The ancient palace had once been one of the great wonders of the world. Not one of the seven Herodotus had immortalized, for indeed, human feet had never blasphemed its sacred corridors, but a wonder nonetheless, a marvel for the gods and demigods that had once ruled over Arallû.

Now, it was a forgotten ruin. True, the magic baked into its bricks had preserved its glory for eons, but it was a faded glory, like a withered flower whose petals refused to fall.

The magnificent frescoes that once decorated its walls were cracked and damaged, though in some places their vibrant colors still shone, and the myriad of statues that guarded its dark corners had long since had their sharp features and elegant scrollwork blunted and obscured.

Silence reigned supreme over its hall, silence and a thick layer of dust that was broken as Barbartu shoved herself up with a grunt, brushing irritatedly at her now filthy clothes. “Who the hell does she think she is? I never should have bothered helping that child…”

The dust was so old and damp that her attempts to brush it off merely smeared deeper into her garments, and she gave up with a sigh, finally taking in her surroundings.

Es̆kinna? It took her a moment to recognize the ancient palace, a far cry from the glorious halls she’d wandered in her youth millennia ago. Its rulers were dead, casualties of the great war that had torn Arallû and As̆râtu apart, and none had dared reclaim it, despite the many years that had passed. I suppose there are worse places she could drop me.

She raised her hand and magic infused her body as she sketched a triangle in the air. Its edges begin to glow, the brilliant gleam of molten gold, before fizzling out unceremoniously. Don’t tell me… She tried again, sketching the outline of her portal in the empty air and, again, it failed. Of course. Lord Nerigla’s been dead for 10,000 years and, yet, his bloody wards still work.

With an aggravated sigh, she abandoned her efforts. With enough persistence, Barbartu figured she could break through the ancient protections, but she was keenly aware of her own strengths; the lamas̆tu was decent at magic, perhaps even good after eons of practice, but the former lord of the palace had been a prodigy. It would be easier, she decided, to simply find the exit and portal out once she’d escaped the wards.

With a flick of her wrist, she summoned an orb of light to banish the shadows and scanned the chamber she found herself. It was a wide, open courtyard with a sheltered walkway wrapping around all four edges. The gargantuan fountain that occupied the center was overgrown with grass and stubby trees that were a sickly shade of yellow due to the lack of light and infrequent rain. Unfortunately, nothing about the courtyard pricked her memory. Which way is the exit?

With nothing to guide her, she went with her first choice. Left. Unlike the courtyard she’d left behind, the narrow passage was scarred by conflict. Scorch marks covered the walls and ceiling, and piles of rubble covered the floor where the magically reinforced bricks had been pulverized in the battle long ago.

Dropping to all fours she loped down the passage, hurdling the rubble with ease, safe for a few spots where the piles were so high she was forced to crawl through and eventually found another large chamber - one she recognized.

Lord Nerigla had always had a flair for the dramatic, and no part of the palace had reflected that penchant more clearly than his throne room. The chamber was built on a scale beyond mortal means. Massive carved pillars, each one thousands of feet in height, held up a rotunda whose cupola was both high enough and wide enough for a Boeing 747 to comfortably fly circuits around.

Nerigla’s star hung from the ceiling, nearly as dead as its lord, but still pulsing with a faint light that illuminated the three thrones beneath it. The two largest sat by side, twins in every respect save that was one forged of gold and the other of platinum, while the third sat at their base, nestled between them - the thrones of Nerigla, his consort Ninkigal, and their daughter, Nungal. Like the rest of their chamber, they were enormous - thrones made for gods, not men - and to her surprise, one of the thrones was occupied.

Pinned to the seat by a shining spear, Nerigla slouched against his golden throne. His skin was withered and darkened, nearly as black as charcoal and as congealed as a mummy’s. His hands and feet had been removed, his eyes carved out, and, while she could not see it, Barbartu had no doubt that his tongue had also been clipped, a thorough humiliation from his As̆artūn foes.

It was a grizzly sight, but one that pleased her nonetheless, as Barbartu finally found her bearings. The exit should be that way. Dropping back to all fours, she raced toward the grand entrance of the throne room, eager to make her escape from the fallen palace. But she slowed when she passed beneath the shadow of the throne as an icy cold washed over her, emanating from Nerigla’s corpse. She’d felt the chill before the great void caused by the death of something that should not die, yet, buried deep within it, Barbartu detected something new - a spark of life. It was a faint, frail thing - like a sapling rising from the severed trunk of a sequoia - but it was there nonetheless.

She paused for a moment, bowing her head to the grizzled corpse. May your star shine again, Uncle. Raising her hand, she released a thin stream of mana to nurture the frail life that had begun to grow before departing, leaving Lord Nerigla to his rebirth. She’d have time to check on him later but for now…

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Barbartu gritted her teeth as she remembered the conversation with Kas̆dael. I’m not her lackey. But the words felt hollow. Barbartu might be a goddess, but she was a decidedly minor one; resisting Kas̆dael simply wasn’t worth the effort, not unless she continued to make demands. How hard can it be to find one girl?

