Inside, Alex could feel the energies of the divine interdiction dying a slow death. Hannah's own power—the otherworldly strength he’d been granted by a burgeoning demigoddess, pushed against the will of a dead god.

Slowly, Uldar’s will was giving way.

It was like slipping free of a chain: each time he tried, he managed to wriggle free a bit more.

Bjorgrund, Birger, and Asmaldestre were near, waiting in anticipation. His other summoned creatures had long disappeared as their time in the material world had ended.

The older giant was sitting against a wall.

The younger one was pacing.

The war spirit was utterly still, staring at the archwizard, radiating power. Alex had the feeling that somehow, she could see the battle inside him. That wouldn’t have surprised him at all.

Hannah's energies—had been trickling through the interdiction—they abruptly began flowing.

“I've almost got it!” Alex cried. “I’m almost there!”

The giants turned their full attention to him.

The war-spirit ‘s face shifted in what looked like a smile, one that also resembled gleaming daggers.

“It's not a hundred percent free yet,” he said. “So, I doubt I can teleport all four of us right now. Probably only me…and maybe one other person for now. If I had more time, I could release more of the energy, but…”

“Who knows what those two are up to or if they've completely disappeared,” Birger said. “It's already been long enough as it is.”

“Too long,” Bjorgrund grumbled. “You should take the Unmaker and go. Get them.”

The war-spirit looked down at Alex. “Can you bear my burden?”

Her words struck him as they always had, and he didn't know how to answer. It was true what she’d said, she was much bigger than Bjorgrund…both physically and spiritually, and just like moving a pebble was easier than moving Claygon, she’d be harder to teleport than the young giant right now.

“Let’s see.” He flew down, gingerly touching her shoulder. He was prepared for the feel of her skin—it looked smooth—yet felt similar to barbed wire against his hand.

Clenching his teeth, he tried to teleport the two of them from the sanctum.

The strain was too much.

If his energies had been fully free, it would've been simple, but—with his power still partially bound—he couldn't do it. He’d need more time.

“I can't do it,” he admitted. “So, here's what we’ll have to do. Bjorgrund, I know you want to finish this fight, right?”

The giant cracked his knuckles. “More than right.”

“Alright, then here's the plan,” Alex said. “First, I’ll send you back across the planes, Asmaldestre. Then, I'll teleport myself and Bjorgrund to Uldar’s Rise: it shouldn’t take me more than a few jumps, and when we get there, I'll summon you again, and we can catch the two of them off-guard. If they're not there, I’ll summon some monsters to help track them.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Bjorgrund said, resting his axe on his shoulder.

The war-spirit looked at Alex. “Acceptable.”

The wizard took a deep breath and waved his hand, sending her back across the planes.

He flew to Bjorgrund next, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Alright, let's finish this fight.”

“Be careful,” Birger said.

“We will, father,” Bjorgrund said.

With those words, the rune-marked, and the General of Thameland disappeared.

----------------------------------------

Gabrian would never have thought that it was possible, but his heart dropped lower.

His last ally was gone.

Dead.

He was alone.

He’d tried to kill that infernal huntress with many of the battle spells he learned over his lifetime, but she’d proved herself to be devilishly quick and persistent. Even though he’d kept her from reaching his ally, he could not end her, no matter how much of his power he’d brought against her.

He’d kept her pinned in place so the Stalker could finish her hound.

Yet, it was the Stalker’s life that had ended.

He’d watched with horrified eyes as the sharkman had bitten his ancient fae ally in two like a chicken bone. The beastman’s jaws had made short work of his body, shaking his head back and forth.

He could still hear the ripping sound, the dreadful noise when his lower body had been torn from his trunk. It now lay on the other side of Uldar’s throne room in a heap, like so much trash. They were twitching slightly. The sharkman had swallowed the top of the fae’s body, like he was at a banquet.

Now he stood there, licking his bloody mouth like he had not a care in the world.

The Stalker had dealt the hound a number of wounds, but sadly, none of them looked serious enough to be fatal.

The beast was panting, spitting blood and shaking himself as though he were someone’s pet dog just coming in from the rain. He suddenly stopped what he was doing and looked up, glaring at the First Apostle with six bloodshot eyes, and began limping in his direction.

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The sharkman was also gazing at the floating holy warrior with those black, lifeless doll-like eyes.

He began licking his bloody jaws enthusiastically.

“No…do not look at me like that!” the First Apostle screamed at them, turning his sword to lash them with holy fire. He would not be looked upon as some morsel by a pair of beasts! Especially, not here, not within the holy realm of his god.

The sharkman smiled, then looked down at Uldar’s body, licking his teeth. “That one’s tastier looking anyway.”

Gabrian’s heart froze in horror while white-hot rage pumped through his veins. He looked at the body of his god, he looked so peaceful…as though he would get up at any moment.

“You would defile his body?” the First Apostle shouted, even though uttering the word ‘body’ stung his soul. In many ways, he still could not believe what he was seeing. He was still processing it…he would probably still be doing so even if he lived for another thousand years.

For now, his spirit was neither settled nor peaceful enough to contemplate it.

Too much rage was surging through him.

“I will destroy you!” he promised, raising his hand to cast a spell. “I will end you! You will not—”

There was a whooshing sound from behind.

He whirled around.

Where was she? He’d been so distracted that he hadn’t seen—

Two swords were protruding from his body.

—her throw her weapons.

He groaned, beginning to cast a healing miracle on himself, finding her glaring up at him from below. “You have no weapons now! Now you—”

She vanished, he suddenly felt a weight pulling the sword-hilts downward, ripping four deep gouges through his torso. She’d disappeared, then reappeared, holding her two blades.

