“The Tyrant’s Mark?” said Cyril, rubbing his jaw. “That’s as good a name for it as any, I suppose.”

One of the flecks of Star qi darted forward. A warning shot, aimed to miss his ear by a wide margin.

Cyril lifted his hand and twisted his fingers into a quick mudra. A saucer of E-grade bronze, like a tiny roundshield, manifested and intercepted the fleck; in its center, a magnesium-white flare burned bright for a second before winking out. The Star qi left a scorch mark on the metal, but had failed to penetrate through.

“If you do that again,” he said, “there will be no more talking.”

After a moment of hesitation, the ifrit-woman visibly relaxed. The galaxy of Star qi remained, a shimmer of diamond dust in the gloom.

Cyril wasn’t sure where he stood in a direct confrontation with the celestial ifrit. The blaze from that individual mote of qi had buffeted his face with intense heat, leaving his cheek flushed. Even if his defenses held against the concentrated onslaught of a thousand of them striking his body at once, he’d be boiled alive within his armor.

Lanazael stared at him with unnerving intensity. “You have become more powerful since last we spoke, Vessel.”

Cyril tapped his chin in contemplation. “So, what, you suspect I’ve succumbed to your great rival’s temptations? I wonder what would make you think his side is more convincing than your own. Am I simply corrupted by my greed?”

She did not respond.

“You forget who I am,” he said, no trace of pride, or any other emotion, in his voice. “The gulf between Behemoth and some desert tyrant is as vast as that between the heavens and the earth. Power was left around, abandoned, so I claimed some of it when it suited me. The Tyrant, for whatever reason, left one of those Marks on the ground leading to Beljeza, and I stumbled across it.”

Lanazael stretched out one of her tiny hands, as if attempting to grasp something only she could see. She sounded lost. “To Beljeza?”

“Yes,” said Cyril. He glanced back over his shoulder. “There’s a tunnel at the end of this cavern that connects to the one containing Beljeza. After Anadei died and you were sealed within this temple, the entire city was brought into the Underdark so Hosjin could protect it.”

Lanazael covered her eyes with a trembling hand. “No.”

“No?” Cyril tilted his head. “Which part?"

“All of it.”

Cyril shrugged the container off of his back and set it upon the ground between them. He rapped the fingers of his prosthetic hand on its lid. “I convinced the Library to loan me one of the tablets detailing the history of the Fall, and a few other mentions of relevant parts of Beljezan history. Ridiculously greedy, that building. You wouldn’t guess how much qi it wanted in exchange. Anyways, I could find it for you in here, buried among some fruit, probably. ”

Of course, he had also memorized quite a few details, in addition to recording as much as possible on his Mind Scroll Cantrip, but he wanted to bring back an actual relic to verify his claims.

One by one, the stars in the galaxy of qi winked out of existence. Lanazael wandered over to the steps and sat upon the first one, face buried in her hands.

He could tell he was breaking through to her. Luminescent cracks of starlight appeared along her face, and he could make out the faintest hints of a nebula of energy swirling within her navel. He had never before been able to detect any signs of her true nature--the spiritual network that formed the skeleton of her immaterial existence. It was easy to detect in lesser spirits like the Library imps and gardener-djinn, but she had masked them perfectly. The turmoil in her mind had caused her control to slip.

Cyril began to slightly regret his flippant behavior, but Lanazael needed to confront the truth. Still, the pitiful sight of her pierced his heart. She wasn’t crying, but it was close. Seeing anyone cry, man or woman, had always immediately softened his attitude toward them--a weakness his sisters in particular mocked him for relentlessly, while abusing it to manipulate him at every opportunity.

He thought he knew where the flaw originated from. One of his earliest memories was his mother crying. Huge, wracking sobs. She had just learned that her own mother had passed away in secluded meditation.

Cyril’s mother was the leader of the Wandering Phoenix Tribe and still the most powerful human he had ever encountered. The sight of her hopelessly crying had struck something deep in his young heart. He had never been able to understand the actual significance of that memory, outside of sympathy for a loved one in the throes of deep mourning. For some reason, he had never cried, not once, since that day, no matter how much pain or grief he experienced.

Cyril shook himself out of his reverie.

“You realize there are no particular wards or seals on this temple anymore, right?” he said to Lanazael in a softer tone. “You could have left any time. In the beginning, after the Fall and your temple was sealed, many people came here on pilgrimage. Once you had proved that you were no longer violent after the first incident, supplicants were allowed to visit. Not every citizen forgave you for your crimes, but they still revered and respected you. And always, you just sat on these steps, staring into the distance.”

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“I must have had nothing to say to any of the mortals,” she responded. “I spoke to you only out of curiosity, due to the Heavenly Pillar's presence. You did tell me Anadei is dead, on our first encounter. Until you came back here today, I had thought it a fanciful dream of mine. Behemoth, in the body of a young human, trapped down here with me? Over the course of these dark years, I have had many bizarre dreams. But this is real, and so what you said is true, then. She is dead.”

Cyril chose to remain silent.

