The room was just like the area where they’d found the Vigil, built of steel. But time had painted these walls with rust and glass tanks lined the walls instead of cells.

In each floated a dormant body — some male, some female, some humanoid, and many something else. All wore rich, red brocade robes. Those figures with vaguely human forms wore gold crowns fixed to their waterlogged skin or chitin by struts driven into the skull. Those without heads to wear them had their crowns attached with spikes, wire, or simply clutched them in an appendage. Their eyes were glassy and staring, their limbs slack. Some of the tanks hummed, lights blinking along them in sharp, alternating reds and greens. In others the lights had gone out, and the bodies they held were faded, their skin was sloughing loose, their royal robes turned funeral shrouds.

Rulers in waiting, the Vigil noted as The Armory passed the tanks, though none of the bravos had wondered aloud, and none asked the god-that-might-be to clarify.

At the far end of the hall, steel walls phased back into familiar stone. Most of the torches were dead and The Armory and the Vigil moved from one bright pool of light to the next. At the far end, sitting between a pair of gilded pillars, was a slumped man nearly swallowed by an ornate throne. He wore the now-familiar red robes and blood trickled down his face where the gold crown had been fixed to his skull. Limp fingers held a chain that ran to the collar of a monster the size of a horse slumped at the throne's side. It had too many legs and eyes, and had been stitched together from lions and lizards. A clutch of tentacles fanned away from its backside in place of a tail.

It was dead as stone.

The robed figure raised his head with a great effort as The Armory approached.

"Again?" he asked and shook the chain in its fist, but the dead beast did not twitch. He tugged again, halfheartedly and without looking, the way a hopeful drunk checks a bottle emptied hours ago. His robes were damp as if he had just crawled from a tank to take the throne.

"Again and again and again," the figure on the throne whispered.

He is the one, the Vigil's voice was a force in The Armory's minds, End him and the Citadel falls!

"He doesn't look all that dangerous," Pitch said. "Or powerful."

He is a lynchpin! A cornerstone! The Vigil’s dry thunder in their minds sounded almost panicked, desperate.

"Rulers don’t usually look dangerous, Pitch," Dagger said.

"Why don't you do it?" Pitch asked the floating god.

I... cannot. I...

"Right," Pitch muttered. "You just like to watch."

The dull-eyed, damp-robed little king looked up at the Vigil with faint curiosity. "Oh," he said, "you freed one of them. That was foolish. They're never grateful. You'll see."

"One of them?" Dagger asked. “What do you mean?”

"Again, again, again," the king muttered, ignoring Dagger. He pawed among his robes in slow motion, looking for something. "Ah," he said with satisfaction and lifted an antique pistol. He stared at the ancient weapon, as if trying to remember how it fired.

"Powder?" Dagger asked. "A little mercy here."

Powder drew a pistol with her left hand.

"Again?" The little lost king asked as he lifted his waterlogged eyes to Powder and sat back in his throne, the pistol falling from his fingers. "Well. Be about it. I will see you again."

Powder fired and the king slammed into the backrest and curled into a ball, nearly vanishing among his damp robes.

Fine work, the Vigil said, its voice calm again. It is ended. The job, as you would say, is done.

"What did he mean, again?" Pitch asked. "He said he will see us again."

Nobody had an answer. Even the Vigil was silent.

"Nothing? Just the ravings of a mad old king?" Pitch asked the god. "What did he mean?"

The Vigil said nothing, and Pitch spat on the floor in disgust.

"So, it's done," Dagger said. "Now what? Since it's your song we're dancing to."

Now I show you the way out.

Pitch was examining the empty tank closest to the throne. There were others in line behind it, but in the next two, the lights were dead, and the kingly figures suspended within were rotting.

"What happens when another of these things is decanted?" the alchemist asked.

To you? It matters not at all. Your job is done. Come.

"That wasn't what I asked," Pitch said, but again the Vigil ignored him.

They followed the god to the wall behind the throne. The Vigil's beacon blazed, and a door opened in the stone. The god led them down another spiraling stairwell and at the bottom was a doorway that teased dim light. They went through it, and into the hall through which they'd entered, where the light of Temker's Clock waited. Pitch hurried over to the clock and furiously poured over its glyphs and sigils. He knelt near the base where the glyphs seemed to fuse altar stone to floor and busily ran his hands across them, the last words of the strange king blazing in his mind.

"Powder," he called, "do you have one of your bombs? Once we break this, time should resume. The tower will fall."

No.

They all turned to the god. It was looming over them.

"No?" Dagger asked. "This was the job. To break the Citadel and set this realm free. Don't you want to leave this place?"

You will leave. But the Citadel will stand.

Dagger set her hammer down and rested her crossed arms on the haft. "We were paid to do a job. We always do what we're hired to."

Easily remedied. Here.

The god extended its hand, and its watchtower form extended a drawbridge. Balanced on the palm, and the end of the bridge, was a leather bag the size of Dagger's head. Gingerly she took and pulled the strings open. The bag was filled with unadorned gold coins.

