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D EEP IN THE Shrivenkeep, Wryth strode toward the tall ebonwood doors that led into the Iflelen’s inner sanctum. Mikaen and a clutch of Silvergard crowded behind him. Wryth had not planned on revealing what lay hidden ahead—not to a majority of his order, certainly not to this temperamental king.

Not even the dagger at his chest had swayed Wryth otherwise.

Once down here, he could have easily misdirected Mikaen. In this dark warren, the Iflelen order had been working on a slew of noxious projects, a majority of which could easily be turned into weapons of war.

Instead, Wryth had agreed for a simpler reason.

I’ve reached an impasse.

For Wryth to continue his work, he needed resources that were beyond his ability to acquire. It would take the vaults of a kingdom to provide enough gold to see this miracle through to its fruition. For the past month, Wryth had held off from seeking that additional support, hoping both to continue his work in secret and to use the lack of resources as a means of controlling the frightening power that threatened to manifest.

For any chance of reining in this bronze god, I need to understand it more, certainly before it outgrows all restraints.

Still, the only way to discover that answer was by moving forward.

To that end, he needed Mikaen’s support.

Bringing the king here served one additional goal. Wryth had feared the poison given to the queen could cause deformities in the growing child. He had hoped that would not be the case, but so be it. Once he had witnessed the state of the newborn, he had sought to use the promise of his order to help heal those poisonous afflictions to keep within the good graces of the king.

Unfortunately, Mikaen’s seething reaction proved the king could not be so easily swayed. Mikaen, despite his temperament, had grown more cunning, less malleable.

Fearing the king’s vengeful wrath, Wryth knew he had to propose something to satisfy Mikaen. He needed to prove that his dereliction from his royal duties had been in service to the crown.

To that end, Wryth reached the ebonwood doors and slipped out a thick key. “Your Grace, I must warn you that what is hidden here traces back to the Forsaken Ages. It will defy understanding at first, but the promise it holds will be plain to see.”

“Enough preamble,” Mikaen snapped. “Show me this weapon.”

“As you wish.” Wryth unlocked the door and shoved the way open, but he paused at the threshold, glancing back at the Silvergard escort. “Sire, perhaps it would be best to view this first in private. Secrecy remains tantamount, lest some Klashean spy learn of this weapon.”

Mikaen scowled. “Considering my traitorous brother had been discovered trespassing down here, I wager your secret has already spread to those hostile shores. Why else would Kanthe risk such a venture?”

“We can’t know for sure. But it was this very weapon that drove them all off before they could discover more. Regardless, I believe a measure of caution is still warranted.”

“Very well.” Mikaen waved his escorts back, but he pointed to the Silvergard captain. “Thoryn, you’re with me. The rest stay posted outside.”

Wryth started to object, but a challenging stare by Mikaen silenced him. Wryth turned and led the pair into the sanctum.

The polished obsidian walls of the domed chamber reflected their passage. Ahead, the ruins of the great instrument rose as a dark bulwark of broken copper and shattered glass. Most of the detritus underfoot had been swept and carted off, leaving only this skeleton behind.

Thoryn’s gaze lingered on a nearby bloodbaerne bed, abandoned and empty. The captain frowned, likely picturing the state of the queen and wondering about the use of those beds here.

Mikaen had his own query, gaping up at the instrument. “What happened to all of this?”

“When crafting a weapon of such strength, it comes with significant risk. It is why we bury our efforts so deeply beneath the Shrivenkeep.”

Wryth continued through the maze, aiming for its heart. The view ahead remained obscured by the wreckage around them. Still, he caught the movement of a lone Iflelen. Shrive Bkarrin seldom left this chamber, overseeing the work as diligently as Wryth. In fact, his colleague’s devotion bordered on the reverential.

And not just him.

Besides the lanterns and lamps, candles flickered ahead, lit by other Iflelen as votives to the burgeoning bronze god.

Wryth slowed his approach, using this time to inform the king, to share with Mikaen the discovery many millennia ago of an artifact, the metal bust of a bearded man, whose skull brimmed with strange arkana that defied com prehension. He shared in brief flourishes how the Iflelen had learned to stir it to life, how its mystery and promise had become the heart of their order.

Wryth glanced over many details, keeping some secrets to himself. But he also embellished others, to shine his own role brighter.

“Eventually, by delving deeper, I learned how to expand upon that mystery, to grow that bronze seed, a kernel rife with potential and power, into its truest form—a weapon of near limitless scope.”

A glance back showed the doubt and suspicion shining in the squint of Mikaen’s eyes. Next to the king, Thoryn remained hard-faced and stoic, though his hand had come to rest on the hilt of his sword.

Wryth crossed the last of the distance in silence, letting his story settle into the pair. When he reached the center of the dark instrument, he let the tableau within speak for itself.

Hanging lanterns and flaming votives reflected off a space that was both a holy chapel and a dire scholarium, all devoted to the figure at the center of it. The slab of iron altar remained melted, transformed into a black throne. Kryst Eligor sat upon it, his large bronze hands gripping its black edges. He remained naked, baring his majesty to all who looked upon him. At the moment, his head hung low, the curling length of his beard resting atop his chest, his eyes closed.

