THE VOID GLARED into me, and I fell through it, a bodiless nothing save the pain of a cut throat and the ugly warmth of the blood splashed down my chest. I fell, but through nothing, toward nothing. A blackness enveloped me, and from it I could clean nothing except the horrible absence of anything at all. Except myself.

Oblivion, I thought. The true pit. The abyss promised to the sinful, and at the bottom lay the Beasts in Chains who gnawed at the foot of the universe itself. Was I falling toward them? Or were they rising toward me, their midnight jaws snapping to crush what little spark of me remained?

A scarlet shimmer caught my attention, radiating from the periphery of my vision. I moved toward it, willing myself to turn, and saw a golden rim. All around it circled, a broad, wide golden rim. The red was blood, dully shimmering with some inner power. The gold bowl sat on a white stone, chipped and worn and polished by many hands.

“Stars above,” I gasped, standing up suddenly. The chapel was quiet, the wagon-wheel chandelier dimmed out. Bodies lay sprawled on the ground, dozens of them. My heart leapt into my chest, for at first I thought they were dead. There was a loud clang as Bloodfang fell from my nevertheless fingers.

But then, who had covered them all in blankets?

No. Sleeping, I realized like a fool, but it was too late. The noise wakened the little congregation of the Stone of the Vigilant. Familiar faces sat up on elbows, squinting through the dark.

“Who is that?” said one. A child began to cry, and someone tried to hush it with quiet sounds. In the high-ceilinged chapel, their noises were small, mouselike. Fragile. Tenderness in Hell was a rare thing, too easily crushed out by the hopelessness that hunched at every periphery.

I heard the creak of wood above me. I looked up, beyond the rafters, to see Father Iainov leaning over the railing of the platform high above my head. He held out a low candle that glimmered like some alien star.

“Cinderborn?” His voice carried effortlessly through the hallowed space, but without fear or startlement. It was a comfort, as much a part of the chapel as the stones themselves.

I opened my mouth to speak, and remembered the copper taste of blood and mortal fear. My hand found my neck, and though there was no gash, the skin remembered the injury. Where Param had cut my throat there was a lingering, bruised tenderness. My skin felt cold, and by the light of my own radiant chest injury, I could see the light I carried was low. As low as it had been when I first awakened in the pit.

“Cinderborn, why have you returned?” Faither Iainov was hurrying along the platform now, making for the discreet staircase. “Where is your woman?”

“She’s not my woman,” I said, a little anger betraying itself. I held out my hand to the bowl, and felt the heat of the blood in the sacrificial basin. I pulled at it, summoning the radiance back, warming my body again. Bringing strength. The anger grew as the strength came. So did the shock.

The old priest tried to comfort those who were sitting now, staring at me. They were whispering, looking around as if to find clues to this unexpected intrusion. When he was done with them, he came to me.

“Where is Param?” Iainov asked. He looked distressed. Grayer than he had; pale with worry.

“She killed me,” I said, touching my throat again.

The priest blinked. “Killed you? Surely she had a reason?”

I bit back my answer to that. “I saw him,” I said, remembering her final words to me. “The Wolf.”

Father Iainov took that in silence. His eyes grew dark, and his brow fell. Then he nodded. “Tell me of him.”

“He’s huge,” I said, remembering the man. “And there’s a fire in him. Unlike anything I’ve got.” I let the light of my wound play over my fingers. Even in the dark, it was nowhere as bright as the conflagration that had leaked from the Wolf’s chest. “She surrendered to him, Father. Gave herself to the Wolf.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Iainov put his hand on my shoulder. “There must have been a reason. She knew you would return here. You are a Cinderborn. Death is… more complex. Even here in Hell.”

The white altar seemed to gleam, even in the chapel’s quiet dark. I ran my hand over it. It even felt out of place. “What is this stone?”

Iainov smiled fondly at the altar. “That is a single brick of the Hallowed Hall that once dwelt at the foot of the great tree. It was said to have had five hundred doors, each of which opened into another world.”

