stirred to life, boomed your name, and demanded your presence.”

Grimacing, Wryth approached the altar and the bronze figure sprawled atop it. His gaze settled on the glowing countenance of this mystery. The face was that of a curly-bearded man in slumber. The finest strands of hair waved, as if stirred by invisible winds. Across cheeks and brow, an aura of energy roiled in a storm, fueled by the glowing tanks that surrounded the altar, fed by the life of the bloodbaernes.

Wryth noted the closed eyes, frilled by bronze lashes. “He sleeps again?”

“When the two bloodbaernes burned away, the remaining eleven were not enough to sustain him.” Bkarrin waved an arm. “I’ve already ordered new bloodbaernes to be interred.”

“Very good,” Wryth said, knowing the younger Shrive needed this reassurance.

Bkarrin released his hold on his braid with a sigh of relief. “The two should be settled shortly.”

Wryth nodded and used this time to study the slumbering enigma. The bronze bust of the figure had been discovered two millennia ago, buried deep under the roots of an ancient tree. Afterward, the bodiless head had passed through countless hands. It had been studied, dismissed, and come to adorn many kings’ halls, until it finally made its way to Azantiia.

Over time, following the guidance in ancient tomes, the Iflelen had learned how to fuel the artifact and stir it back to life. Still, it had taken centuries to wake the talisman from its slumber and glean what little they could. The head had spoken only four times, each utterance cryptic, whispered in a language no one understood.

Until six months ago…

The memory came with a stab of pain in the hollow socket of Wryth’s right eye. While a leather patch covered the ruins, it could not smother the terror of that moment—when the bust had burst to furious life. He pictured those bronze eyelids snapping open, shining forth with an azure fire, like two brilliant suns blazing with infernal energies.

The intensity had driven Wryth to his knees, as had the demand in the ringing voice. It had commanded him to action, tasking him to a duty he could not refuse.

Two fateful words forever changed the course of his life, an imperative spoken through bronze lips.

Rebuild me.

Wryth stared across the breadth of the iron altar. What once had only been a bust had grown and stretched into the skeletal form of a towering figure. Guided by the arcane knowledge shared by this bronze god, Wryth and his ilk had slowly been constructing a new body. The wisdom gained had been as unfathomable as it was terrifying, yet undeniably thrilling. Still, Wryth recognized he and his group were mere blacksmiths, doing crude work, supplying raw material, some so rare it cost a king’s ransom to obtain.

Instead, much of the growth came from the bronze figure himself. With enough fuel, burning through hundreds of bloodbaernes, bronze melted on its own, taking shape before their eyes. Matrixes of crystals grew throughout, spreading like hoarfrost across the hollow interior. Likewise, wires wended and divided, over and over again, until fading from sight.

Early on, Wryth had tried to compel the secret behind such miracles, but azure eyes had looked upon him with disdain. The only answer had been cryptic. As best as Wryth could understand, the bronze bust had acted like a seedpod, one rife with engines a thousandfold more powerful than the Iflelen’s towering instrument, yet so small that millions could fit atop a pinhead. With enough resources, those tiny engines could fabricate order out of chaos, build form out of nothingness.

Wryth gaped at the sprawl of the bronze god on the altar. Such a claim seemed impossible. Yet here was proof of those assertions.

Frustration clenched his fingers. Though he had gained much knowledge, it only served to highlight his ignorance. He sensed the towering wall that still remained, standing between him and the hidden world beyond.

Anxious to learn more, he studied the bronze figure—still half-formed—trying to read it like a tome written in a lost language. The body looked not unlike that of the bloodbaernes who sustained it. The chest lay bared and open, shining with crystals and a mosslike spread of metallic tendrils. Energies flowed throughout the matrix, scintillating and fiery. Outward from there, limbs had taken shape. Most remained more outline than substance, but one arm looked nearly complete. It extended from the shoulder in a muscular form, ending in a large hand with vaguely contoured fingers, like raw dough that had not fully risen to its proper shape.

Over this half year, Wryth had witnessed this progression with eager trepidation. Given the number of bloodbaernes burned upon this pyre, it would not take long before the transformation was complete. Rubbing his chin, he stared at the glowing tanks, bubbling with lifeforce. Crystalline tubes and copper channels flowed into the gestating figure, all of which served to chain this god in place, to keep him tethered to this altar—which gave Wryth some sense of control.

But after that, what then?

Worry itched through him.

