The next morning dawned with a pale blue sky and the promise of heat rising off the road. Yvain made the easy decision to follow the caravan.
Jon—the caravan leader, who had shared his name later that night, had invited them to travel alongside. It would be safer, and Yvain was more than happy to relinquish his duties as map reader. It was clear to everyone, even Mars, that his sense of direction was less than legendary.
They hitched their cart beside the trailing wagon of Jon's caravan, and the rhythm of the wheels soon lulled the horses and passengers alike into a steady pace.
Mars, as always, had found conversation. He was riding in the back of Yvain's cart, legs swinging freely, chatting animatedly with Celeste, who, surprisingly, was responding, nodding, even laughing on occasion. Yvain noticed it in passing, and for a brief moment wondered if killing Ser Hardron had actually mellowed her. Her whims, like storm-weather, came and went unpredictably. But when it returned, it was almost always catastrophic. He hoped, selfishly, that he wouldn't be the one standing closest when it did.
Up ahead, on Jon's cart, little Iyana perched on her father's lap, her wide eyes still lit with the glow of yesterday's story.
"Dad," she asked, tugging at his sleeve. "What does an angel look like?"
Jon smiled gently, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead. "I wouldn't know, sweetie. They're not around anymore."
"They left?" she asked, blinking up at him. "Why?"
Jon hesitated, as though chewing on a dozen different answers, all of them unsatisfying. "They just… left. One day, the world woke up, and the angels were gone."
It was an oversimplification, of course. The Vanishing of the Hosts hadn't been sudden. The angels had always kept to themselves. But sometimes, in centuries past, they would appear in Malkuth. They bargained, intervened, punished, blessed. They were the arbiters of strange justice, or holy terror, depending on whom you asked. Over time, though, their visits grew fewer, until it was nonexistent.
One of the caravan guards, a wiry man with a broken nose and a voice like dry bark, called from his saddle, "Dehmohseni, I wager."
Jon's expression darkened. He turned a glare on the man that could have scorched wheat.
The guard looked away, chastised. But it was too late. Iyana's curiosity had already latched on.
"Who are the Dehmohseni?" she asked, eyes big with wonder.
Jon sighed. "A clan of Nephilims," he said finally.
"Nephilims?" Iyana echoed, with innocent awe. "They must be amazing!"
Mars, never one to miss a cue, leaned forward dramatically. "That's one word to describe them," he said. "Others might say: mad, lawless, dangerous beyond reckoning, and evil in seventeen different languages, one of which involves just screaming."
The girl recoiled slightly, shrinking against her father.
Jon soothed her. "You don't have to be afraid. They're all gone now."
"Turned to dust, their great halls crumbled, their dragons slain or fled," Mars added with mock solemnity. "Thanks, in no small part, to Saint Zorina."
Iyana's eyes lit up. "I know her! The priest says we must pray to her every morning."
"You should," her father said, his voice quieter now. "She gave everything to save the world."
Yvain shifted uncomfortably at the reins.
Saving the world, in this case, had meant being bound and burned alive, executed by decree of the Emperor. His father. Zorina's death had ignited the rebellion that consumed the Old Empire, collapsing it in flame and fury. And from her martyrdom, the Sanctuary had grown stronger. Zorina had been their first Speaker.
Just ahead, the broken-nosed guard spoke again. "There's talk now… of sorcerer lineages trying to restore the throne. Not all are pleased with the Magisterium's leash."
Jon groaned. "There's always talk of something with you."
The guard shrugged. "You hear enough, some of it turns out true."
"And who," Jon snapped, "do you suppose they'll seat on that throne? The Dehmohseni line is ash. You'll be joining them if you don't learn to keep that mouth of yours shut."
The other guards chuckled as the man reddened and fell silent.
In time, they reached a small village nestled in the folds of the countryside. It was the kind of place that barely earned a name, stone cottages slouched under thatched roofs, smoke curling from crooked chimneys, and a muddy road carving its way through the heart of the settlement. Chickens wandered freely. A dog barked without conviction.
It wasn't much, but it would do for rest.
But as they rolled into the village, a strange stillness greeted them—one that felt heavy, like the air before a storm. Up ahead, a crowd had gathered near the central square. At first, it wasn't clear what held their attention. Then the wind shifted.
The smell hit them first.
Charred flesh. Ash. Smoke mingled with something more foul, something unmistakably human.
At the center of the gathering stood a tall wooden stake. Upon it, or what was left of it, was a body. Blackened, skeletal, long dead. Flame still licked the remains with lazy persistence. A Sanctuary priest stood nearby, his crimson stole fluttering as he raised his hands in rote benediction. Every few seconds, one of the villagers would spit and mutter "Witch."
Mars, who had been humming absently, trailed off into silence.
Jon halted the caravan and stepped forward, eyes narrowed. "What's happening here?"
A grizzled farmer with soot on his face turned to him, pointing at the burning corpse with a sort of grim pride. "What's it look like? We're cleansing the place. Filth like her don't get to rest in the ground."
"Did she harm anyone?" Mars asked, frowning.
"Not yet," the man said. "But they always do, sooner or later."
Yvain stiffened. He looked at the priest, who said nothing, just murmured scripture in a low, practiced voice. The villagers murmured back as though in trance.
"Maybe we should move on," one of Jon's guards said quietly.
Jon gave a slow nod. "We should. Come on. We'll push for Canthia. We can make it before dark if we don't tarry."
He turned to Yvain, giving him a nod. "This is where we part ways. The Hundred Towers lies due west from here. Stick to the road, you'll see them rising from the plains before long."
"You're not resting here?" Yvain asked.
Jon shook his head. "No need. There's still daylight, and frankly... I don't want to breathe this air longer than I must."
