The rattling of insects was a storm that would not end. It rained down from the trees, rose up from the hidden nooks and rooftops, and rushed off the bricks and balconies of the Midcity. Thousands of cicadas, singing in an endlessly crashing vibration. They were joined by countless other croaks, cries, and screeching things besides.

The songs of the animals only made it easier for Poire to hide.

He pressed his slender body against the seastone wall of a temple. The pockmarked building was old, older than any of the row houses that had grown around it, cramping the whole street with overhangs and doors and windows that would never get any light.

There was movement in the alley. The quiet squawk of conversation as someone stepped out onto a balcony. But nobody was looking at him.

Poire hurried around the corner, hiding in the darkness of the next alley over. Trying to walk softly, the way Eolh had showed him.

There was glass in the street, and not just from the broken windows. Most of the houses were barred or boarded up by now, but one wedge-shaped block had completely burned down. Only the disheveled remains of brick and smoldering timbers remained. The neighboring houses were stained black from the flames.

He hugged the shadow as he stalked through the Midcity, a lone cloaked figure picking uncertainly through the ivy-grown alleys and hiding behind the gnarled kapok trees.

He came to one of the broad streets cut through the alleys as if completely ignorant of their existence.

He was about to step out when a huge bulk shifted in the darkness at the end of the street. A pack beast plodded up the avenue, its massive hooves thudding on the cobbles. Poire threw himself under a nearby vinehedge. His movement made the huge heart-shaped leaves, heavy under their own vital weight, shake and shower him with rainwater.

The beast’s face was covered in black fur and tan stripes. A set of slack reins had been secured around its long, snuffling snout. A bulky leather shell formed a kind of armor over its back. And as it plodded forward, the beast’s snout snuffled and searched the ground, grabbing at anything it could find: leaves, garbage, a brick that had fallen loose.

The pack beast dragged an open cart behind it laden with some kind of fruit. A driver with a fat, scaly tail sat at the perch, lazily slapping the reins, urging her monstrous pack animal to keep walking.

The beast slowed near Poire’s hiding place and made a chuffing sound as it sniffed the hedge. Poire sucked in his breath as two huge, dull tusks pierced through the leaves, wrenched the hedge out of the ground, and swallowed it in a few branch-crushing bites.

Poire stood, exposed.

Fortunately, the driver was barely paying attention. She made a clicking sound with her tongue and flipped the reins twice.

The beast’s trunk sniffed at Poire’s cold suit before begrudgingly tearing itself away. Its thumping footsteps shook the ground, and the cart rumbled after it.

Poire dove into the next hedge, or what remained of it, just as a miniature procession of constructs came tottering after the cart and into view. They looked like crude imitations of the service drones that crawled through the ventilation and other life support systems of the Conclave, always checking for damage.

Most of these drones were no taller than his knee, and they walked in crooked lines, barely able to hold themselves up on those jerky, unstable legs. Two or three of them were leashed to their siblings with rawhide strings as if they couldn’t be trusted to follow a simple route.

They looked so unwell.

One of the drones stopped as it passed Poire’s hedge. It was little more than a head with sensors sitting atop four crooked legs. It blinked its camera at him as if it couldn’t believe what it was seeing. The construct pressed its glowing eye forward, struggling to stand on the tips of its metal toes to get a better look at Poire.

The longer it stared, the brighter its light grew.

“Go away!” Poire whispered. He tried to shrink back into the bushes, but all he felt was the wet brick of a row house digging into his spine. “Get out of here!”

The construct bounced on its legs, making its tiny knees creak and squeak. A few of the other drones stopped, bumping into each other. They gathered hesitantly around him, dragging their leash-bound companions. All of them, even one that was stuck facing backward, focused their lights on Poire.

“I said get out of here!” Poire said, shielding his face from the glow.

A slithering voice called out. The driver.

“You there! Get away from them. Those bots are marked and paid for!”

But the drones didn’t seem to know that. They shuffled and knocked into each other until they were standing in an uneven half circle around Poire.

The driver held up a lantern with one reptilian arm, the slits of her eyes narrowing. “How’d you get them to do that?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Poire said, which was true. Even if he wanted to impulse them, his implants were still broken. “Can you call them off?”

“What fool’s game is this? You’re the one bothering them. Stop it, whatever you’re doing, or I’ll call the guards.”

Poire tried to shoo the drones away, but his movements only encouraged them to step closer, to bob their bodies and blink their lights at him.

“Right, I warned you.” The driver pulled out a small, curved horn and blew, the reedy sound echoing through the streets. Above, a light was snuffed out in a window.

At the far end of a street, a patrol of imperials stepped smartly around the shadowed corners.

“Guards!” the driver shouted. “Thief!”

“I’m not a thief. I didn’t do anything!”

But the patrol was already marching toward him. Their sharpened bayonets swayed, catching the light from the gas lanterns and the moon above.