“Yalham,” I said. Reverence crept into my voice. “You know the myth?”

“I do not know Yalham,” Father Iainov said, “but it was known by many names. My people called it Wohollo. The White Lord’s house. I walked many days to find such a thing. Bringing it to the forest took even longer.”

“But that cannot be,” I said. There were threads there, dangling just out of reach. I focused on my memories of Alain, of Beor and the others. “Yalham was the house of the honored dead. The heavens. How can it be… here?”

“I do not recall all of my liturgies,” Iainov said sadly. “And the Mysteries were never for us to understand, Cinderborn. They are for us to consider, and trust. Once, the White Hall resided at the foot of the world tree. It was a way between worlds. But now, that house is broken, and its pieces scattered across the lower realms.”

“The way between worlds.” That meant something to me. “That was what Zeniel called this place. The Way Between Worlds.”

“Perhaps once. Now…it is infected. Corrupted. Hell spreads like a disease.” His somber gaze caught mine. Held it firmly. “That is what you are for, Cinderborn. To cut the disease out. To burn it out and restore the realms to their rights. To bring peace back to the dead.”

His voice, even at a whisper, had a ghost of an echo in the chapel. I listened to it fade. Burn the disease out? How could I bring peace? I was hardly staying on my feet.

“Not anymore,” I said. “There were legions of us, once. That much I know. But now… I’m one man. And the Wolf is twice my size.”

“A whole forest can burn to the ground, if a single spark catches,” the priest said. He stooped to pick up the greatsword from where it had fallen. He held it up before me. “And the whole world can be shifted with a long enough lever.”

That much was true. I reached to take the sword from him. It had a comfortable, familiar weight. If the wolf were awake within the blade, it seemed to have nothing to say. In the dark, the orange bloodstains that marred the iron had the faintest of a glow.

“That’s godsblood,” Father Iainov said, pointing to it.

I stiffened. “What?”

“I have seen it once before. In Ulstassi,” he said sourly. “Mortal blood carries a trace of divinity. The radiance that flows within us. That nourishes our souls. But godsblood is undying. It never loses its radiance. That stain is old, but it remembers from whence it came.”

A grim harvest came the low snarled answer. Memories chained in the dark, and better left there.

“Whose blood?”

But neither the priest, nor the sword, answered. I rubbed my thumb along it, and changed my tack. “You saw godsblood in Ulstassi?”

“The city is sick,” spat the priest. “Addicted. I left when I could stand it no longer. I found a better purpose here, serving those lost among the trees. Serving these souls,” he said with a flourish to those lying on the chapel floor. Most had returned to their slumber, or what passed for it in Hell. I envied them their sleep. The comfort they took in one another.

“What will you do?” The question was for me, but I didn’t hear it until Iainov had repeated it twice.

“I don’t know,” I said. Had Param killed me to be rid of me? No. Angry as I was, hurt and surprised, Father Iainov was right. She had killed me for a purpose. Not to give herself away to Harald. I had heard the cold, snarling hate in her voice. That was no eager greeting of old lovers. “I can’t leave her there.”

“No,” he said. “That would not do. We have few enough allies in this darksome place.”

“But Harald is a giant.” I held up my fist. “I do not know how I can face him alone. Not like this. Not so weak.”

Father Iainov pursed his lips. “You must have faith,” he said. “The gods awakened you for a reason, Cinderborn.”

“Faith won’t get me far. It won’t stop a blade from cutting my throat. No, I need to be stronger. I need to be able to fight him. He won’t let her go, otherwise.” I shook my head, considering. The objective was clear, but the path was not. Uncertain feet made for slips and failure. “How many days until the snake-face returns?”

“Four,” answered Iainov. “If it is strength you seek… perhaps I know a place. But it is dangerous,” he said. “And you walk alone now.”

“No,” I said, shouldering Bloodfang. “I have my own wolf.”