Nico stepped into a surreal scene.

The floor was slick with blood and bile and intestinal fluids. Corpses were strewn about. One of them lay upon a workbench next to a rune-chiseled hammer and a bright emerald flame — a forge of some kind. The torso was severed at the stomach; bloody entrails poured out like red worms. Dismembered organs squelched underfoot.

On one wall was a rack filled with stoppered vials, carefully arranged by color, forming an eerie rainbow in the room’s gloomy penumbra. Beneath them, brains floated in jars of amber liquid. The room was no treasure chamber. It was a laboratory of some sort — though to what twisted demonic purpose Nico could not fathom. It reminded him of the scene they had found in Ambrose’s château.

A gleaming blue portal lay not ten paces away, but between him and it there stood a man. A man Nico recognized.

“You…”

“Me,” said the vampire. “Gasper Martín.” He looked different than Nico remembered. His fingers were elongated, his skin pallid. The irises and the sclera of his eyes were pitch black. Unsettlingly inhuman. His was the voice that had been speaking directly to their minds.

“One of my identities,” he continued, smirking. “You doubtless have questions. Your patron, Cosimo Medea, has an unhealthy obsession with the legend of Ilhen Rimani. I bent his obsession to my own purposes. I cultivated a relationship with him. I shared the cryptogram, knowing it would knock the first domino. And then in my manse, Leonardo had the temerity to put steel to ME.”

He spoke the final word with such anger, such force, that the very earth quaked beneath Nico's feet. Bits of rubble and dust spilled from the ceiling. As he’d bellowed, his jaw seemed to come unhinged, mouth opening freakishly wide, revealing a maw like a black abyss. He closed his mouth, glaring at Nico. Then he waved his spindly fingers, as though dismissing the matter.

“Out of anger I gave chase,” he continued. “I resolved to slay you. Steel cannot harm me, but it is the impudence of the act which infuriates me. But then I found myself intrigued by your progress. I tried to hasten you… until that foolish bard Maximilian put a cannonball in my ship's hull. Notwithstanding, I have watched your progress from afar.”

“You’re no vampire. Who are you really?”

Martín’s black eyes glittered malevolently. “Oh, how very astute. You’re quite perceptive, Nico. But have you cracked my final enigma? Do you know where you are? Think.”

“Not Ilhen’s Seventh.”

“No,” he said with a small smirk. “Ilhen’s Seventh was merely a trail of clues leading to a key and a locked door. My dear patron’s uncle did try to warn you — what was sought has been found.”

Uncle? “Who are you?” Nico repeated, this time more forcefully.

“Come. I want to show you something.”

Nico did not move an inch.

“Your apprehension is understandable. You survived a great deal, and paid a dear price for it. But here you are safe.”

“What about Gianna? There was a shadow… She…” He could scarcely say the words. “Where is she?”

“Gone. To perish in my abode is a grisly fate indeed. She is now trapped in a timeless void, languishing, unaging. Entirely lucid and aware of her predicament. Feeling pain but no pleasure, and lacking even the hope for the sweet release of death. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless I intervene. I could do that for you. Come.” He bent a spindly finger, beckoning Nico.

Nico complied, albeit reluctantly. He followed the man down a narrow passage that reeked of sulfur, stepping carefully around strewn corpses. Though the vampire held no light, the shadows seemed to recede at his approach. They came to an adjoining room, a small space perhaps ten feet square. On its far wall was a cairn of skulls ringed by votive candles, many of them unlit or holding only a feeble light.

“Do you know what this is?”

Nico shook his head.

“A wilted shrine, long neglected. A travesty. But one that can be undone.” He turned to Nico. “This is not Ilhen’s Seventh, as you surmised. It is an attunement Spire, and I am Alastair, the Visage of Muerte, the God of Puzzles, of Traps… and of Necromancy.”

Death magic. Nico recalled that Cosimo had mentioned there was rumored to be a secret attunement spire in Verona.

“The art of necromancy was embraced by the Diji but shunned by Verona and the Paladisian Empire, and for centuries they have labored to conceal the existence of this Spire, while others sought to find it. Necromancy is a powerful magic; a few skilled necromancers could raise a massive army — one that requires neither rest nor sustenance. A powerful advantage.”

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“One that could tilt the balance of power…” Nico said, recalling the words spoken to him by his captor in the Musea.

“But I don't need a few necromancers to tilt the balance of power. I need but one. One, to be my envoy. One, to proclaim to the world the location of my Spire, which would then precipitate a war with the Paladisian Empire — that, or Paladis would buckle under the pressure and admit entrants into my Spire. Either way, the cult of Muerte would grow.”

Nico recalled how the gods of magic — the children of Azrael — were strengthened when their cults grew. And while many secret attunement Spires were postulated to exist, none had ever been exposed. The Paladisian Empire’s relations with Arkimides and Veda and other powerful states were already frayed and tenuous; the exposure of a secret attunement spire would certainly provoke war. But one thing did not make sense to Nico.