"What's this for?" Dagger said.

I mean to hire you.

"We already have a client," Dagger said.

Have you never switched allegiances? Don't claim ironclad principles to me. I have seen within you.

At first, Dagger said nothing. The god was facing her, but behind it, she could see that Pitch was still crouched by Temker's Clock, his hands hidden. She stepped closer to the floating god. "What do you have in mind?" Dagger asked.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I cannot be sure I will survive if the Citadel falls. But here, here I am whole. I am myself. My powers are growing. They will soon be limitless within these stones. Here as time repeats, I remain what I am, but if I pass through those doors, nothing is certain. And your world may not abide my presence. I choose certain life.

The Vigil pointed at Vice.

He is sure I am an aberration. An accident. He grieves, but he also hopes, despite himself. He longs for the moment that will restore a distant memory, a memory not even his, of his world to rights. In any case, my nature is irrelevant. You have placated me to secure my aid, but I have done the same to you. We needed each other then, but I do not need you now. I may indeed be a false, created thing, but here that does not matter. For that I am sorry, my little watcher in the darkness, though I tell you a truth you need.

"Do not call me that," Vice spat and turned away.

I too grieve your loss, but you must go and leave me here. You'll only lose more if you don't.

"Lose more?" Dagger said. "We didn't lose."

Your monk did. Look at his face, his hope gone, his faith in tatters. You have been paid. Within these walls you cannot gauge my power, and neither can I. You cannot force me from the Citadel. You cannot destroy it from within. You cannot destroy it from without. Leave. I have seen enough to understand the power you enjoy in the world outside these walls: Life everlasting, as long as you fight and kill. But I promise you, here you are beyond the reach of that power. You will die. Your loop will close.

"Our loop?" Dagger asked.

In here, you believe you are singular, but that is a fault of perspective. Just as there are many towers, there are many versions of you within each one. In all you battle to the end. In all you free me. In all you attempt to stop me. And in all, you die. All those versions, trapped forever. Repeating. It is a poetic parallel of your existence in the world beyond these walls, but far more limited. If you leave now at least one of those versions — the only one as you five will ever need comprehend it — can go on marching along time's tunnel as expected. To you there will be change. You will continue. Do not concern yourself with those others. You will never know them, and if you met them, they would be as strangers to you. Do not march to death in this version as you have, as you will, in all the others.

"We don't march toward death, we flaunt it," Dagger said. She turned to the rest of The Armory and clenched the haft of her hammer. Nobody threatened The Armory. Nobody but she set their course. Pitch got up from the altar with slumped shoulders and went to Dagger's side.

"Boss," Pitch said, and tentatively touched her arm. "let's go."

"You want to give up, Pitch?"

"It's practical," Pitch said and gave her arm an urgent squeeze at odds with his defeated body language and tone. "Vice is badly hurt, Powder's broken arm will need proper treatment. We're fucked up."

"That's never stopped us."

Pitch nodded. "And we've seen what this thing can do. If it's not a god, it's sure as shit close. Think of it as a tactical retreat. We don't do lost causes. What are we, heroes all of a sudden?"

The god-hater speaks true. Go. Leave me to my vertical kingdom of time. I will continue to provide for the island. Somewhere in some version of this place you will rescue me again and again. Somewhere in time you will win over and over and be presented with this same choice. I tell you again: in each, those that have already happened and those yet to happen, you make the same one. You fight. You die. Your loop closes and another takes its place. I beg you now, choose differently.

"Nothing is certain," Dagger said.

No? Will you test that? You can leave this place now, only minutes after you entered, wealthy and free. Leave and live or stay and die.

Dagger looked around at the rest of The Armory, and other than Vice whose head was bowed, they all nodded. Powder's face was drawn with pain as Pitch's chemicals began to fade. Dagger saw blood dripping down Vice's leathers.

"Dagger, please," Pitch said, his voice tense and urgent, "let's just go. Now."

Everything Dagger stood for seemed to urge her to stay, lay this demanding, fake god low. Twice she considered lifting her hammer, but finally she sighed and slung her weapon over her shoulder.

"Fine," Dagger said to the god that might be, "we'll leave."

That is wise. Already, I can feel my control growing. Behold.

The doors to the chamber swung open. Light flooded in like a fanfare.

Even then Dagger hesitated. Pitch gestured to the others to go on ahead, and with a reluctant glance at their leader, they stepped toward the light.

"Dagger," Pitch hissed under his breath, "Come on!"

Dagger relented. She turned and moved to the front of The Armory and led them out into the light.

The doors slammed shut behind them.

The stairs looked like they had when The Armory entered. The bodies of the guards they'd slain lay where they'd fallen. The Vigil had spoken true. It was as if they'd been gone for only minutes and not the years, decades or centuries it seemed like it had taken to climb the Citadel.

"Like it never happened," Dagger whispered to herself, staring down the vast flights of stairs. She looked behind her at the looming tower, tall and pristine in the daylight. It blazed like an insult.

