“Please, don’t kneel,” the god said. He was shorter than she expected, and he was holding both hands out - as if she were nothing more than a scared animal.

But Agraneia couldn’t bring herself to her feet. Clouds of mist sizzled and hissed against the underside of the bridge, rising up and painting her scales with droplets of water.

“I thought you were a lie,” Agra whispered, softer than the mist.

“That depends on what you believe.”

All that liquid metal, all those long, wiry ribbons were sliding back over each other, collapsing onto his body. His surprisingly thin body. Agraneia was a full head taller than him, and where she had muscle and bulk, he was as spindly as a sapling tree. The scales on his face - no, the skin - was a deep, richness that shone anywhere from earthen black to shiny magenta. Unlike her scales, there was no sharp change of color. A smooth transition, across the perfect planes of his face. The browns of his forearms, the clay colors of his fingers, tapering to the light tan of his open palms - still trying to calm her.

Next to him, her own glittering scales felt cheap and gaudy, somehow.

And all that metal, writhing over the strange fabric of his clothing. A living thing? Or some extension of his body? It moved like another layer of skin, rippling with some inaudible heartbeat.

Easier to bow her head, than to look directly at him and wonder at all that quiet, dangerous power.

“Where is Eolh?” There was concern in the god’s voice. “Is he here?”

Agraneia found that she couldn’t move. Her mind was flooded with the stories and legends. The gods who rose up, and destroyed their makers. The gods who warred with each other over meaningless slights. The gods who, with a simple glance, could turn you to dust.

“It’s okay,” the god said. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m not what you think I am.”

Her head jerked up, a pang of worry in her chest, “You can see into my mind?”

“No,” the god laughed. A gentle, scratching music. “You’re not the first cyran I’ve met. Nor the first believer.”

“Believer?” she echoed. In some circles of cyran culture, that was an insult. Among the officers and the upper echelons. She said it, before she could think about it, “I am not a believer.”

And regretted, immediately. Look who stands before you, you fool. A god, and what do you tell him?

But the god’s smile widened, a blinding whiteness of teeth. “Good!” he said. “That makes everything easier.”

And not a single wrinkle on his face. Young. That’s what this god is. A mere child. And what else?

What kind of god is glad to not be worshiped?

“My name is Poire,” he said.

“Poire,” Agraneia echoed. “I am called Agraneia.”

The god took a step forward. Agra stepped back.

“My armor won’t hurt you,” He said, “Unless you try to hurt me. Then, it's outside of my control. Is Eolh with you?”

“And more.” Agraneia said.

“Good,” he said again. This time, he pursed his lips and his brow was furrowed with some unspoken concern. “I need help.”

Agraneia went first, feeling the god’s eyes upon her back. Trying to pretend like she wasn’t vulnerable. But the god seemed little interested in analyzing her, for he was so buried in his thoughts he did not speak.

They found Eolh standing at the end of the bridge, both feathered hands on his hips, his wing feathers flayed out around him. He looked visibly relieved when Agraneia pulled out of the mists.

And when Poire emerged, the avian’s stare went hard.

“Fledgling,” he said flatly.

“Corvani,” Poire replied, returning Eolh’s steely gaze with an imitation of his own.

“You done running from me?”

“Why?” Poire’s face split into another smile, “You getting too old to follow?”

Eolh threw back his head, and crowed a laugh, and Poire laughed with him. He smacked the godling on the shoulders, and Agra could see the liquid metal sticking to Eolh’s feathers. Dripping away, back to Poire’s body.

“Divine One,” a ragged voice interrupted them. Kirine was struggling to stand, and the Scribe, who was almost as thin and young as Poire, struggled to help the older cyran. The Scribe’s face was alight with blank awe. Of course, Agraneia thought, now there is a believer.

“Kirine!” Poire said. “You’re alive!”

“Seems my mother had a soft spot for me, still,” he said with a pained smile. “Or maybe she thought I’d be more valuable as a bartering token. Though, I suspect, the Emperor would pay more for my head than for the rest of me.”

“We had to drag him out of prison,” Eolh said. “It’s war back there, Poire. The whole Empire is at war with itself.”

“We need your help,” Kirine said. “Neither side will give ground. Vorpei, too proud. The Emperor, too iron. And who pays the blood toll?”

Agra watched the godling bite his lip. Uncertainty, welling up in his face. His arms were wrapped around himself, and he was shifting his weight from foot to foot. Unsure of himself. His face reminded her of something. Like the same face of every greenfin, fresh and nervous for his first mission on Thrass et Yunum. Having heard the word “death” but having no concept of it. Not yet.

