The neon lights of Luridia bled in the endless rain. It may have been the middle of the night, or the height of morning. There was no distinction between night and day in Luridia, with its perpetual blanket of clouds. It was only through the break in the clouds above the Eyes of Horus—Aniara, that break had come to be known, after an ancient Luridian poem—that sometimes bleak sunlight would glower, or a rush of stars would gasp like unwelcome ice. Otherwise, the city was a torrent of dark and wet and long, desolate streets.

Clocks. Clocks allowed Luridia cohesion. Without them, the Nation’s capital would languish. It would harden. Fossilize. It wanted to. Clocks denied it this desire. They locked it into function. They forced it to run.

Onus always found it funny—and quite a bit troubling—that Luridia, Overlord of the Ensemble, was itself such a dreary place. It was funny because it explained, perhaps, the motivation behind the Nation’s relentless colonialist ambitions: anywhere and everywhere was better than here. It was troubling because, as it turned out, the misery of Luridia, ingrained in the consciousness of Luridians, baked into their souls, followed them wherever they went. They spread their misery like a virus. This was why, in part, everything was awful everywhere.

Onus was no different. He had accepted this long ago, and now, standing in the plaza at the foot of the Cupola looking up into the rain at his father’s Eyes—which gawped down at him like two moons below a glimpse of stars—he accepted that it was still true. The Lonely Son was misery incarnate. This was his birthright. He could not escape it anymore than he could escape his own body, or Luridia’s capital could escape the rain. No Luridian could, much less a Luridian of the Bellacord lineage. Except—maybe—Edda. Edda, who was a lot of things, many of which were inherited from her ancestors, may not have been miserable. It was another way she was extraordinary.

But Edda was gone. And she would want Onus to do what he needed to do for himself. And besides, he’d missed it here. Despite everything, he was happy to be back home. Back in his miserable home.

The rain soaked Onus’ face as the Sowers—the primary guard of the rulers of Luridia, serving the false rule of the Eyes of Horus for a thousand years—filed out of the Cupola’s entrance and spread into the plaza. Their blades glistened in the wet air as they surrounded the Lonely Son, biding their distance.

Onus looked up into his father’s Eyes.

“Traitor!” the Sowers’ Principal called, her blade stationed ahead. “You are in violation of the terms of your sentence! It is on the authority of the Eyes of Horus and the laws of the Nation of Luridia that you submit to rearrest or else risk—”

“I will speak only to my sisters,” Onus interrupted, his voice dampened by the rain.

The Principal’s blade wavered, then steadied. “The First Twins have issued their verdict! You have no business with them and they have no business with a criminal! You have cavorted with an enemy of Luridia and abetted terrorism. You have proven your—”

“The Twins,” Onus said, calm. “They will want to hear what I have to say.”

The Principal was silent for a moment, then signaled to the other Sowers, and at once the circle tightened around Onus, a dozen blades leveled forward.

Onus raised his hand to his mouth.

“This is your last chance!” the Principal announced. “Submit to the law, or face death!”

Onus looked up the height of the Cupola. “Tig! Phos! Save your Sowers a bad death! I come with good news! I have made things right!”

The Eyes stared down.

“Traitor!” The Principal shouted.

“Traitor!” the Sowers echoed.

Their blades cut through the rain as they charged forward.

Onus swallowed. The sensation of the Tefached integrating with his body was indescribable. Something like burning ice, or an infinite hunger. Or perhaps like drowning. Regardless, he hated it. It was painful. Penetrative. Invasive. Which made sense given that the Tefached was alive, in its own way. Another life, now spreading through Onus’ blood, his nerves, into his organs. Widening his body to make room for its own monstrous machinations.

The Sowers skidded on the wet ground, their blades retracting before the sputtering white scaffold that crackled up the length of Onus’ suddenly bloated body.

“Be afraid!” he boomed, his voice bending the rain. His skin was white. His hair was white. His eyes bulged from his face, and his white tongue protruded.

The Sowers scrambled backwards, shock and terror weakening their knees. One of them dropped her blade. Another tripped over her own feet and landed hard on the ground. A third turned and tried to sprint away, back toward the Cupola’s entrance. But there was a flash of white, and a thunderous BOOM, and the Sower exploded into a dust of red that wafted through the rain.

