“Of the oldest and most dangerous forms of magick still practiced today, little is to be said—the power words of command are given more strength the fewer are said, after all.”

—Former High Scholar Trubius Moray, in On Magick, Part III: The Magick of Heretics

“Beni,” Zaina said. “I had a feeling we’d find you down here.”

He chuckled—multiple voices echoed with every sound he made. His voice was darker and raspier. His physiology was still changing, with a bony crest on his head sprouting short spikes. “And we knew you’d come.”

Zaina took a step forward. Gir glanced toward her.

In a low voice, she said, “I’ll talk to him.” Then she turned to Beni and said, “What are you hoping to get out of this?”

He smiled. “We will witness the rise of the Shining Will’s new prophet. The Altar’s Beacon will bind all who bear the mark, and the Shining Will shall be unsealed, all its faithful united in body and spirit to reclaim existence.”

Zaina shook her head. “Don’t you remember who you are? At all?”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“It does matter,” Zaina hollered, taking another step forward. “Your name is Beni Gardol. Your wife’s name is Orna. Your daughter is Eniri. They had the same color hair—you used to talk about them constantly. Don’t you remember any of that? Don’t you miss it?”

For a moment, a glimpse of humanity returned to his eyes. Beni’s smile faded. “There are things that cannot be undone. It is far too late to stop the Deluge. Now, come—”

“No! It’s never too late to come back,” Zaina pleaded. “This isn’t you! None of this makes sense, Beni! There’s no reason for you to be this way!”

Beni sneered. Then, in his normal voice, he said, “I know it’s frightening at first, Zaina, but you have to give in. Once you do—the power, the rush—there’s nothing else like it. Once you let it in you’ll understand. Organic constructs, planets, even the Nova Rim itself—all things are temporary. Only the ancients are eternal.”

With growing unease and outrage, Zaina balled her hands into fists and studied the man before her. Beni Gardol—the friendly mayor of Ildegor who never forgot a name—was gone.

Beni’s eyes widened in bewilderment. “Don’t tell us you still plan on opposing the great work? Even with all the knowledge of creation at your fingertips, you still choose to stand against us? The knowledge is yours, Zaina—why do you refuse to open your eyes? To imprison yourself to this mortal shackle? There must be a part of yourself crying out.”

She shook her head, averting her gaze. The whole time Beni had been chasing her, a small part of her held out some hope for him. Zaina’s hands clenched into fists, shaking.

Gir gently touched her shoulder. “He’s lost, Zaina. There’s nothing you can do.”

Her chest tightened. Beni was corrupted beyond salvation. Maybe the same was true for Demelia.

Zaina touched the mark. What does that mean for me?

Beni pointed his black sword. The echo in his voice returned as he said, “Well—if we have to do this the hard way, it’s only right to kill the lancer first. Then we can subdue the host.”

All the blood drained from Zaina’s face, and chills danced along her spine. “H—host? Wh-what—”

Gir stepped in front of Zaina. “You seem confident for someone who barely knows how to hold a sword.”

Beni smiled. “We’ve gained the power we need to defeat you. Why not ask your benefactor for more—see if Riiva is as generous as the Shining Will?”

The Raolgrian replied, “Come now, friend—”

“We are not your friend!” Beni spat. “You are an enemy of the Shining Will! Your Order has opposed the great work for far too long.”

Gir sighed and reached out. A flash of light shone in his palm, stretching in his hand until it was elongated and thin. He grasped it. The light broke apart, revealing a white sword with a deep blue streak running through the middle; there was no guard, and the blade was rectangular, with an arced tip and black edges. He stood ready, cipher raised before him.

Zaina’s jaw dropped, unable to peel her eyes away—except to wistfully glance at her empty hand.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

With a shake of her head, she snapped out of it. Movement on the walls caught her eye.

Beni spread his arms. “Did you expect us to fight both of you by ourselves? No—you were promised a demonstration of the prophet’s power. Here we are: dominion over your mortal coil.”

Human hands in varying states of decay started poking through the walls. Zaina’s stomach lurched and roiled at the sight. She swallowed down the acid climbing her throat as her chest and guts tightened, trying not to vomit.

The undead were pulling themselves free—their flesh tore off as they emerged from the walls, shredding their bodies on the rocky egresses. A solid glob of ancient blood splattered on her shoulder. Zaina whimpered and glanced up—more were squirming free from above.

Her fingers trembled as they grasped for the scrapshot with Beni’s laughter echoing in the background.

He shouted, “You’re finally home, Zaina!”

Gir readied his sword. “I can handle this.”

“But—but—”

He glanced over his shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, Zaina.”

She stared at the ground with an unblinking gaze. The decision was tearing her apart—she hadn’t come this far to run away now, but the cold fear circulating through her veins was paralyzing.