Those lids had rarely opened over the past month. Eligor only woke long enough to order rare minerals or to scold them for any delays. Of late, his demands grew harder and harder to fulfill, which only inflamed him more. Still, this god continued to gestate. The jagged crack down his chest had slowly closed, but a sliver remained, shining brightly with the mysteries inside.

Wryth longed to crack that shell open and to observe whatever process was ongoing. Still, it had become plain that this resurrection had begun to stall. That crack had not shrunk even a hair’s breadth over the past fortnight.

Wryth suspected why.

We need more resources, which could only flow from one font.

Mikaen strode past Wryth.

Upon spotting the king, Bkarrin dropped to a knee, bowing his head with a mumbled greeting while keeping his eyes down.

Mikaen ignored the man, his gaze fixed upon the bronze figure seated on the black throne. “Wryth, you’ve built a statue? From that ancient bust?” He glanced back to him. “What significance does this pose?”

Despite the doubt in the king’s words, Wryth read the awe in the width of Mikaen’s eyes, in the huskiness of his voice. Even this unenlightened king had recognized the infernal glow shining from the rift in the bronze chest. Those same energies scintillated across the metallic surface in radiant whorls and sparking coruscations. The entire form radiated with a barely constrained power.

Wryth lifted an arm. “Your Majesty, what you see here is a weapon, one newly crafted, close to completion. To see it fully realized, we need your support.”

Mikaen cast a skeptical eye. “What foolishness is—”

“Your Majesty…” The interruption rang out like a dark bell, echoing up from the deepest well.

All gazes turned as Eligor lifted his head, plainly stirred by Wryth’s words, at the mention of the king’s title. Wryth remembered another name that had woken this bronze god in the past, rousing him into a blazing fury: Vyk dyre Rha, the Shadow Queen.

Only now, there was no shock or raving at the mention of Mikaen’s title, only a cunning lilt to Eligor’s voice. The same shone as those bronze lids opened. Azure fire flared with rapt focus, its gaze falling upon Mikaen.

Few could withstand such intensity.

Mikaen certainly could not.

With a shocked gasp, the king stumbled back.

Before them, Eligor’s bronze grew brighter, as if burning from within. Skin softened. Limbs warmed free. Eligor pushed heavily from his throne. It was the first time he had risen since his first attempt a month ago. Eligor straightened and towered over those gathered at his feet.

Thoryn shoved Mikaen behind him, while lifting his sword.

Wryth stepped forward to intervene, but Eligor lifted a palm.

“This is your king?” Eligor boomed forth, his gaze still on Mikaen. “Of these lands?”

Wryth offered the full title. “This is Highking Mikaen ry Massif, the Crown’d Lord of Hálendii.”

Eligor remained unmoved. In fact, he still kept one hand on his throne, leaning on the iron. He clearly remained compromised, but unlike before, he demonstrated more faculty and control. Wryth also noted that Eligor’s focus remained on Mikaen, nearly dismissive of Wryth’s presence.

The reason became clearer as Eligor cocked his head to the side, with a slight respectful bow of his chin toward Mikaen, as if this Kryst knew who truly offered the best chance to return him to his full glory.

Wryth’s eye narrowed. He had suspected Eligor might have been eavesdropping upon his earlier conversations with Bkarrin, when the god had appeared to be asleep atop his throne. Eligor must have overheard Wryth’s need to engage the king in hopes of furthering any advancements.

Eligor confirmed this. “You hold the key, Highking, to my rise to full power. Know this, for such aid, for such a boon, I will serve you well in the war to come.”

Mikaen remained agog, his mouth hanging open. Still guarded over by Thoryn, he finally straightened. “How… How can you help us?”

“In all ways.”

His bronze flared brighter, blinding in its brilliance. The hand atop the throne melted through the iron, which ran in fiery ribbons down the sides and pooled at the floor. Eligor’s voice thundered out of that blaze.

“Give me what I want, and none will stand in your way!”

Eligor remained bathed in fire for another breath, then that sun slowly dimmed.

As Wryth blinked away the glare, he noted the rift in Eligor’s chest had slightly widened, as if this dazzling display had burned through the reserves meant to heal his body.

Mikaen stammered away his shock, while his face glowed with a dark hunger. He likely pictured that same fire burning through his enemies.

“What… What do you need from us?” Mikaen asked, his voice hushed with awe.

Eligor leaned closer, the azure of his eyes blazing. Wryth expected to hear a litany of minerals and raw ore—like in the past—but instead Eligor’s request now was far simpler.

“There is another similar in form to me. One who came a month ago with enemies to your crown.”

Mikaen stiffened and cast a hard look at Wryth, then returned his attention to Eligor. “The Southern Klashe has a weapon like you?”

Eligor laughed, a brittle, mean sound. “Like me ? Never. They have but a weak proxy. A Root. A ta’wyn who can melt its form into any other, but it holds only a thousandth of my true strength.”