“I am the Wielder of Vore!” Onus’ bellowed, his hands outspread. “I will rend you from your body and annihilate your children!”

The Sowers—all the but the Principal, who stood her ground, either from some misplaced courage or from a petrifying terror—tried to scatter across the plaza. But the Tefached pursued them, as fast as light, and BOOMS rang out, and one by one the Sowers shattered, and the paludal ground ran red.

Onus looked at the Principal, who trembled as if with a seizure, the tip of her blade chattering on the cobblestone.

“F—f—forgive me…” the Principal stammered.

“The Twins,” Onus said through the roar of the Tefached. “I will speak with the Twins.”

“L—l—lord…” The Principal bowed her head. “M—my Lord…”

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“Do not be fooled,” a voice seethed from the rain.

The Principal startled. Onus turned.

“He is not your Lord,” a second voice boiled.

From the dark mouth of the Cupola’s entrance, obscured by the curtain of rain, two shapes emerged. They slunk like snakes, each in an opposite direction around the plaza’s perimeter, their stretched, gangly shapes writhing, their sickeningly long arms stepping like legs, their elongated necks bending with the weight of their heads.

“Pilferer…” one of them hissed.

“Thief…” the other bayed.

Onus had not seen his Twin sisters in seven hundred years, and was shocked—though not necessarily surprised—to find that Sul’s corruption had worsened with time. In his youth, the Twins were beautiful—like all of Horus’ daughters—but after the War and the curse of their Permanence, they had morphed into vile iterations of themselves, struck as if with a disfiguring illness. And now, centuries later, any semblance of their past selves was gone. They were beasts.

The Principal turned and sprinted off down the boulevard, and disappeared.

Onus reached into his mouth and grasped the stalk of the Tefached. It would not serve him, or protect him, in the presence of Sul’s Wardens. He was at their mercy.

It clung to the inside of his throat like glue as he yanked it free, shuddering with the relief of his body’s contraction. He placed it back in his pocket and peered into the gloom, where the Twins wormed. “I have dealt with the Warden Killer,” he said. “I uninstalled the navigation programs from his vessel, and stripped him of any additional means of travel. Even if he was versed in the systems that run the ship, he could not repair it. He is stranded in the Lacuna, and will be forever.” Onus followed the Twins’ shapes, turning back and forth as they circled. “Your reign is safe,” he continued. “Luridia is safe. All I ask is for a place. All I ask is for my freedom.”

The Twins’ distended shapes prowled through the pall of rain.

“I do not want to rule,” Onus said. “I just want to live.” He felt a bitter tightness at the gut of his throat. “I just want to come home!”

The Twins slowed to a stop on opposite sides of the plaza. Then, in unison, they both stood to their full heights, rising like thick smoke.

“Is it too little, too late?” asked the one Onus thought was Tig.

“He led the Warden Killer to Kerr,” said the one Onus thought was Phos.

“And to Neoline,” said Tig.

“Not to mention the sedition,” said Phos.

“Yes, the sedition.”

“And now, a fugitive, he has murdered our Sowers.”

“An offense punishable by death.”

“Though if what he says is true…”

“If he rid the Ensemble of that scourge…”

“…then perhaps it is worth considering.”

“…that would be a benison.”

“And with the runt out of the picture…”

“Without the runt he is as useless as dirt.”

“And as dangerous as it!”

The Twins laughed then, a terrible, grating noise like gravel cascading down a cliffside, and Onus shrunk beneath the oppressive clangor—and fought against the rage the Twins’ insults stirred up in him.

Then the laughter stopped.

“But it appears he stole the Tefached,” Tig hissed.

“Deplorable!” barked Phos.

“Further sedition.”

“Also punishable by death.”

“Deserving of death.”

“Though we have found a better way to rule.”

“A better way.”

“Be afraid, indeed.”

“Be very afraid.”

“At least he had the good sense to sheath it in our presence.”

“The good sense and the respect.”

“Yes. Respect.”

“He has learned.”

Onus wiped rainwater from his eyes. “I will not surrender the Tefached,” he said. “It is my inheritance. It is all I have left. But as you say: to you it makes no difference.”