The only problem was that she didn’t know where to start. She still had no idea who Jasper's father was, though during her time with him, she had formed a pretty good idea of what he was - undoubtedly one of the races from Arallû attached to a lord of the dead like Nerigla or his-

Barbartu froze mid-step. Could it be? She craned her head backward, looking at the withered corpse pinned to the throne. She’d been annoyed when Kas̆dael dropped her in the ruins, assuming the goddess had not cared enough to return her to civilization, but perhaps her judgment had been too hasty. Who were Nerigla’s people again?

But the eons had stolen her memories; she couldn’t recall who served him, just as she had little idea of what had happened in the aftermath of the war. Nerigla and many of his brethren had fallen in the conflict with As̆râtu, although nearly as many of the lords of Asratu had joined them in the grave. She was fairly certain that Ninkigal had survived the sack of the palace, but had succumbed to her wounds soon after, but their daughter…

Barbartu hummed thoughtfully. Did I ever hear what happened to Nungal? Perhaps Kas̆dael had sent her here for a reason after all. Turning around, she approached the withered corpse again. She bowed beneath the severed ankles and stretched her mana tentatively toward the spark. Are you there?

It didn’t acknowledge her, and she reached out again, this time offering another sliver of mana in sacrifice.

The spark latched onto her like a leech, sucking away at the offered sacrifice with a strength and greed that surprised her. It quickly depleted her offering, breaching through her defenses as it pulled directly on her life source. With a spike of willpower, she drove it away.

“Patience, uncle,” she said chidingly. “I’ll be there to welcome your return, but not if you drain me dry first.”

The spark retreated, sulking like a toddler caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but didn’t try to latch on to her again. She suppressed a smirk and continued on. “Do you know what happened to your people? Or to your daughter? Do either live?”

The spark seemed to turn its attention to the smaller throne nestled at its feet before flickering back to her. “Yeeesss.” The voice that responded in her mind was so small and quiet that Barbartu couldn’t be certain she hadn’t imagined it.

“They’re alive, or you know what happened to them.”

“Yeeesss.” She suppressed a grunt of irritation, knowing she was likely taxing the spark too much. “Can you help me find them?”

She stilled as the spark reached for her again, latching onto her wrist but, this time, it did not try to drain her essence. As she watched a small golden triangle formed in the center of her wrist, with the head pointing toward her torso. “What’s this?”

The spark detached, retreating within the ruined corpse without response, and she felt its presence diminish as it returned to hibernation. Great. She rubbed idly at the mark on her wrist, clueless as to its purpose. Maybe I asked too much of it…it’s barely cognizant at this point. Standing up with a sigh, she turned back toward the entrance but paused as she noticed the little triangle slowly swivel on her wrist until the point faced her palm. Her heart rate ticked up, and she spun to the right, watching in satisfaction as the triangle continued to rotate. It’s a compass. “Thank you, uncle,” she murmured, offering a final bow to the withered corpse, before she departed from the throne room.

A few hours passed before Babartu found the exit to Es̆kinna. While the palace had survived the attack with relatively little damage, thanks to the strength fo Nerigla’s wards, the lands surrounding it had claimed no such protection.

The road out of the palace ceased to exist as the earth was shattered into hundreds of narrow ravines that branched in all directions, broken up by needle-thin spires whose crumbly peaks could not be trusted to hold. She paused at the edge of the devastation, remembering the great city that had once surrounded her uncle’s palace. Millions had lived here, mortals and immortals alike sheltered under the auspice of Nerigla, guardian of the dead. Yet now, no life remained and, despite the millennia that had elapsed, not even a blade of grass had returned.

Shoving away the memories, she consulted the mark on her wrist. North? No, she readjusted her stance slightly, stabilizing the point before her. A few degrees to the left. She racked her mind, trying to think of what lay in that direction, but the only thing she recalled was a range of largely uninhabited mountains a few hundred miles beyond the horizon. Then, again, she’d never bothered to explore them. Guess I’ll have to now.

Barbartu reached out to her mana, centering it in her chest and slowly thrusting it backward as she molded the mana into physical form. She didn’t budge as the skin on her back split open, weeping blood and water, as two black, glistening peaks jutted out. Her back continued to split as the wings emerged slowly, like a dragon hatching from an egg, and when the last claw burst free, she beat them tentatively.

The pain vanished in a wave of euphoria as the wings fluttered, lifting her above the shattered turf. She rose rapidly, leaving the palace behind as the daughter of Anu ascended into heaven, only pausing when she reached the apogee of her climb. Her eyes swiveled to the distant mountains to which the arrow seemed to point. From above, they seemed as empty as she remembered, but she knew appearances could be deceiving, and more importantly, she felt a sense of certainty creep into her gut. The answers she was seeking, or at least some of them would be there. Let the hunt begin. With a wild shriek of joy, she stilled her wings and began her fall.