Poire ran. He stepped over the ring of drones and ducked into the nearest alley, not caring where it led. The machines never took their eyes off him.

He squeezed through the narrow brickways where two buildings almost touched. He scrambled over a stack of half-forgotten crates, splinters biting into his palms. He could hear the imperials’ boot steps and shouts behind him, but the echoes and the buzzing song of the insects made it hard to tell where they were going.

Houses and windows blurred together. Here was a garden with statues clustered around a fountain. And here, a vinehedge three stories high was beginning to swallow the streetlamps.

When he could run no longer, Poire dove under the brush that surrounded a towering kapok tree, whose branches rose high above the rooftops, dripping with old rainwater that pattered heavily on his cloak.

But at least he had lost the guards. Their footsteps and shouting faded away into the background of the city.

The shield wall of the Caldera, high black mountains that blotted out the lowest stars, rose all around him. Only then did he realize how close he was to the main vium.

After many long minutes, Poire dared to emerge from the underbrush. He crept around the huge base of the tree, toward the gap where the houses fell away and a broad avenue cut the city in half.

And there he saw it. The gate.

It looked like it always looked. A vast, flat, metal disc for the base, with twin semicircular arms floating in midair. Unmoving.

Ryke had said it would be weeks before they opened the gate again, but that made no sense. Why wouldn’t they just leave the gate on?

Beyond the gate, before the vium reached the cliff of the Highcity, stood a figure encased in shining, perfect metal. His armor.

They had built a shrine around him. Candles and clay bowls filled with incense. Pieces of fruit with clouds of tiny insects buzzing around them. All laid at his feet.

Marsim.

Poire’s heart crawled into his throat. Is it the armor that lets him stand, frozen?

If anyone could make things right, it was Marsim. The soldier was known to all the Conclaves of Karam, and many were the days when Poire and his friends had pretended to be warriors, like him, roving across the galaxies, fighting for justice or whatever soldiers fought for.

How long has he been standing there?

If they had built a shrine around him . . .

Poire shut off the thought before it could form. There was only one way to get the answers he needed. Only one way to make this nightmare end.

From under the heavy leaves of the vinehedge, Poire watched the imperials make laps up and down the vium. He counted the seconds between the patrols, timing the gap.

When the bells of a nearby temple rang the early morning hour, Poire took a deep breath and made his move.

He stayed low, ducking under the great bay windows and storefronts that looked out on the street, avoiding the greasy lights of the street’s lanterns. He broke away from the shadows and darted toward the figure wrapped in metal.

Liquid armor covered Marsim’s body from head to toe. Even his steely gaze, steady and calculating, was sealed inside that polished metal. The man stood as if weathering a great storm, both hands held up to block the wind. His armor hugged his muscular torso and broad shoulders and rippled off the back of his head and arms and legs like wind-blown fabric frozen in place.

What is he doing?

Again, the thought worried at the back of Poire’s mind. And yet, there was his presence, as strong as ever. A dark red sensation that Poire could feel more than see.

Poire wrapped his arms around himself, looking up into Marsim’s steeled face.

“Marsim?”

Though they stood on the same ground, the top of Poire’s head only came up to the soldier’s chest. Poire was still growing, yes, but everyone in the Conclave was short compared to this giant of a man. The biologists had done centuries of work for him.

“Marsim,” Poire whispered louder. Clutching at his twine necklace, at the override switch that hung at his chest. “Can you hear me?”

Poire moved closer, meaning to press an ear to the cold metal of the soldier’s stomach. But when his fingers brushed the metal, the liquid armor rippled like the surface of a lake. He pulled his hand away, but the metal stuck to his fingers and stretched.

It wasn’t supposed to do that.

Poire’s worry blossomed into dread. All the worst thoughts rushed up into his throat, choking the air out of him. “Marsim! Hey! Can you hear me?”

He wasn’t thinking when he hammered his fist into the center of Marsim’s chest. All the liquid armor began to shake, and the ripples swelled until the whole statue wavered like water. It dripped down Marsim’s body. Down from his head.

Finally, Poire thought as he looked up to see the soldier’s face. Only . . .

Where his face should have been, only a black, glittering dust poured out. It cascaded out of the rippling metal and was carried away by the warm breeze.

“No . . .” Poire reached up. He touched at the metal, trying to smooth it back into place. Back the way it was supposed to be. He knew it didn’t make any sense, but nothing made any sense now. “Please!”

His hands, his arms, were dripping with that liquid metal. It moved in ways that it shouldn’t, and strands of that silver liquid stretched to reach his chest. All while the dust continued to pour out of the statue. What was left of Marsim’s presence began to fade.

“Don’t leave me,” Poire sobbed. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Crimson to a dull red, to nothing.

“Please.”

A shout rang out across the street, directed at Poire. “Halt!”

Five cyran soldiers jogged toward him. “You there! Stop what you’re doing!”