“Do not make demands!” Tig snarled.

“Do not issue injunctions…” Phos wheezed.

“I’m sorry,” Onus said, turning in the mist. “You are right. Of course. But I want you to understand: What I’ve done for the Nation by impeding the Warden Killer—the risk I took to accomplish this—it cannot be overstated. The danger he posed, not just to you, but to our father. To Luridia. He was apocalyptic. I saw with my own eyes what he did to The Chieftain Neoline. He tore her apart like paper—with his bare hands. She could not even resist.”

The Twins stirred in the rain.

“When I saw that, I knew…” Onus continued. “He posed an existential threat. To every Realm in the Ensemble. Deracinated, the way he was. I could not have it. If he had followed through on his plan, he would wish to rule in the vacuum. It is only natural.”

“It is true,” Tig whispered.

“Power begets a thirst for power,” Phos rasped.

“So I took the next—and likely only—opportunity to put a stop to it. Right then and there. Luridia’s rule must never fall outside the Bellacuse lineage. I refuse that. So when I come here, asking for amnesty, it is not empty handed. And it is not for nothing. The Warden Killer was coming for you next. If you had fled, he would have followed. He would have caught you. He would have ripped you to pieces. And I could have stood by. I could have let him, and relished the vengeance. But when he was done, I would have had no choice but to serve him. And it is you, sisters, I wish to serve.”

The Twins’ long shapes oscillated like seaweed.

“So I intervened,” Onus continued. “I groomed trust from him. I got close, and he let his guard down. And in that moment, I chose you. I chose family. I chose Luridia—despite everything. Despite seven hundred years of torment. I chose my home.” Onus turned from one Twin to the other. “I saved you, sisters. I saved you both.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the urgent rush of the rain.

“I can see his thoughts,” Tig hissed then.

“He is sincere,” Phos breathed.

“Should we tell him?”

“He will learn anyway,.

Onus looked back and forth between them. “Tell me what?”

The Twins spindly shapes stirred beyond the dinge of the rain. Then, in unison—like everything else they did—they approached Onus.

Onus turned from one to the other. His fingers flitted along the pocket on his chest. He’d made a mistake. The Tefached would not save him now, not against two Wardens of Sul. He should not have come here. He should not have forsaken Benno. He had always made the wrong choices, ever since he was young. Horus had scolded him—numerous times, during their palavers—for acting on impulse, for making decisions based on emotions instead of cold and careful objectivity. It was Edda who was calculated, something else Onus always sensed Horus admired about her—and valued in her—over him. If Edda had been dealt Onus’ hand, she would be the ruler of Luridia right now. Her grip on power would be undeniable. She would be respected and revered. But Onus… Onus seemed always to make the wrong decision, and with each one he fell further from grace, further from his birthright, down and down until now, as the Eyes of Horus breeched the pall of the rain, he would finally die—a bad death—in the plaza outside the Copula, which should have been his home.

The Twins emerged from the mantle of dark rain, and as they did, Onus gasped.

Even concealed, he could tell they had changed. They had grown rangier, more misshaped. But he had not been able to discern the extent of it. Now, mere yards from them, the first thing he noticed was their skin. It was rotted away from their faces in wide pits, exposing the porous yellow bone beneath, and the skin that remained was pallid and gray. Their hair—the pride of the Bellicose lineage—was stringy and brittle, more beige than blue, and hung in dreaded clumps. Their eyes—Tig’s more than Phos’—were foggy and unfocused, literally misaligned, and their teeth—Phos’ more than Tig’s—were missing, and the ones they still had were long and askew, jutting from the gnarl of their black, receded gums.

In their seventh millennia, the Twins should have been in the prime of their lives. And though Onus knew they had sacrificed their beauty to Sul, he did not understand what additional illness had befallen them, or what illness could befall a Warden of Permanence.

The Twins seemed to shrink somewhat, exposed to their brother now, though they were still taller than him by several feet. Their decaying skin oozed a waxy discharge in the rain, and the exposed bone seemed to absorb the water like a sponge.

“What happened to you?” Onus asked, looking back and forth between his sisters.

When the Twins spoke, they spoke together. “Sul has abandoned us.”