As they circled around and around the pit, the temperature rose continually. The heat didn’t bother her any longer, but her guide was less fortunate. A rather chubby man, even his shaved head wasn’t sufficient to stop the rivulets of sweat that streamed down him and drenched his tunic so thoroughly that it clung to his ample curves like some sort of unfortunate wet t-shirt contest. Ugh. There’s an image I didn’t need.

They were still a few floors above the bottom when the man finally paused. The brotherhood had clearly not delved this far down yet - at least not consistently - as the road was covered in piles of rubble that were pockmarked by the occasional holes that would drop an unwary traveler a few hundred feet to their doom.

It was the deepest into Naḫas̆s̆innu that Barbartu had ever descended, and despite her own misgivings, she found herself looking around with interest. The humble homes that lined the streets at the top had been replaced by more regal manors, which in turn had been replaced by far larger edifices whose purposes were not always immediately clear, such as the one she now stood before.

It was perhaps the largest building she had seen thus far in the ruined city, and the amount of work that had gone into it was truly impressive. The cliff face had been cut away, leaving behind a double row of massive octagonal pillars that stretched for several hundred feet. Even though the cultists had lit a dozen bronze braziers before the building, the gloom that hung over the city was so deep that Barbartu couldn’t even see the intricate murals that covered the building’s entrance until she was nearly upon them.

Ignoring her guide’s anxious impatience, she tarried a moment to examine them. While she was no expert on art, Barbartu had hung around the Djinn long enough to be familiar with their work. The Djinn, much like the Egyptians of her home world, were proud traditionalists; their artwork had changed little since they were forced to flee their homeland, even if that style varied slightly from tribe to tribe. Thus she felt certain that the strange, grotesque images that adorned the walls were not made by the Djinn, nor even their cursed descendants, the Nizirtu. This must have been made by the original inhabitants of the city. She studied the murals a moment longer until the man cleared his throat. “My lady? The Mistress is still waiting.”

“Of course.” Barbartu flashed him a smile more gracious than she felt and turned to follow. They walked between the row of pillars for another hundred feet before they reached a monumental arch guarded by a twin pair of statues. The faint flecks of blue paint that still clung to the stone and the four arms that sprouted from their side identified the pair as Mwyranni, but any further signs of their identity had been deliberately effaced - their faces had been smashed to smithereens and a line of rubble surrounding their base suggested that an inscription had been destroyed.

The cultist stopped at the entrance, and in the still faint light of the braziers, Barbartu could see the thick sheen of sweat that lined his brow. Curiously though, the light failed to penetrate the darkness that lay beyond the arch. “Do you want me to wait for your return, my lady?” The man asked. To his credit, his voice was firm and steady, but the panic in his eyes at the mere thought of being left alone in the depths of Nahas̆s̆innu was obvious.

She took her time responding, feeling a perverse pleasure in watching the man’s panic spiral out of control as he began to believe she would ask him to wait. Barbartu knew it was a bit cruel, but if her strategy went according to plan, he was dead anyway. Who said you can’t play with your food?

Finally, she cut him loose. “No, you may go.” Reaching into her pouch, she flipped him a coin and watched in amusement as the man practically sprinted up the ramp, racing toward the relative safety of the others, and leaving her alone in the darkness.

She took a moment to compose herself before entering the ancient ruins. It was hard to ignore her knowledge of what might be lurking in the shadows, to ignore the shiver of fear that ran down her spine at the mere thought of encountering the dead gods that haunted the accursed city. But Barbartu forced herself to focus. She didn’t have time to worry about monsters that might be lurking, not when she was about to face another monster - even if it was one that wore a pretty face and a happy smile.

The darkness overwhelmed her, so thick that even with her high level of perception, Barbartu could barely see her hand in front of her face, but despite that, Yas̆gah’s presence was obvious from the moment she crossed the threshold. The stale, hot air of the pit dissipated immediately, replaced by a refreshing breeze that smelled of spring rains.

But beneath the breeze, Barbartu sensed an almost imperceptible pressure that bared down on her, pushing and prodding against her mind. Knowing Yas̆gah wouldn’t believe she’d failed to notice the probe, Barbartu pretended to resist. Their minds clashed for a few seconds before Barbartu allowed her defenses to “buckle.” The demigoddess swept through her mind like a flood, and despite Barbartu’s skill, it was all she could to prevent Yas̆gah from discovering anything other than the “secrets” she wanted her to find.

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When she was finally satisfied, the pressure withdrew, leaving Barbartu alone in the darkness. She took a few uncertain steps forward, uncertain if this was the only purpose she’d been summoned for until a pale, violet-colored light began to blossom in front of her. Rising up from the floor like a delicate flower, the light rapidly expanded until it towered from the floor to the ceiling, a mighty pillar of pulsating violet that split the darkness in twain. The pillars’ rays banished the impenetrable gloom, gathering in brightness until not a single shadow could be seen.