Pitch was shifting nervously from foot to foot. "Dagger, we need to move."

She rounded on him and growled, "What is your fucking problem, Pitch? Since when is your spine this soft?"

From overhead a gunshot cracked and something nicked her shoulder. "Are you fucking kidding?" She raged even as she ducked and turned back. Above the door, that lone sniper was still alive and reloading.

Dagger stared at the shooter's perch and gestured to the rest of The Armory. "All of you, get out of range. I'll be right back."

"Fuck him," Pitch said. "We need to get off these stairs."

"Fuck the whole thing," Powder said, as she fired back at the sniper with her pistol. "We need to leave the whole kingdom. I don't we want to be here when the queen finds out we bailed on the job."

"Don't worry about that," Pitch said, already speed-walking down the stairs.

"Why not?" Dagger said, following him despite herself. Saber, Vice and Powder kept pace.

Pitch looked at Powder. "What was it you said outside the mine while we were waiting for your bomb? Give it a minute?"

"I guess?" Powder said.

"So, give it a minute," Pitch said.

"Pitch," Dagger said," what did you do?"

The ground lurched and buckled. The Armory stumbled and fell. Behind them the entire Citadel lurched, a rippled wave in stone worked its way up from the tower's foundations, all the way to its peak. A single brick broke loose from the battlements that punctured the clouds and hurtled down to shatter to dust where they'd been standing only moments ago.

Pitch looked at Dagger. "Can we fucking run now?"

"Move your asses!" she shouted.

More bricks fell. The tower sprouted cracks that spidered out with a ripping noise that tore at the mercenaries' ears. The sniper's death scream was smothered by a pile of falling rubble and the stairs under their feet aged, cracked and turned to dust as they fled. New, time-aged holes opened in the ground and threatened to catch and hold their feet, to swallow them. Saber ducked under Powder's good arm to help her run, and Dagger aided Vice in their mad sprint from the rain of stone.

They staggered and slid, falling and scraping themselves. They bled from dozens of new cuts and dents, and finally hurtled down the last shattering steps and rolled to a gasping stop in the dusty thoroughfare that led to the village.

The Citadel pitched and yawned. The Armory watched in shock as its shadow swayed. They waited tensely for it to pick a direction.

It fell. Away from them. Toward half of the village.

It crushed several buildings under its bulk. Dust blew out from the impact in a tempestuous exhale that filled their throats and blinded them, sticking to the blood and sweat on their faces. A collective wail went up from the town as some of the citizens ran toward and away from the destruction, their screams wordless, dumb and awed as this perennial fixture of their lives collapsed.

"What the fuck?" Dagger coughed and hacked, spitting blood and dust between her knees as she sat with her hammer by her side.

Pitch was on his hands and knees, wiping his eyes and vomiting. Saber sat in the dirt, his eyes two shiny pools in a face painted matte white. Vice was on his knees praying and defiantly watching the fallen tower with streaming eyes. Powder holstered her pistol in disgust and groaned as her broken arm shifted.

Pitch puked and spat dust. Then he chuckled and wiped his mouth. It built into back-wracking laughter. He clutched his sides.

"Pitch?" Dagger said.

But the alchemist was laughing too hard to answer her.

"The fuck is so funny?" Dagger croaked around the dust caking her throat. She spat to clear it.

Pitch collected himself with effort and wiped his face, dragging clean streaks through the dust. He took a deep breath. He looked extremely pleased with himself.

"Remember the test devices left over from the Dahlsvaart job?" Pitch said, beaming.

"You’ve had that in your pocket this whole time?" Powder asked with horror, recalling how volatile they were.

"Just a little one, but I kept the pieces separated. Wouldn't do much, but I hid it at the base of the clock. Just enough to erase two of the key glyphs. I wasn't sure if it would work but..." He gestured at the crumbled tower.

"How'd you hide that from a god?" Powder asked.

"That was not the Vigil," Vice said.

"I see. I watch," Pitch said, mimicking the god's sepulchral voice. "My entire ass. Vice is right. Whatever that thing was, it wasn't a god. It had power, sure, but it was full of shit and trying to con us. Us! It understood a lot, and sure, it knew the nature of the tower, but that was the old magic. Mine is the new."

"Just a little one..." Saber repeated and chuckled his way into helpless laughter.

"What is so funny?" Vice asked.

Saber gasped. "It just reminds me of that time we were in that town with the vineyard. They had that possessed vole problem. Remember how tiny everybody was? With the hairy little feet? Well, there was this one little guy and—"

"I do not want to know, Saber," Vice said, cutting him off.

"Vice, you're allergic to fun."

Powder shook her head. "Didn't we get chased out of there with torches and pitchforks?"

"Yes!" Saber said, still giggling, "very, very small torches and teeny tiny pitchforks. I still have a scar on my ass. Looks like I sat on a dinner fork."

Dagger nodded at the destruction with a satisfied sigh. "Job's done."