“Why would the Empire hide it? Why not exploit it to their advantage?”

“Because they fear what they do not understand. And they fear that if they dabble secretly in necromancy, their secret will be exposed. You cannot induct hundreds or thousands of mages into the cult of Muerte and expect it to remain a state secret. They chose not to partake the risk, and hired Ilhen to erect a door guarding the entrance to the spire. He crafted a trail of clues to leading to its key — in case they ever changed their mind. I have labored tirelessly over decades, assuming various disguises, to uncover the clue for Ilhen’s trail. I found it deep within the Ducal Palace.”

“And the Black Cabal… their symbol…?”

“Cheerfully stolen from the Diji. It is curious how languages and symbols evolve and get shared, is it not? The Black Cabal appropriated a Diji glyph and crafted a myth that the Oculus, as they call it, is in fact their base of operations. It is an unfounded lie.”

Nico’s mind was elsewhere.

“Why do you even need an envoy? Why not just travel to Veda and Arkimides and Edmeer and tell them directly about this spire?”

Alastair smirked. “You should know the answer to that already. To intervene in the affairs of mortals is forbidden by divine decree, a sworn commitment among the gods. You see, Azrael rules the Ice Court with an iron fist… Though his days are numbered. The Oracle made a prophecy, that the Son will one day uproot the Father and cast him down to the netherworld for all eternity. Azrael fears his son Muerte. He keeps him weak. He exerts influence on the Paladisians to keep his Spire hidden so that his cult remains small. You see Nico, you and I have an opportunity not only to tilt the balance of power here, among mortals, but among the gods. An exciting opportunity presents itself.”

“You see,” he continued, “there is another reason the gods despise Muerte, for he alone has the temerity to speak the truth about the nature of our cosmos: that there are gods above the gods.

Nico’s mind reeled. A secret Spire and now secret gods? “What are you talking about?”

“An ancient race dwells near a distant star, upon an unseen planet. Their power dwarfs our own — dwarfs the entire Ice Court. They are called the Silent Ones, and they are returning Nico, and they are wroth with us. Steady progress is being made to bridge the chasm which separates us.”

“The Library…” Nico whispered. The occult magic the scholars in the Library were dabbling with.

“And in Ambrose’s Château. The Paladisians are unwittingly dabbling with an eldritch force. They are summoning the Silent Ones, but they require our help. That is where you come in. Come.”

Alastair curled a finger, beckoning Nico to follow. Nico felt he had no choice but to comply.

They followed another snaking, twisting passage, dismembered body parts squelching underfoot, and arrived in another cramped room. This one was lined with shelves containing various urns. In the center of the room a headsman’s axe leaned against a chopping block.

Nico felt an icy bead of sweat trickle down his back.

“This is how you will induct me into your cult… by first killing me.”

“Do not fear, Nico. Death is merely a transition, and your service shall earn you the undying gratitude of Muerte, soon to displace Azrael. But to become a necromancer, first you must first pass through the veil itself — and come back. You will return reborn as an anointed servant of Muerte, serving under my command.”

Nico glanced around, trying to seem casual and discreet. He could see the room which he’d first entered, and the portal.

“Why should I do that? Why should I help you?”

“Because you're in my spire.”

“Under false pretenses.”

“You seem to be laboring under the delusion I am framing a choice. Nico, I want your cooperation, but I do not require it. Come — kneel. The blade through your neck will be but a momentary pang.”

Nico still had one scroll in his quiver — Lightning Bolt. Would it be enough? Could he even draw it fast enough? Would a meager spell scroll have even the slightest effect on a demigod? It did not matter; he lacked better options.

In a flash, he reached for the lambskin quiver holding his final scroll.

His hand had not even lifted an inch before Alastair raised a hand, immobilizing him. “You are far too slow and weak to antagonize a visage, Nico di Manarola. Now kneel!”

Vines rose up from the floor, lashing his feet and hands and neck, forcing him down. They were barbed and tipped with venom; their stings pricked him, and he felt a warm, numbing sensation spreading through his body.

“Rest easy, Nico. When you pass the veil, you will meet those you have lost, once again and then nevermore. Cosimo, Gianna… Leonardo.”

“I’m right here, motherfucker,” said a cold voice, and then Leo’s sword Whisper plunged into Alastair’s back and through his chest. Alastair gasped, sapphire-blue light exploding from the wound Leo had dealt him, the light blindingly bright. Alastair shrieked in rage with such volume that the room quaked with seismic force. Boulders shifted, rocks rolled, and the earth shifted beneath them.

The vines released Nico, and Nico seized the moment, grabbing Leo. The two stumbled forward.

“Come on!” Together they darted for the blue portal. Nico’s vision was going blurry; the poison was coursing through his veins and taking hold of him, sapping his strength.

Nico leapt through the portal just before he passed out.

The Black Cabal awaited them on the other side.