Poire ignored them, could barely see them through the tears filling his eyes. He smashed his fists into the statue, but his hands only sank into the metal and the statue began to melt.

“Ready!” a cyran officer barked, his scales shining in the gaslight. His patrol stopped and knelt, four of them creating a short line of rifles. The officer lifted his own pistol. “Aim!”

A gunshot.

Wind whipped past Poire’s ear. And then he felt a sting as if he’d been bitten. The pain began to sing. Poire put a hand up to his ear and felt a warm wetness. Four more shots cracked into the empty night air, twanging off the street and the walls, blasting chips of stone into an alley.

Danger!

Poire recognized the voice. Had listened to it chirp instructions at him all his life. But why is my wrist implant working now?

“Emergency mode now active. Battery: critical.”

Poire’s wrist vibrated so fiercely it made his arm go numb.

As if in response, the liquid metal began to stiffen and seize around Poire’s limbs, crawling up his arms and sliding over his neck. Swallowing his twine necklace.

“Reload!” the cyran officer barked. “Come on, come on!”

More soldiers were running up the vium, but they were so far away. There were avian faces in the windows above the streets. Watching them. A cluster of furry redenites stopped in an alley and huddled together, trying to figure out if they should turn around.

The armor shifted and writhed over his skin, wrapping every inch of his body in liquid metal. Poire cringed at the slithering, icy feeling of the metal. He tried to peel it off, tried to dig his nails under the liquid, but it clung to him. It slipped over his clothes and climbed up his neck where a trickle of blood dripped from his ear. The pain was getting worse and he didn’t want this thing to reach his face and—

“Get off me!” he shouted.

You do not have access to that command. Poire’s own wrist almost sounded happy to deny him. A moment later, he was glad that it did.

“Ready! Aim!” Thunder.

Five needle-sized spikes speared out of Poire’s metal-covered chest. They caught the bullets with a sharp, snapping sound. Poire didn’t feel a thing.

Before the clouds of white smoke could clear, the cyran officer shouted, “Grab him!”

An uncertain glance passed between the line guards, but when the officer shouted again, they charged toward Poire, holding their bayonets like spears.

A low, moaning vibration shuddered through the streets. Poire turned around to see the gate coming to life. The twin floating arms groaned as they began to revolve in huge, slow circles.

Weeks away? The Queen was wrong about that.

All the soldiers in the street stopped. And stared. Even the officer seemed bewildered.

Poire kicked his legs into motion. He ran into the forest of buildings; it didn’t matter what direction.

Nothing mattered. Even if he found his way back to Eolh or Ryke, he would still be alone.

A black, torrential wall, deeper than any ocean, surged toward him, bearing the words he had hoped weren’t true: They’re all gone.

And even if he lived a thousand years, they would always be gone.

Poire was alone.

***

When the gate rose to that unmistakable fever pitch, when the light itself began to sing, Officer Tullioch knew something was wrong.

Never mind his soldiers; he would deal with them later. How could they miss such a simple shot? And never mind that scampering xeno rat, whatever it was.

Sure, it had melted the statue with its touch. But this . . . Tullioch had never seen this. The gate was opening early, which could only mean one thing.

The Veneratian had passed a vote. The Veneratian never passed anything these days.

Here in the Cauldron, the deputy commanders were already driving the troops into exhaustion. In the past two weeks, they had ordered double and triple shifts. Tullioch and his men were made to patrol every part of the city—even Lowtown—at all hours. Fine for the dullscales, but he was a true cyran, and this undignified work was beneath him.

All because of a rumor. An actual, living human being. Which was impossible, of course. Clearly, someone had garbled a message, or maybe they thought they could lie for a promotion. Stupid.

His soldiers still thought the commanders were running a weekslong drill just to get them to work harder for free. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But now . . .

The light from the gate catalyzed into a single, shining beacon that pierced through the clouds above. A thin strand of pure light that seemed to attach itself to the stars beyond. And then it released, washing over him and his soldiers, filling the street with that glowing mist.

He stumbled back and shielded his eyes. When his vision cleared, he saw the gray wisps steaming off the gate.

And there they were.

Legions of soldiers, packed tightly against each other in crisp combat dress, adorned in gleaming pauldrons and battle helmets. Fresh from Cyre.

Above them, eight imperial Fangs, those legendary warships, floated in pairs. Not moving.

But all of this was nothing compared to that looming black shadow sitting heavy and monstrously still, high above the city. An axe waiting to fall.

The Exonerator was a floating fortress, an ancient ship whose enormous bulk blocked out the clouds and eclipsed the city in darkness.

Then the rumors were true. A human.

A living god.

Tullioch looked up at the Exonerator. There were only four of them in the entire imperial navy. Only four in existence. The legends said that just one of them had single-handedly conquered the most brutal, ancient enemies of the Empire.

But the Empire had already conquered the Cauldron and all of Gaiam with it.

Why bring in such overkill?

Another, more terrible thought stuck in his throat.

And will it be enough?