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MEZOR

The gate chamber is empty—the King retreated to the back room. Mezor lets annoyance wash through him and away. The King is more reclusive and capricious than ever these days, and who can blame him? His century-long war against New Yden came to naught. His Court sits in the hands of traitors. He’s been banished to the shadows like his hollows—and like them, reduced to a ghost of his former self.

Mezor climbs the dais to the gate. The King’s plight makes him tired. The endless maneuvering he requires goes against Mezor’s nature. He likes simple problems with simple solutions. Everything is complex in the King’s world, layers of shadows and secrets hiding more darkness.

His mind drifts to the King’s spy—Lieutenant Cyrianus. He’s known since he met Cyrianus that the little demon is a consummate manipulator. He must be to survive the Court—he’s so different from other demons. Someone like that shouldn’t interest Mezor at all. Yet every time he lays eyes on Cyrianus his curiosity is sparked anew. He smells of tar and ash, but his fine face and silver eyes trick Mezor into looking. And he has such insolence. Such fire! He’s known the King to slice demons from neck to groin for less, and Cyrianus gets away with it.

It’s been a long time since he was curious. Something tells him Cyrianus has his own secrets, and Mezor finds himself trying to peel back the shadows with the sheer force of his gaze.

But curiosity is dangerous. He’s stayed away from the politics of the Court for a reason. Now that his journey is almost over, he can’t afford to get sidetracked.

Mezor brushes the surface of the gate with calloused fingers. It’s smooth from many eons of use, responding to his touch with warmth. It only takes a single stroke to activate. In a blink, he’s engulfed by heatless flame.

Then comes the unfathomable cold.

Each time he passes through the gate it wrenches him into a million pieces, and each time it’s slower to put him back together. For a single millisecond that stretches forever, he drifts, nothing but dust in the void.

The fire flares again and Mezor’s atoms come together in the safety of his hidden grotto. The aether’s emptiness rings in his ears. Inside the cottage, he sets the sack of world seeds down and they chime faintly. They’re warm to the touch as he lays them out on the table. They didn’t seem to suffer from going through the gate. He should have no trouble traveling with them to the far regions of Hell.

He thumbs the smooth surface and watches the light dance within. They’re angel-craft—powerful things. He knows little about the angels. All the cares is whether they’ll drain the corruption out of Hell as the King promised.

This is what he must focus on. His strange curiosity about the little demon is only a flicker in the dark.