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W RYTH ’ S HEAD POUNDED , the pain heightened by the ringing of the last bell of the day. He sat in his private scholarium, where a lone incense burner curled redolent smoke, striving to push back the persistent reek of sulfurous brimstan that pervaded these depths of the Shrivenkeep.

Around him, shelves lined the four walls, filled with cryptic texts, some indecipherable, waiting for their secrets to be unlocked. Interspersed among them, tall cabinets held drawers pocketed with ancient bones, unidentifiable crystals, dried specimens from across the Urth, and petrified images of the past trapped in stone. Elsewhere, artifacts collected over decades filled empty niches. Some were so strange that they defied understanding.

But none more so than what rested on his desk.

Wryth stared at the crystal cube, veined through with copper. He cocked his head to study its core, where a golden fluid pulsed and undulated in a mesmerizing fashion. He had positioned a large lens to magnify its mysteries. He had sketched its every surface into his journal.

Another book lay open next to it. It was one written not by his own hand, but by an alchymical genius who died out in the Frozen Wastes. Skerren il Reesh—an ancient Shrive and Iflelen colleague—had meticulously drawn a similar object, accompanied by voluminous notes, scribblings, and conjectures. He had obtained the glowing artifact while excavating the blasted ruins of a copper egg from which the stolen ta’wyn woman had been birthed.

Skerren had speculated the cube functioned like a tiny flashburn forge, but one of limitless power. With it, Skerren had engineered a listening device capable of detecting emanations from the stolen bronze woman over a great distance. They had used it to track her, but during a fierce battle, both Skerren and the artifact had been lost.

Now, here is the same strangeness once again.

He hated to part with it, but he knew who demanded it. After Kryst Eligor had ensnared the other ta’wyn —whose existence still enthralled Wryth—their gestating bronze god had fallen into a deep slumber. The effort had clearly sapped his strength, burning out another bloodbaerne in the process.

Wryth used the spare time to study what had been ripped from the other, delivered into his hands by Phenic before he died. In the dark passageway, Wryth had caught a glimpse of the other trespassers, which included Prince Kanthe. For the invaders to travel so deeply, to risk coming down here, they must have some hint of what the Iflelen possessed.

Wryth had already alerted Highmount about the return of the traitorous prince, leaving it to King Mikaen and his legions to address. Afterward, Wryth had given it no further attention, though he was still mystified as to the origin of this new ta’wyn.

Still, at the moment, he had a far more important task to attend.

He stared between his sketch and Skerren’s. He had noted subtle distinctions between the two. The copper veining of each mapped out a different pattern. Also, Wryth’s cube had slightly rounder corners. But most striking of all was the disparity in sizes.

Wryth again lifted a measuring stick and used his lens to recheck those dimensions. He frowned, comparing his result to the crisp notations in Skerren’s journal. They did not match, and knowing his dead colleague’s exacting nature, Wryth did not doubt Skerren’s accuracy. The conclusion was clear.

This artifact is smaller than the one obtained before.

Before he could ponder it further, a sharp rapping drew his attention to the door. “What is it?” he called over harshly.

“Shrive Wryth, we need you. Right away!”

Wryth recognized the urgency in the Iflelen’s voice. He stood with a groan, crossed to the door, and unlatched it.

At the threshold, Bkarrin shifted nervously, as if about to bolt. His gaze darted into the room and away again. “Kryst Eligor has awoken. He rages wildly, demanding you bring the artifact to him. I fear in his furious throes he could do significant damage to the great instrument that sustains him.”

Wryth took a deep breath, wishing he had more time to study the crystal cube, but he dared not refuse this bronze god. He turned and collected the artifact from his table and waved Bkarrin ahead.

“Let’s see what other miracles this stolen treasure can perform.”

W RYTH STOOD WITH the six Iflelen whom he had handpicked to oversee the restoration of Kryst Eligor. The group ringed the iron altar of their new god, but they kept a wary distance. Around them, the burbling, ticking, and wheezing of the order’s great instrument had taken on a more furious timbre, reflecting the temper of the creature at its heart.

Eligor’s arm—the only one capable of movement—beckoned Wryth. Azure eyes fixed to him, to the object that Wryth carried on a silver tray. The blaze in that lustful gaze grew into two blinding suns.

“Bring me the schysm, ” Eligor demanded.

Reflecting that raw desire, the entire instrument vibrated with anticipation. The nearby tanks, glowing with the lifeforce of the bloodbaernes, boiled and bubbled.

Bkarrin had not understated the danger.

Still, Wryth hesitated and stared down at his tray. In this one moment, he had already learned a new detail: the name of this artifact. In the ta’wyn tongue, it was called a schysm.

Wryth also did not doubt its purpose. He had witnessed the cube being ripped loose from the belly of the other ta’wyn, who seemed to abandon it in an effort to break free from Eligor’s commanding control.

Wryth also recalled Skerren’s assessment of the artifact, how his colleague theorized the schysm acted as a flashburn forge of near-infinite power.