“Since the day I was sealed here, I have had no more true visions,” said Lanazael. “No prophetic guidance. My mind cannot grasp the future because I can only stare into the past. How could I speak to them, to offer them wisdom and accept their worship, when I was blind to it? Our great powers, those of the Oracle of Beljeza, High Priestess Anadei, predicted an age of prosperity and glory for our people, only for it to fall to ruin before my very eyes.”

“It was a deception,” Cyril explained, gesturing at the container and the tablet hidden within. “A--”

“It does not matter.”

Cyril shook his head. “I came up with a name for you. In my language, it means--”

“Since you offered me advice, I will offer some as well,” Lanazael interrupted once more. “A spirit and their vessel are one. I experienced this with Anadei, while we were together. Parts of her personality and her memories linger within my spirit still. Our bond was as equals, so we influenced one another as equals. But a mortal can never be an equal to Behemoth.”

Cyril frowned. “Your meaning?”

“You must have felt His influence on you,” she said. “Do you recognize the person you have become, Prince Cyril? You lack the spiritual weight to truly manifest Behemoth’s intent at this point, so you still retain some individuality. As you become more powerful, the fusion will grow more complete, and as you approach divinity you will lose everything that makes you who you are. It truly is a cruel fate for any cultivator who intends to ascend to godhood. Once you have reached the pinnacle, you will become Behemoth incarnate, and no trace will remain of the human that once was.”

Cyril considered her words for a minute, then shrugged. “That is fate. Time moves forward. I’m no longer the same person I was when I was two years old, or five, or ten. To my mother, I am one person; to my friends, another. The idea that I will remain myself forever, unchanged and eternal, is absurd.

“To become a cultivator goes beyond that. It is to shed your mortality in defiance of the heavens. We seek to lay claim to a grander Destiny. The moment I chose to live as a cultivator, I accepted that I would no longer be the same man. I’m no longer the mortal known as Prince Cyril. I am his karma, carried forward.”

Lanazael stared at him as if he was a lunatic.

“Why did you bring a tablet with the history of Beljeza?” she said, finally. “To convince me of the truth?”

Cyril hadn’t expected that particular question. He coughed into his hand, a touch embarrassed. “Somewhat. I wanted to add the legend into my tribe’s Library and perhaps spread it to other civilizations to appreciate. It’s quite an interesting tale, and these sort of discoveries help enlighten mankind about our history. What events shaped the world as it is today. And this way, the memory of Anadei and her hopes for mankind will live on, and the people of Beljeza will be remembered. By me, if no one else.”

The intensity in Lanazael’s eyes brightened until he felt as if he was staring into the blinding heavens themselves. He waited for her response, half-certain that she would vehemently oppose the spread of her tragedy to the wider world. The other half of his mind wondered what the spirit was capable of.

“I think I would like that,” she said, eventually.

Cyril smiled. “This may be rude to mention, but I’ve acquired a technique that allows me to Purify and sanctify others. Cleanse them of their sins, fell karma, things of that nature. I don’t know what effect it would have on you, if any, but if you would like, I could help remove the stain from your soul.”

Lanazael shook her head, sadly but firmly. “No. This technique of yours is as taboo as anything sacred can truly be. Absolution should not be simple as laying a hand on someone and speaking the proper words. These sins, these impurities, are the scars of my existence. I do not wish for them to be taken away from me.”

“I understand,” Cyril said. “Then what do you want?”

Lanazael tilted her head back and stared up at the ceiling--the blank, dark expanse of countless tons of earth overhead. “I want to see the stars. It has been so long. Then, I will leave this world behind. Anadei is not here any longer. I realize that now. Tell me, do you think the stars will welcome me among their company?”

“I have no doubt the heavens will greet you with open arms,” he said solemnly.

The intent behind her words left no room for ambiguity. No spirit departed the material plane and came back, the same way no man returned from the lands of the dead. Part of him wanted to prevent her from following through with this ultimate decision, but it was not his place.

He wanted to tell her the new name he had chosen for her, but the idea seemed naive to him now, childish. Lanazael’s Destiny was too heavy for her to bear, and some renaming ceremony would not change that.

“Do you know how to leave this place, then?” said Lanazael.

“I believe so.” Cyril glanced up at the trial of the seven steps, and the temple that lay beyond.

While he wasn’t absolutely certain, he had his suspicions. He had explored most of the caverns and saw no other obvious escape route. From what little he knew about Hosjin, and what he had pieced together from the old records within the Library he had permission to view, this seemed like the man’s style.

Freedom, right in front of everyone. Lanazael was closest of all, but over the ages, she had never once bothered to attempt to ascend the staircase, though the increased gravity would have little effect on a spiritual entity formed from energy. Instead, she had lingered here as an unwitting guardian, scaring off future generations of humans born in Beljeza after the Fall.

Anyone that Hosjin deemed strong enough to ascend the stairs was also free to leave the Underdark and contend with the forces that besieged them. That was after they bypassed Lanazael in the first place. Likely, in practice, that meant that none of the Beljezans would have been able to escape.

Hosjin Yaserath truly was a tyrant.

Cyril shook his head, and without a second thought, he took the first step.