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E XHAUSTED AND WORRIED , Wryth paused before the towering doors of the Iflelen’s inner sanctum. With the passageway empty, he allowed his forehead to rest against the cold ebonwood. He needed a moment to center himself before entering the sacred chamber.

The cavernous room had been his sanctuary over all these decades. He had come here often to meditate, to ruminate, to ponder the deepest mysteries of the universe. To him, it represented the barest peek into a hidden world of arcane knowledge. It also held the promise of piercing the veil of the Pantha re Gaas —the Forsaken Ages—of opening a gateway to a time before history itself.

That desire still glowed behind his eyes.

Fueled by all that he had endured.

For most of his life, Wryth had been powerless, a victim to circumstance, a shivering prey to those stronger. Memories of that time had been branded into him, but he had buried them deep.

Yet there was no escaping one’s past, not fully.

Born a slave in the Dominion of Gjoa, hunted across kingdoms and empires, finally schooled on the Island of Tau, Wryth had endured a youth marked by cruelty, abuse, and humiliation. He had been whored, beaten, raped. After having traveled most of the Crown, he felt no fealty to any kingdom, nor any god—not even Lord D reyk.

Even now, after achieving so much, he could still waken that old pain. It stoked the cold fire inside him, to never again be under another’s thumb. To ensure that, he intended to let nothing and no one stop him from becoming a formidable force, one more potent than any king.

Especially one king.

Wryth pictured Mikaen, broken before his queen.

The misery on display there gave Wryth the strength to lift a key and unlock the door, breaking the seal of the horn’d snaken. He pushed the heavy door with his shoulder and entered the inner sanctum.

A shiver swept through him as he relocked the door.

Throughout his decades here, the Iflelen’s great instrument had thrummed and beat, marking the mekanical heart of their order. Alongside it, the outer ring of bloodbaernes had wheezed a hushed chorus, one that had spanned centuries.

Only now, the very heart of their order had been snuffed out.

As Wryth turned, the only movement out there was the shuffling of a single Iflelen, Shrive Bkarrin. Fluids no longer bubbled. Joints in the copper no longer steamed. The entire machine had gone dark and quiet, adding to the solemnity of this grave.

Wryth headed toward Bkarrin. He threaded his way through the maze of cold piping and dull crystal, a forest poisoned by what had taken root at its core. He found himself walking more carefully, trying not to disturb this tomb.

Still, shattered glass crunched underfoot. Bits of copper tinkled away, bumped by his toes. His robe snagged and tore on the jagged end of a broken pipe.

As Wryth traversed the ruins of the machine, he flashed to a fortnight ago, when he had lowered the cube of pulsing gold into the chest of the bronze figure. He remembered the devastation it had wrought.

He stared through the tangle of pipes to the ring of empty bloodbaerne beds.

At least I had one to spare, to be turned into the queen’s new throne.

Wryth had personally overseen the installation of Myella. The procedure, already a delicate process, had required subtle changes. Without the need to feed her life into the great instrument, the bed should sustain the woman for a month, maybe two. Enough for her child to continue to grow in her womb and be harvested later.

Still, Wryth had some misgivings that he had not voiced to Mikaen. He saw no reason to further anger the volatile king. He would deal with any repercussions if they should arise.

For now, he had a greater challenge.

He reached Bkarrin and posed the question that had been plaguing him for days. It had kept Wryth locked in this chamber, sleeping atop blankets piled on one of the bloodbaerne beds. He had not left here until a raging king had forced him out, demanding he save his queen.

“Has he woken yet?” Wryth asked. “Or even stirred?”

Since the events from a fortnight ago, Kryst Eligor had remained in a locked slumber, some strange hibernation. A slight glow swam over his bronze, rhythmic and steady, suggesting something was still brewing, still gestating inside there.

“He has not moved,” Bkarrin confirmed. “But his transformation continues at an astounding pace.”

Wryth circled the iron altar and the sleeping god atop it. The body’s gaping chest had nearly sealed over, forming a muscled abdomen, a strong chest. A fine frill of curled hair had sprouted, matching the bust’s beard. Down the center, a remaining fissure offered a glimpse into the bed of shining crystals and twining bronze fibers.

Wryth leaned over and tried to peer deeper, to spot the pulsing crystal cube of the schysm, but it had buried itself too deep.

As he straightened, he took in the rest of the body. If standing, Eligor would tower over most men, maybe even taller than the Gyns of the steppes. By now, his limbs had fully formed, with fingers and toes deftly sculpted, down to fine-lined nails and wrinkled knuckles. Already Eligor could easily be mistaken for a man in slumber. Adding to that illusion, a set of genitals hung heavy and limp between his legs.

Wryth shook his head, wondering at the latter’s necessity.

Certainly, this god would never need to piss.

Bkarrin shifted closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “You mentioned that Eligor spoke of the Shadow Queen before falling silent.”

Wryth turned to Bkarrin. “Yes, the Vyk dyre Rha. Along with a grim pronouncement.”

Bkarrin winced, falling back a step.

Wryth failed to understand his reaction.

The Shrive pointed past Wryth’s shoulder. “His hand…”

Wryth jerked around. He caught Eligor’s fingers clenching into a fist. Worried, but suddenly hopeful after the long vigil, Wryth struggled for a breath. He suspected what had stirred the sleeping figure. He remembered last winter when the bust had burst to life, blazing with azure fury.

I had spoken the same name back then, too.

Wryth attempted it again. He leaned closer, near to Eligor’s perfectly sculpted ear. “Vyk dyre Rha.”

Wryth held his breath, but there was no reaction.

Bkarrin shifted closer. “Maybe louder—”

Bronze eyelids slit open before them, casting out narrow beams.

Bkarrin stumbled away. “He’s waking.”

A groan escaped those metal lips.

Wryth withdrew with Bkarrin, unsure what to expect. Still, some distance was warranted after what had transpired before.

Their heels crunched through glass.

As they retreated, Wryth’s ears sensed a change in pressure, as if he had been thrust deep underwater. Sounds muffled away. He winced as the pressure grew rapidly, squeezing his head in a vise.

Bkarrin suffered the same, covering his ears.

Then it all released, so suddenly something tore in Wryth’s skull. He felt lifted off his feet, rising to his toes, as if sucked forward.

Ahead, a booming cry burst forth.

The bronze body flared in a blaze of blinding light. The sight burned into the back of Wryth’s remaining eye. Still, he could not look away.

Deep in that sun, a shadow stirred.

Eligor’s black form sat up, his head hanging. Then heavy legs swung to the floor. Heels struck rock, cracking the obsidian. Hands clasped to the altar’s edge, ripping iron beneath their grip.

Bkarrin dropped to his knees.

Wryth remained standing, staring into that blinding sun, at the god being born from it. Eligor shoved to his feet, baring all his glory, limned against the brilliance. As he strode forward, the rock under his feet smoked, burning under his fiery majesty.

Wryth shivered in terror, one thought foremost.

What have I wrought?

He fell back a step, despairing.

What have I done?

Eligor suddenly weaved drunkenly on his feet, then stumbled back to the altar. He struck it hard enough to sink into the iron, melting it to bright sludge beneath him. The fiery sun dimmed around him, revealing a bronze god seated in a fiery throne of iron.

Across Eligor’s chest, the remaining fissure shone brightly, marking a jagged lightning bolt across his chest. Wryth’s gaze fixed on it, recognizing this god had not fully risen to power.

Not yet.

As Wryth took a step forward, a darker thought now filled him.

How can I wield this weapon? What must I do?