Mikaen looked at Thoryn—doubt had died in the king’s manner. “I think I saw such a shifting creature. Aboard the Hyperium last winter. A wraith that flowed from one shape to another and freed my brother.”

Wryth remembered this tale. He had thought at the time that Mikaen had been deluded by terror and the mists of battle.

Could that encounter have been this Root, the same ta’wyn who had accompanied Kanthe last month?

Wryth’s gaze grew pinched. He wondered if this explained Eligor’s continuing debilitation. Was the schysm stolen from the Root too weak to power such a greater being? If so, clearly there must be another path to correcting this deficit. It could be why this bronze god had needed elements and minerals ever rarer and scarcer.

Still, clearly Eligor’s patience had worn thin. Whatever he truly needed to complete his transformation must be readily found within the body and innards of this Root.

Is that why Eligor ignores me now? Has he found a more useful tool, someone blinded by ambition?

This worried Wryth for two reasons.

First, for the past month, he had hoped, during this piecemeal repair of Eligor, that a flaw would reveal itself, that Wryth could use it to rein in this emerging god. But if this resurrection was accelerated, that hope would be lost.

Second, and more importantly, such a path forward stripped Wryth of his usefulness to the king, to Eligor. Even now, he sensed a shifting of that tide.

Mikaen faced Eligor. “This Root. It surely has been dragged back to the Southern Klashe. If you help me defeat the imperium, to bring low my traitorous brother, then I will grant you all you need. This I swear.”

Eligor dipped his chin in acknowledgment and slowly sank back into his throne. “I will do all I can. But to serve you best, to aid in this war to come, there are some elements, some rare minerals, that can strengthen me for this cause.”

“You will have all you need,” Mikaen stated firmly.

Wryth stepped forward, knowing he needed to assert some authority lest he lose all of it. His words were also meant as a warning to this ambitious king. “After the defeat of our enemies and the acquisition of this Root, what then, Kryst Eligor? How will you serve our kingdom when you come into your full glory?”

Mikaen turned toward Wryth with concern, perhaps finally recognizing the danger at the end of this path.

Eligor answered, his gaze still confoundingly upon the king as Mikaen faced around again. “Bring me this Root, grant me that power, and I will deliver you a treasure like no other.”

Mikaen frowned. “A treasure?”

“A weapon of an immensity beyond measure. One powerful enough to break the Crown and bring its entirety under your domain.”

Mikaen clenched a fist. Whatever concern, whatever restraint, the king had momentarily shown vanished into a breathless lust. “What… What manner of weapon do you speak of?”

“One hidden long ago. A massive schysm buried at the heart of the world. The very key to controlling all.”

Wryth knew Mikaen had no knowledge of a schysm, yet that did not stop the king from imagining the power described. The hope for future glory, for a reign without end, glowed from the sheen off his skin.

Wryth, however, pictured the schysm obtained from the Root. A crystalline cube, shot through with copper, pulsing with gold. He remembered the power it had unleashed when installed into Eligor, the devastation it had wrought. His gaze swept over the dark ruins of the great instrument.

We can never let this creature reach such a weapon.

As Wryth accepted this truth, his heart pounded harder. Not in fear of that happening, but with a lust as strong as Mikaen’s. Only Wryth’s ambition was not to dominate the Crown, but to secure that treasure for himself, to wield its strength to rip away the veil between past and present, to expose the hidden world and its secrets.

Wryth fought to keep his voice even. “Where is this schysm hidden? How do we free it?”

Eligor finally turned his azure gaze upon Wryth. “Only I can reach it. And only once I’m at my full strength.”

Wryth nodded, unsurprised at this vague response. He knew he dared not press the matter further.

Mikaen glanced skeptically between Wryth and Eligor, but that flushed sheen never left his face. “We will get you what you need,” he promised.

Wryth suspected the reason behind the king’s acquiescence. Always prideful to a fault, Mikaen must believe he could use Eligor in the short term, trusting the kingdom’s forces to control whatever came after.

Wryth realized his own rationale was little better than Mikaen’s.

Am I as deluded? Can anyone truly rein in this god, especially if he should ever secure this schysm at the heart of the world?

Eligor lifted a hand, dismissing them, clearly weakened by all of this.

Mikaen bristled at being commanded, but he stifled any further sign of affront. He turned to Thoryn, who still stood with his sword unsheathed, and waved to the exit. “Take me back to my son.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

The pair set off through the dark copper forest.

On the throne, bronze lids closed, snuffing away the azure fire.

Wryth rubbed his chin as he watched Mikaen depart. Bkarrin stepped closer, looking ready to speak, to weigh all that had been revealed. Wryth shook his head, knowing Eligor’s apparent slumber was a ruse, hiding a calculating mind.

Instead, Wryth considered his own options. He listened as Mikaen reached the ebonwood doors and came to a difficult realization.

My control is slipping away, carried out by that king.

The only way to regain it was self-evident.

I need more help.

Possibly from another king.