"Safe journeys," Mars said with a flourish and a half-bow as the caravan rolled on northward. Iyana peeked back at them from her father's lap, waving.
Celeste stared at the pyre, her face unreadable. "Are we staying?"
Yvain hesitated. He didn't look at the fire, didn't want to. "It's a long road to the Towers. Better to rest while we can."
"And you, bard?" Celeste asked, half-teasing.
Mars swung his lute over one shoulder. "I go where the wind leads me," he said with a grin. "Today, it smells like burned soup and bad decisions. But I'm still with you."
They turned from the square, the priest's voice fading behind them. The villagers were still chanting.
The inn they found was tucked into the edge of the village, a squat, moldy thing with a sign that once bore a painted stag, now faded into oblivion. The common room smelled of mildew and stewed onions, and the innkeeper had the disposition of a man who regretted waking up this morning.
Still, they paid.
The rooms were cold, the beds itchy, and the walls thin, but they'd slept worse. Yvain stared at the ceiling as night came, the faint scent of smoke still clinging to his cloak, drifting in through the shutters.
Yvain descended the narrow stairwell to the inn's first floor, footsteps muffled by worn rugs that hadn't seen a proper beating in years. The smell of boiled onions and stale ale lingered in the dim common room, where the hearth had burned down to coals.
Near the window, the innkeeper—Breda—stood with her arms folded tightly across her chest, gazing out into the dusky street. Her features were hard, weathered by a life of labor, but something in her expression had softened. She didn't notice him until he spoke.
"Did you know her?"
She flinched as if struck, spinning toward him with a gasp, one hand flying to her chest.
"Wh—!"
"Sorry," Yvain said quickly, lifting a hand in apology.
Breda exhaled, embarrassed, then studied him more closely. Her eyes lingered longer than they needed to, and a faint blush crept into her cheeks.
"It's… it's alright," she said at last. "We all knew her. Ingrid. She was a sweet girl. Odd, but sweet."
"And you all burned her anyway," Yvain said, voice flat.
Breda winced and turned back to the window. "It wasn't like that. She was always… strange. Sometimes when she got upset, it was like the wind itself was screaming. Doors slammed, dogs howled. We thought it was coincidence, at first. She never harmed anyone."
She hesitated, then added, "There were boys—idiots—drunk and roughhousing by the stream. One of them slipped. She pulled all three out. But they said the way she swam wasn't natural. Said the waves moved for her. Word got to the priest. And once he says witch, there's no taking it back."
Yvain followed her gaze. Outside, the villagers had long since dispersed, but the charred stake remained in the village square. And someone stood before it now, a cloaked figure, unmoving, silhouetted against the smoldering ash.
He imagined the scene with clarity born of experience. Ingrid had likely been awakened, a latent talent stirring inside her, perhaps drawn to the Breath of the World. Maybe she didn't even know. Maybe she had been afraid. It didn't matter. The moment a power flickered, the world reached for a torch.
"Thank you," he said quietly, and left her there, watching the dead.
Outside, the air had cooled, but the pyre still radiated a dull heat. The figure standing at its base turned as he approached. Celeste.
She wore a traveler's cloak, hood pulled low, eyes fixed on the skeletal remains strapped to the blackened stake.
"See how they treat us," she said without looking at him.
Yvain stopped beside her.
"This would never have happened under our rule," she continued, voice low and sharp. "An awakened child would be taken to a sanctum, given a name and a guide. Not burned in a square by peasants who still think thunder is angry sky spirits."
He nodded grimly. In the Old Empire, magic was both feared and revered. Even the newly awakened were protected, watched, educated. They were not treated as abominations. The value of a sorcerer's life had outweighed that of ten mortals. And though the ethics of that hierarchy were questionable, it had meant things like this never happened.
"Much has changed," he said.
She turned to him now, and he saw the spark in her eyes, the kindling of something dangerous.
"They mock us, Yvain," she said. "Spit on our name. Did you hear them? Back in the caravan? All their whispered poison about our house. We were meant to be gods. And now we walk like beggars, cloaked in lies, hiding in gutters from priests who know nothing of the world's true laws."
He reached to place a hand on her shoulder, but she jerked away.
"You," she hissed, stepping back, "you don't even want to reclaim what is ours."
The accusation hit hard, not because it wasn't true, but because she had seen it before he could deny it.
"If I had Derenthyr," she said, her voice growing in intensity, "if I claimed him, I would burn half the world just to carve our name in flame across the sky. I would remind them who we are."
She knew that his quest for the Elder Wyrm was not about dominion or legacy. He didn't want to wield Derenthyr, only witness him. To see the last living link to an age beyond memory. To study it, not command it. And to Celeste, that made him weak.
"I'm going to kill him," Celeste said, her voice cold and sharp as a drawn blade.
She strode down the muddy road, her cloak billowing behind her like a banner of war. There was no rage in her tone, only grim certainty.
Yvain sighed and followed.
But she wasn't waiting.
The local chapel, its steeple crooked, its bell rusted silent. The door loomed ahead, weathered wood bound in iron bands, a faded symbol of the Sanctuary etched above the frame.
She pushed it open with both hands.
What they saw inside made both of them stop in their tracks.
The sanctuary was a small, single-nave chamber, pews dusty and uneven. Candles flickered on crude altars. The scent of incense clung to the air.
And in the center of it all stood Mars.
His usual ridiculous cloak was gone, and he looked strangely taller in the glow of the altar flames. In one hand, he held a slender straight sword, gleaming with fresh blood. In the other… the head of the priest.
Blood dripped in fat, rhythmic drops onto the church floor, painting a grotesque trail from pulpit to nave. The body, headless, slumped in a crimson heap by the altar.
Mars blinked when he saw them, as if unsure whether they were real. Then, ever himself, he grinned. "Well," he said, his voice oddly casual, "this is awkward."