Despite herself, Barbartu was impressed as she searched the newly lit hall for the being who had summoned her. The space was even larger than she had guessed from the outside. A semicircle of empty thrones radiated from a central portico where an enthroned statue had once held a court. Like the statues outside the temple, this one too had been vandalized. Cast down from its throne, the giant blue statue lay prone on the ground, its smashed face buried in the pavement. And in its place sat a small, diminutive woman.

Yas̆gah’s story ran through Barbartu’s mind as she approached the would-be goddess.

Yas̆gah. Mēs̆ūta. Matqa. The woman staring down at her had not always been the terrifying presence she now was.

Indeed, unlike most imperial queens, Matqa had no noble blood flowing through her veins. Her parents had been simple commoners whose distant elven heritage had barely left a trace in appearance for generations on end, only for it to reappear in their child in full force. From birth, she had born the silver eyes and curved ears that marked her as different, and as she had grown magic had come to her as naturally as breathing. She’d barely been a teen before her antlers had appeared and she’d attracted the attention of outside forces. Recruited into the Imperial Guard, she’d shot up the ranks so quickly that even the emperor, S̆ams̆akās̆id IV, had taken an interest in her. And when he’d met her, he’d fallen for the raven-haired beauty.

Ignoring the scandal it raised amongst the noble families of the empire, S̆ams̆akās̆id had wed her, and a simple commoner had become empress. For a time, all seemed well. Her skill in magic was so exceptional that even the gods had taken interest in her. Kas̆dael herself had chosen the empress as her hand, and even the Fey’s Tsiāhu had granted her quest.

But a relentless ambition lurked in her heart, one unsatisfied by the amiable emperor. When the commanding general of the Imperial Army had returned victorious from his conquest of the eastern isles, Matqa had been enchanted. Here was a man who matched her peerless ambition, a man who many believed had already taken the first steps to ascension. Thus started a passionate affair.

In truth, Gemlir had already failed his quest to ascend, but unwilling to accept his failure, he had sought out ancient and dark paths, turning to sacrifice to cover his own deficiencies. For a time, the two were content to grow their power, a creeping corruption that spread its roots deep throughout the empire. But Matqa wanted more. Why sit at the right hand of a man she despised? Emboldened by her words, the two plotted to seize the throne.

The emperor never saw the attack coming. Yet, for as much as she disdained him, Matqa had failed to take the true measure of her husband. S̆ams̆akās̆id was not the weakling she’d believed him to be and though taken by surprise, he managed to fend the two of them off long enough for the guard to rally to his rescue.

Fleeing the capital, they’d rallied their followers instead. Large chunks of the army followed their general, and hundreds of lesser lords, craving the chance to seize greater power than what they were born to, chose to accept the tenets he preached. Bitter war followed, and Matqa's and Gemlir’s power only grew as they sacrificed thousands of their enemies on the field of battle, but it was S̆ams̆akās̆id who was the victor. When the war finally ended, all that remained to them were the sparsely settled lands across the great river, lands the empire simply didn’t care enough about to be worth the loss of life.

There Gemlir founded his own kingdom, one that would be a thorn in the empire’s side for generations to come. And there, driven by his own relentless drive for power, he betrayed Matqa, casting her aside to marry a Sidhe. But his heart was softer than hers; he let her and her followers depart freely, where they’d settled in the south. Taking the name, Mes̆ūta, the former Empress had ruled as an undying queen until the Empire eventually Gemlir and his kingdom and had turned their eyes on her kingdom.

Supposedly, she had died in battle, but the woman sitting before her was no ghost. The enchantress that had stolen the emperor’s heart was as beautiful. No wrinkle marred her brow nor did any silver fleck her hair. There was no trace at all of the millennia that had passed her by and if it had not been for the overwhelming sense of power that emanated from the small woman, Barbartu would have found it hard to believe that this was a being who had slaughtered millions.

Yet as soon as she spied Yas̆gah, she swallowed her pride and prostrated herself on the ground. “You summoned me, mistress?”

A frown flickered across the demigoddess’ lips. “There’s no need to lie,” she said. “We both know I am not your true master.”

Barbartu’s heart began to beat erratically. Did I fail to conceal my thoughts? She dismissed the absurd notion immediately. Long before she’d been dragged to this wretched realm, she’d been trained by the best on Adammu where the art of subtle magics was far more advanced than in Corsythia where, ironically, their own strength had stunted their growth in certain areas.

With renewed confidence, Barbartu lifted her eyes to meet the demigoddess and affected an air of bewilderment. “I’m…sorry, my lady? What other mistress are you referring to? There is none but you.”

Yas̆gah didn’t stir as an invisible force slammed into Barbartu and flung her across the room.