“I told you,” she said from in front of him, the phantom swords reappearing beside her. “My weapon and I are one and the same. I might not be able to send the phantom blades after you, but I can throw the Twinblade at you, then rejoin it.”

With that, the phantom blades surrounded the First Apostle and began cutting him like parchment. He parried the floating swords, desperately trying to defend himself from the onslaught, while frantically returning to the ground. If he’d stayed in the air, her weight would have dragged the blades right through his body.

He knew he could never have healed fast enough; she would never have left him in peace long enough.

He was also tired.

So very tired.

He dropped, uttering prayers of healing and kicking her away from his body.

The swords slid free.

The wounded sharkman and cerberus were moving to his flank, he backed away, desperate to heal.

His wounds were closing, but he could feel his limit nearing.

He pushed his body, fighting for his life against his three opponents and—with every movement—his exhaustion grew. His mana pool—seemingly endless at one time—was running low. He’d forced so much divine power through his soul that it felt like it might shatter.

If he didn’t do something desperate, this would be his end.

His last act.

“I cannot fail,” he whispered as his enemies closed on him. “I have failed so many times, do not let me fail in this one thing. Let me send some of these enemies to the after-world. Let me send all—”

He stumbled over something he’d backed into.

Gabrian quickly glanced back.

Uldar’s body lay behind him, looking as peaceful and graceful as he had in the faces of his many images.

He looked like he would spring up at any moment to save his child; a child who had burned away many lifetimes in his service. In service to a god, not a corpse.

It couldn’t all have been for nothing.

It couldn’t all be for nothing.

Perhaps…perhaps this was a test!

“Save me!” he hissed at Uldar, swinging his blade at his enemies. “Show me a sign that you are there! Save me!”

He threw himself at his attackers.

A crushing stroke sent the huntress stumbling away.

He slashed the cerberus across a wound through his bone armour.

He cut the sharkman through a gap beneath his breastplate.

Snarling, with spittle hanging from his lips, he cursed his enemies beneath his breath. He could still win. With the last of his mana, his strength and the power flowing through his very soul, he could smite the enemies of the—

A shadow loomed beside him.

Had the huntress somehow appeared beside him again?

“Damn you!” he cursed her, swinging his blade around.

Then froze.

What faced him was no huntress…but himself.

Himself, reflected in a surface as clear as mirrored glass.

He looked haggard, as though he’d aged three hundred years in the span of minutes. His eyes were wild beneath the symbol of the scales on his brow, and his expression was feral.

Behind him, lay Uldar’s body.

Yet, those reflections were not what held him in place.

He was transfixed by what the surface where the reflections were coming from was: a breastplate that belonged to Uldar. Clean, polished, and shining with his divine glory.

It now reflected the First Apostle’s image.

Gabrian could not bring himself to strike it.

That was a mistake.

Uldar’s axe came down, severing his arm at the shoulder. He screamed, and tried to utter a prayer that would close the spurting wound.

A crimson, glowing Wizard’s Hand shoved its fingers down his throat, choking him, cutting off his words.

A sword slid into his back, impaling him from back to front.

The huntress thrust her swords—both steel blades and their phantom likenesses—through his heart. Blood gurgled in his throat, frothing on his lips.

A familiar voice spoke in his ear from behind.

“Die like your god,” Alex Roth said.

Then he felt something slide through him.

The world took a strange turn.

Suddenly, Gabrian was looking at it sideways…but when had he laid down on his side?

The scene before him made no sense.

He was looking at Alex Roth and the huntress, Theresa Lu. They had impaled a ruined body. What was even odder was that the battered body looked somewhat familiar…but he couldn’t quite place it.

Where had he seen it before?

And why in all the world—by Uldar, was it growing so hard for him to think—was that body headless?

Troubled, the First Apostle could only watch as the huntress tore the body apart with her swords and phantom blades while the giant—wearing Uldar’s armour and wielding his axe—drove his weapon into it, over and over.

The cerberus savaged the remains while the sharkman began to pound it with his maul.

It was barely recognisable after mere moments…then, strangely, the man who should have been the Fool cast a disintegration spell on it, turning it to dust.

Banishing it forevermore.

‘That poor man,’ Gabrian thought, ‘they destroyed him so thoroughly despite him not even having a head. How sad. Ah, these lost lambs are filled with too much hatred. I should minister to them.’

He tried to get up, but found he could not.

He could not feel anything below his neck.

How odd.

He looked down…

…and could not find his body.

It struck Gabrian like an avalanche; the body they’d mutilated and banished was his.

He was likely only still alive because of centuries practising life enforcement.

And that could only bolster him for so long.

The world was growing dark.

Cold.

He looked around, desperate for any salvation, even as memories from hundreds of years of life washed over him. His eyes clung to an image nearby.

Uldar’s body, peaceful, silent.

Uncaring.

Uldar’s corpse did not care that his First Apostle was dying.

It did not care that the hidden church had been nearly eliminated.

It did not care that Uldar’s enemies were living on to triumph and destroy his plan.

…but then again, what could a corpse care about?

As Gabrian’s life faded, he found that his concerns were falling away, no matter how he tried to hold onto them.

What would the material world mean to him when he was dead?

What would it have meant to Uldar…and how long ago had his god died?

Had he even been alive when Gabrian was born? A young man from a village who’d long ago been branded with a symbol from a dead god.

That man had lived his life, trying to follow that god’s will.

But if that god was dead…then would that not mean that whatever Gabrian had done, did not matter?

Had anything mattered in his entire life?

Had he mattered?

Questions—and growing despair—followed the First Apostle into death.

It could never be known whether he regretted his actions in life.

Those that lived on would likely care little.

His god certainly cared not in the least.