Jeanne had originally intended to ask more about the Temas of Koron, but Shavazon Tulan didn't seem inclined to reveal what exactly this so-called "end of the Scattering" entailed—let alone how the Koron legion would arrive.
His desiccated skin and sinewy muscles were unsettling to look at, and his voice grated like claws scratching across stone, no wonder Astolfo claimed to be "allergic" to these creatures.
He was more tight-lipped than expected. Though their conversation touched on much of what was absent from human records, he only offered up trivial facts, refusing to elaborate on anything significant—as if bound by an ancient oath made long ago.
It was clear to both Sassel and Jeanne: something was approaching.
Perhaps the Church's upper ranks knew. The Empress. Even the gods.
"This place draws the ones who've relinquished everything," said Shavazon. "Among my kin, only bone-smiths walk in dreams. So tell me—what do you want me to do here?"
Dreams were one of the few domains Sassel hadn't studied closely—human mages rarely touched that school of sorcery, and even the newborn gods struggled to influence mortal dreams—assuming that automaton had given him trustworthy intel.
"Is the dream you're referring to the same as what I think of as a dream?" Sassel asked.
"I can answer that, human who seeks the knowledge of outer gods," the Temas warrior replied. He hadn't moved at all during the entire exchange, like a sculpture carved in stone. "The bone-smith's sorcery allows them to walk in the dreamworlds of mortals, like the old gods once did. For this dream-Pathway, the distinction is negligible," Shavazon stated calmly.
"Oh, I'd say there's a pretty big difference," Sassel said. "Also, I'd like to ask—"
"Sassel! You idiot, shut your mouth!"
Jeanne glared at him and nearly shouted. Her tone and expression made it clear that the black sorcerer's endless curiosity toward Shavazon had tested her patience.
Sassel shrugged. Guess he wasn't going to get all the answers he wanted.
Jeanne turned her gaze back to the Temas warrior. "The priests of Hood are here, awaiting the descent of an outer god. Do you understand what I'm saying, Temas?"
A dim red glow flickered and vanished in Shavazon's hollow eye sockets. He tilted his head slightly, staring at the fog-tinted street outside. After a pause, he said, "It appears the followers of the Death Wanderer are still active. Hood only recently lost control of the Pathway." He turned to face them. "I have no authority over clan decisions. I will summon a bone-smith here. They will negotiate with you and decide how to proceed."
"What do you think he meant by all that?"
After the Temas vanished like crumbling ash, Sassel tapped Jeanne's arm with the back of his hand.
Jeanne was silent, deep in thought. Even after briefing Shavazon, something about the encounter left her uneasy.
She shook her head. "Fate is what the gods decide."
Sassel paused. "That's the most..."
Before he could finish, Origa had already sensed something was wrong—even before the sinister cloud darker than the overcast sky drifted into view. The residual enchantments left behind by the fleeing black sorcerers warned her: something ominous was present. Though she wasn't especially adept at using their spells, the atmosphere itself made the feathers at the back of her neck bristle. The skin around her bright blue eyes began to itch.
As she soared onto the rooftop and landed on the scaffold, she saw clouds of ashen mist sweeping across the sky. Her face went pale—though covered in snowy owl feathers, it was hard to tell. She cursed, spread her wings, and dove straight down toward the street.
Why were the Silent Ones here? Only members of the Church were supposed to have access to this Pathway. If even the Path of Light couldn't be accessed here, how were they supposed to stop Hood's priests from delivering the will of the Immortals? What were Sakoras and his team doing at the base of the mountain—who or what had they let in?
"Tuska, why are the Temas here?" Origa shouted as she landed in the pitch-dark hall. She had returned to her humanoid form—a dirt-smudged woman with bare feet standing in a pile of picked-clean bones. "Don't tell me you think you can take on the Temas legions! You think you're Laest or something!?"
"The Temas will not move against the Hounds or the Heralds of the Shadowed Throne," Tuska replied in his usual half-dead voice. "They only obey the louder voice. Even covenants can't change that."
"The louder voice?"
Tuska gave what might've been a chuckle. "I was going to say 'hatred.' But then again, 'custom' works too."
"What about Caesar's plan?"
"Her Majesty has her own vision," Tuska replied. "As long as Hood's priests complete their task, whether they live or die doesn't matter in the end."
"Her Majesty's plan also includes ensuring those priests live long enough to reach the outer god," a new voice cut in.
"Oh please, Nozella. Weren't you off hunting down the Church infiltrators? Now you're back to scold me about babysitting a pile of flies?"
"I found the Inquisitor's trail," the voice rasped like grinding metal. "Igea tracked the judge's path."
"You realize how many Temas are roaming this city now? Shapeshifters—Soletaken—they're everywhere, floating through the mist," Tuska said lazily, as if the Church meant nothing to him. "Why should we care about those clerics?"
"The Temas came with the Church Inquisitor! That idiot Sakoras let them in because he didn't have the guts to face the judge!"
"Do you have the guts to face them, Nozella?"
"Why wouldn't I!?" he bellowed.
Then came a roar like crashing waves—a massive beast with gray horns slowly emerged from a small shadow in the corner of the hall. Its lower jaw opened like a gate, and its wings unfurled like the sails of a warship. Black scales shimmered in the pale glow of the bone-littered floor.
A dragon—no, a shapeshifter: a Soletaken.
He rose upright, wings spreading wide, and the ground beneath scattered bones like coals kicked from a fire. His chest, thick as a bull's, hovered above Tuska's head. His black scales exhaled smoke like burning corpses, even stinking faintly of rot.
Origa covered her nose and stepped back, accidentally crushing a gleaming white skull beneath her heel.
"Why the hell did you shift into dragon form? You planning to tear down the walls?"
"Shapeshifter," Tuska said, fixing his gaze on him, "until the Moon God descends, you stay here. Your recklessness could ruin the Empress's plans."
The black dragon's mercury-like eyes gleamed. He gave a slow laugh, the sound like a hundred tuberculosis patients gasping for breath.
"Very well. I'll act after the outer god arrives. And what about you?"
Tuska sneered. "I'll deal with the Inquisitor and Origa. As for the judge—you can go die for us."