Fear. Because he didn’t know what he was doing, while everyone else did.

“I don’t know if I can help,” the godling said.

A creeping doubt snaked into Agra’s mind. Don’t think he has the power, either.

“You must,” Kirine said, still leaning heavily on the Scribe. The bandage around his leg badly needed changing. A dark red stain, turning black. He cleared his throat with a wet cough. “You are human, Poire. You are the only one.”

Poire’s face flickered at that. But none of them seemed to notice. Eolh was too busy arguing with Kirine. “No. First, we need to keep you alive. I did not risk my neck just to let you rot out here. Poire, tell me you’ve got nanite or something.”

“I’m fine.” Kirine said, “I’m not getting shot at. It’s the people-” Another coughing fit took him. This one was so rough, it nearly brought down the Scribe, too.

Eolh had locked eyes with Poire, and gave a slight, grim shake of his head. And then, he looked over Poire’s shoulder, at the bridge and all that mist. Concern painted in his feathers once more. “Where’s Laykis?”

“Come,” Poire said. And the god child led them over the bridge, into the mist.

Halfway across, the billowing, glistening clouds were blown away by a roaring wall of wind. And the whole expanse of the Heart was revealed before them.

Miles of irregular metal panels, exactly like the ones used to power the Emperor’s fangs. All of them, arranged into a kind of basin that could’ve held the city center of Cyre, with room for more avenues and stone-cut buildings and the smaller hills. The basin was surrounded on all sides by a sheer drop into a dark, shadowy chasm, from which the walls of mist arose. Clouds surrounded this place, so they were isolated from the rest of the world.

“I can’t believe it,” the scribe said to no one. “I can’t believe this is real.”

Each panel was a different size, a different shape. But they all rose up to meet the godlings feet, forming an easy ramp down to the center of the basin, where sat the unmistakable circle of a gate. Agra could make out the huge semi-circles of metal, the arms floating around the perimeter of the gate, stacked and standing still in mid-air.

A long figure stood at the rim of the gate. Just outside the arms. At first, Agraneia thought it was a cyran, wearing a strange kind of armor. And then, she thought it was a statue, for it did not move at all. But as they crossed the vast expanse of the slow, shifting panels, Agra saw the figure’s eyes were glowing. An android? Like the ones the historians brought with them, when they deigned to leave the Black Library.

It made sense. While the Historians were rare, the androids were even more so. Human-shaped constructs, with too many interconnected systems and delicate mechanisms that not even the most master tinker could hope to replicate. Still, the androids served the Historians.

Agra wondered if this one did too. The corvani seemed to like her well enough. When their entourage finally arrived at the gate, Eolh was almost joyful, smiling and shedding his gruff shell. This was a side of him she hadn’t expected. The android was quieter. More reserved. Her eyes scanned over the group: Eolh to Kirine to the scribe, and finally, lingering on Agraneia.

“How are you here?” Agraneia asked, because she was dying to know. Old tech didn’t do well on Thrass et Yunum. It was one of the reasons the Emperor needed an army to fight for him, though the soldiers weren’t supposed to know that. It was the mist. “The mist should break you. Our fangs don’t fly. Our drudges don’t walk. How are you here?”

“I am Tython’s own,” she said. And shrugged, as if that was supposed to mean something. The android inclined her head in a slight bow, her eyes still not leaving Agraneia’s face.

“You are no normal construct?”

“No,” the Android said. And nothing more. But Agra sensed no threat from her, so she looked back to study the child god. Wondering if he really was a god. He talks like us. Moves like us. He wears strange armor, but when Lethinaeen picked up the Lightning Spear, she did not become a god. Only a saint.

There was something on the human’s mind. She could see that, by the way he was biting his lips and kept furrowing his brow at nothing at all. They were making camp, and Kirine and Eolh were arguing back and forth over what to do next.

The politician trying to petition Poire for help, while Eolh kept trying to press him to lay down and “get some damned rest, or you’ll die right here.”

But Kirine was not so easily persuaded. He held out a pleading hand to Poire, “You’re the only one Vorpei has listened to in - in - in I don’t know how long. Years, probably. Poire, she kept me alive because you asked her to. I’ve never seen my mother do anything for anyone. You asked! That’s it. There was no reason for her to do that. Until you came, she wanted me dead!”

“Wonder why,” Eolh said sarcastically.

“Talk to her again!”

“What do you think, Agra?” Eolh asked. “Will she listen?”