After being given this task, Wryth had pursued it with a frantic fervor, driven by his lust for lost knowledge. But of late, anxiety had grown in equal measures. When the bust had first woken, Wryth had learned two additional details.

The first was this god’s name.

Kryst Eligor.

The second was the cause behind this creature’s sudden wakening. A name had stirred it awake, spoken in the Elder tongue: Vyk dyre Rha. It referred to a prophetic daemon—the Shadow Queen—a malignant force carried on wings of flames, who would destroy the world.

Wryth had come to suspect—as did many of his fellow Iflelen—that the Vyk dyre Rha had been born anew, taking the form of a swamp girl with strange powers, a strength potent enough to send a warship to its ruins in the Frozen Wastes.

Wryth’s hand rose and touched the patch over his right eye. He had suffered this wound during that attack, which served as a constant reminder of this threat.

If only I hadn’t pursued her…

For nearly a year, he had hunted the girl and her allies—not on the basis of this dark prophecy, but because they carried with them another bronze figure, a woman, one whom Wryth had unearthed in a Guld’guhl mine, only to have it stolen from him, a loss that still stung.

He stared at the slumbering form.

But now I have my own.

While this treasure should have satisfied him, a growing unease tempered his enthusiasm. Wryth had become suspicious—especially in regard to this figure’s true intent.

Eligor had expressed a passion to stop the Vyk dyre Rha, claiming it was her rebirth that had stirred him to life after millennia of slumber. But Wryth suspected there was much about Eligor’s intent that remained unspoken. He feared this god’s rebirth could prove as dangerous and threatening as that of the Shadow Queen.

But what else can I do?

Once started down this path, he dared not turn back.

To reach even this point, he had forsaken his duties to the kingdom, which risked his standing in the court. He had spent decades worming his way into one king’s ear, then another. His powerful position within the regency had served him well in his pursuit of forbidden knowledge. But after Eligor’s wakening, Wryth had cast off his responsibilities to the court, handing them to lesser members of the Iflelen. He only interceded when absolutely necessary—like to deal with the practicality of poisoning a queen.

Wryth could trust no other with such a delicate matter.

Let’s hope that wins me some favor in the king’s eye.

“Look!” Bkarrin blurted out, drawing Wryth’s attention. He pointed beyond the altar. “The installation of the new bloodbaernes must be complete.”

Wryth quickly noted what had roused Bkarrin. Two of the surrounding tanks, dark when Wryth had first arrived, now glowed brighter. The radiance waxed and waned, as if mirroring the beating hearts of the new bloodbaernes. The amber shine steadily rose until the tanks grew flushed with replenished lifeforce.

Wary, Wryth retreated from the altar. He had only managed a single step when those bronze eyelids flashed open. An eruption of fiery azure burst forth.

Wryth gasped as the head swung toward him and fixed him with a terrifying gaze. Never before had the bust been able to turn from its eternal stare upward.

Bronze lips parted, then pulled back into a sneer. “Wryth…”

Around the altar, the other Shriven dropped to their knees. Wryth lowered to only one, dipping his chin. “Kryst Eligor, you summoned me.”

“I should not need to summon. ” The tone sharpened further. “A dog serves its master best by never leaving his side.”

Wryth rankled at the aspersion, but he kept his head bowed. “What is the urgency, my lord?”

“I sense another ta’wyn. ”

Wryth lifted his gaze, his brow pinching. He had learned these bronze entities went by that ancient name— ta’wyn. “Another? Do you mean the one stolen from Guld’guhl?”

Just this past day, rumors had reached Highmount. Nyx and the others had been spotted in the Eastern Crown. Did Eligor’s statement confirm that the bronze woman was still traveling with them?

“No!” Eligor boomed. “Someone closer. It tries to hide itself, but as my strength rises, I catch glimpses of its emanations. Whispers. Shadows. It approaches even now, fading in and out of view.”

Shocked, Wryth stood up. “What comes? Is it an ally or an enemy?”

A long pause followed. The fire in those eyes smothered. The next words came as a whisper. “I do not know.”

Wryth squinted, taking this new facet into account. He weighed how to turn it to his own advantage.

Eligor must have been calculating the same. “Still, whether ally or enemy, it matters not. The ta’wyn will do what I most desire. Something I cannot do on my own.”

“Which is what?”

For the first time, the bronze arm lifted from the iron altar, bending at the elbow. Embryonic fingers formed a fist. The next words cast ice into Wryth’s veins, as if this half-formed god could read his innermost thoughts.

“Break these chains that bind me.”