Wryth lifted his gaze to Eligor.

The cube must fuel these ta’wyn —far better than our feeble instrument and its bloodbaernes.

As he stared over to the altar, he remembered Eligor’s last words to him, what the bronze god hoped to gain.

Break these chains that bind me.

Eligor’s gaze narrowed upon Wryth, squeezing that azure blaze to a blinding urgency. “Do as I say. Grant me what I’ve delivered to you. And you will partake of knowledge beyond your ken, beyond anything you could imagine. This I promise.”

Those words drew Wryth closer, quashing his misgivings. It was everything he had dreamed of for decades. Yet he moved slowly, a part of him still fearful of unleashing this being into the world.

With Eligor bound to the instrument, Wryth had a measure of control. He hated to sever those reins. Even now, his mind struggled for ways to achieve the same, but by the time his legs drew him to the iron altar, he had failed to come up with a resolution.

Before him, azure eyes stabbed angrily, demanding he act.

Behind him, his fellow Iflelen murmured, their tone a reverent mix of awe and fear. Wryth knew if he refused this order that he would risk his standing among the Iflelen. The bronze bust had been the truest heart of the order for millennia, the mystery upon which it had been built. To stumble at this last step would surely bring great wrath upon him.

Still, none of this—not the demand in those eyes, not the murmuring urgency of his brethren—motivated Wryth to lift the schysm off its tray. What drove him to obey was far simpler, a desire that had fired his ambition throughout his life.

Raw curiosity.

At heart, Wryth remained a scholar. Mistake or not, he wanted to witness whatever transpired next, to see for himself the result of this action, to be the force behind it.

How could I not?

Wryth lifted the cube over the gaping chasm of the bronze chest. Within, the encrusting crystals glowed hungrily. Energies leaped and danced across the hollow space in glowing spasms and sparkling coruscations of power, all fed by the great instrument surrounding them.

As he lowered the schysm, sparks snapped up to the cube. Fiery arcs followed, striking like lightning. Energy danced and scintillated across its surface.

Wryth gasped—not in pain, but awe.

Despite this, his hands hesitated, hovering the artifact over that glowing chasm. Something deep inside him rose up in warning. The small hairs over his skin pebbled up with terror. His breath choked with certainty.

I must not do this.

Then any choice was stripped from him.

Before he could withdraw his hands, bronze and glassine tendrils shot up from the depths of the open chest. They tangled over the cube’s surface, fusing to the copper veins, snaking over the crystal.

Horrified, Wryth let go.

The golden glow within the schysm burst into a bright sun, one strangled by those tendrils. In another breath, more swarmed over it, finally smothering and eclipsing the sun. As it did, the cube was drawn into the depths and vanished away.

Wryth stumbled back—and not a moment too soon.

The bronze body convulsed, arching off its back. A blinding brilliance burst forth from the chest, from those eyes, from a mouth torn open by a silent scream. The tanks behind the altar shattered. Glass exploded with a wash of steaming amber fluid.

Wryth ducked and shielded his one good eye, remembering another cascade of broken shards that had stolen his other one. He stumbled away, colliding into Bkarrin.

“What’s happening?” the younger Shrive wailed.

“Backlash…” Wryth hissed out, staying low.

The entire chamber quaked underfoot. The great instrument rattled. Energies spat down its pipes. Jagged bolts leaped throughout, striking with crackling booms. Copper ripped apart. Crystal shattered. Fluids sprayed high.

Wryth pictured the schysm ’s power flooding throughout the instrument, overwhelming it—then that surge reached the end.

Bloodbaerne beds jolted high.

Bodies exploded in bursts of blood and flying gobbets of flesh.

As those beds crashed back to the stone floor, the wild energies subsided, fading into irritable spasms and prickly arcs. Then even those died away.

Wryth straightened and gaped at the ruins of the great instrument. It continued to fall apart with coppery bangs and tinkling glass. The other Iflelen picked themselves up off the floor; a couple stayed on their knees. They all shared expressions of dismay and horror.

Wryth ignored them and turned to the source of it all.

Like the great instrument, the bronze figure had settled. His body had gone slack on the altar. While his chest and eyes still blazed, the fire within also dimmed.

Wryth noted Eligor’s lips moving.

He shoved near enough to hear faint words.

“I see her…”

Wryth leaned closer. “Who?”

“The Vyk dyre Rha…”

Wryth stiffened at the name of the Shadow Queen. He wanted to know more, but the fiery glow in Eligor continued to fade. Wryth sensed it wasn’t dissipating, but drawing within, gathering the remaining strength after discharging so explosively. He suspected it would take time for the body to recuperate after shattering those chains.

Wryth glanced to the ruins of the great instrument.

To the side, the glowing died across the iron altar. Still, a faint whisper sighed out of those bronze lips.

“The Vyk dyre Rha…”

The last words came with a dreadful firmness.

“She flies toward her own destruction.”