She blinked hard and shook her head. Whatever she chose, it needed to be now. Her grip on the scrapshot’s handle tightened—its weight was familiar in her hand, tethering her back to the present. Every time her father dragged her out for shooting practice had prepared her for this moment. She hadn’t known it at the time, but it was all bringing her here.

Maybe this is what I was meant to do.

The floodgates broke. Zaina turned, aimed the scrapshot at a cluster of corpses, and pulled the trigger. One of the spread-tip beads burst out with an ear-splitting pop, and with a secondary crack, it splintered into dozens of tinier munitions.

The undead flesh squelched as beads shredded their torsos, spilling whatever putrid guts remained. Skulls shattered, raining rotted brain matter on the stone floor as sinews and tendons were ripped apart. The enemies barely slowed, still rising to their feet at the edges of the room.

With a growl, Zaina grabbed the Explosive peletin and swapped it into her scrapshot, holstering the mappers onto her belt. She aimed for the same cluster, shrieking as she fired off three rounds in a panic—three pops, then one thunderous burst, and a swell of heat with a bright flash. When she opened her eyes, only blackened bone fragments and chunks of roasted flesh remained. More skeletal hands clawed through the scorched wall.

She shuddered. How many are there?

Then, she turned to another cluster—those with functioning legs were walking toward her. The rest crawled.

Zaina roared as she peppered the slow-moving corpses with explosive munitions, shattering their bodies and ripping apart their formations. One fell from a pillar above, making her flinch—a flash tore through the air, piercing the corpse before it touched her. Gir, in midair, pinned it to a pillar with his cipher and slashed downward as he fell to the ground, bisecting the corpse from the diaphragm down.

As he landed, he shouted, “You focus on the lower walls—I’ll handle the stragglers.”

She gave a nod—that was the second time Gir had saved her. With a click, the mag-hammer loaded two more explosive beads, and Zaina resumed the swathe of destruction.

Explosive rounds seared waves of undead—corpses shattered and ripped apart trying to claw free of the walls. Zaina fired beads off haphazardly, shouting in panicked rage with every salvo of deafening booms. Waves of heat and smoke crashed over her as she peppered the walls to thin the horde of undead.

Gir seemed to be having an easier go of it; his cipher made short work of anyone it touched. Flashing with each impact, it sliced through bone and flesh to render the undead bodies useless. Towers of water rose from the ground, absorbing clusters of undead before condensing and crushing them in midair—bone, decayed tissue, and dried organs rained down with the droplets of cool water whenever a column collapsed.

Zaina gasped as long, bony fingers wrapped around her ankle. She pointed the scrapshot at the legless undead in panic, then froze.

Explosive rounds. Right. Breathing a frustrated sigh, she changed her grip on the pistol and slammed the butt into the enemy’s skull, shattering it. The ease with which she ripped through bone was exhilarating—it was effortless. She swelled with the sensation of untapped power and strength.

Zaina pulled back and glanced around the room. Swarms of corpses were shuffling their way toward Zaina and Gir. One of the pillars caught her eye.

She ran toward it, embracing her newfound speed. She pulled out her brother’s grappling-hook gun and aimed at the stone pillar’s peak—the shot was away, and she pulled the trigger to ascend. Then she fired an explosive round into the center of a forming horde. With a flash, a boom, and a rush of heat, bone fragments and strips of rotten flesh flew in every direction.

Gir had picked up on her strategy and was now winding around the four pillars, allowing the horde of undead to gather en masse as they gave chase. From her vantage point, Zaina was able to pepper their flanks with explosive munitions. The enemies following Gir were packing in tighter and tighter. Zaina’s shots were devastatingly effective; their numbers dwindled rapidly.

Zaina’s ears rang from the booming explosions, but she kept firing. Gir did his part in thinning out the horde by slashing down their front lines as he led them along. It was a slow and grueling dance, but there wasn’t any better alternative—Zaina’s other rounds weren’t going to be nearly as effective against such a large group.

No more were crawling through the walls. Scorched bones and flesh covered the ground in its entirety—the smoky odor of charred remains wafted in the cold air. Deep, heaving breaths brought the stench into her nose and mouth.

Zaina stifled bile pushing up her throat and aimed her next shot, then winced—her head throbbed with pain. Sinister whispers echoed into themselves in the background, growing louder, deeper, and more deranged by the second. The skin around her eye felt like it was detaching from the inside. Agony surged through her when she touched the mark. The voices swirled into an all-consuming noise in her brain. Her lungs seized, refusing to take in air.

“Zaina?” Gir asked. “What’s—are you all right?”

Her vision was blurry, but she made out a black figure darting toward Gir; she reached out, opening her mouth to shout a warning—no sound came out. There was a flash of light, a sizzling, hissing noise, and then—the sensation of falling, and a distant thud.