“Vorpei is committed,” Agraneia said. “She will not alter her path. If the Emperor is coming for her, she will fight to the last.”

“Then make her listen,” Kirine said, his voice ragged and wet. When he coughed, he held out his hand to show he wasn’t finished explaining. Politicians, Agra frowned.

“Look” Kirine said, when he finally could speak again. “Look at this place. The Emperor wants it, whatever it is. Which means, so does Vorpei. Which means we hold the power.”

Poire was trying to listen. But Agra could still see that itch of worry pulling his thoughts away as the avian and the politician disagreed.

“Do you even know what this place is?” Eolh said. “Look at you. You’re sweating. And, hells below, you’re burning up Kirine. Take a damn break.”

“There is no time for a break. My people are at war, with themselves. Dying for some bloody cause whose empty rewards they’ll never reap. If their lives don’t matter, then mine doesn’t either!”

“Save your stump speech. We’re on the same side.”

“Time is the very thing, Eolh. Peace, with xenos! How long have I been shouting those very words? Band together, as one people. Lift up the provinces. Peace. And now my people are slaughtering each other. Each other! Poire-” he held out a hand, half-kneeling, as if he was begging Poire with his whole body, “You can help us. You can fight back. End this bloodshed, before it turns into something else!”

“You may can preach, cyran. But don’t tell him what to do,” Eolh said.

“Why not? He’s a child.”

“He is. But he’s not your child. He’s not mine. He’s not cyran, nor avian, nor any other species you can think of. He’s human. You have no idea what he is capable of. You need to let him think, and, gods above, look at your leg. Kirine, that is infected,” Eolh looked up at the group. His eyes fell on Agraneia, almost pleading. “Are all cyrans this bone headed? Help me get him down. Agra?”

She wasn’t listening. She was watching Poire.

There was something wrong with him. Something he hadn’t said.

“Godling,” Agraneia said, her slow voice rumbling out of her chest. “What is it?”

“I found someone.” Was all he managed to say. And then, his face fell and he shook his head, unable to say anymore. Agra had seen that look, in far too many soldiers. They were children, too, weren’t they? Greenfins. Barely old enough to swim downstream, and sent to war to die.

Yes, she had seen that look far too many times, out here on Thrass, to mistake it for anything else: Fear.

“I found another human.”

“What?” Eolh said. Turning his beak side to side, as if this other human had been hiding just out of sight.

“What?” the Scribe said.

“What?” Kirine said, before descending into another fit of gasping coughs. The Scribe offered him water from his canteen, and Kirine took it.

“She was lost,” Laykis continued, “On a dying planet. Poire saved her from certain death.”

“Fledge!” Eolh was beaming, “Why didn’t you say-”

“She is meant to kill me,” Poire said.

Eolh’s joy evaporated. He demanded answers, and Poire gave them. He told them all the First Prophet. And he told them what the human called Khadam meant to do to him.

“She calls me destroyer. She says I am the Herald of Ruin, that the end of all things will follow in my footsteps.”

“Why would you save her?” Kirine asked. And Eolh nodded in agreement. Even the Scribe’s face was a study in confusion.

But Agra thought she understood.

The cyrans told many stories of the gods. Jealous, and easily enraged. In the stories, their ambitions were often their downfall. They were always hungry for power, or desperate to be seen as more than they were. I am the wisest. I am the fastest. I am the most clever.

But they were no stories of merciful gods. Mercy was not a thing you could be proud of. When you were as powerful as a god, mercy was a weakness.

And yet...

“She is your enemy,” Agraneia said. “But you are not hers.”

“Yes.”

“Simple,” Kirine said, “This is great news. I will go to her. Where is she? Yes, send me there. You can use this gate, can’t you? I will talk to her, and bring her around to reason.”

“Look at you,” Eolh gestured at Kirine, who was hunched over and sweating from the pain of his wound. “You couldn’t negotiate with an unhatched egg right now, much less a homicidal human.”

Kirine took a bold step forward, and started to say “I am not-”

But Agra saw it. Saw the way his knee buckled. Saw the way he collapsed to the ground, clutching the wound around his thigh. Agraneia moved automatically to his side. Any soldier would’ve done the same. She kneeled over him, and Eolh was standing next to her, and the Scribe was there too, grimacing at Kirine’s wound.

“It’s infected.”

“You will die,” Agra said. “Unless this is taken care of.”

Kirine tried to wave them off, but when Agra put her pack under his head, and Eolh draped his outer fatigues over the politician, his resistance melted. He lay there, nodding his thanks. Coughing and drowsing and trying to stay awake. “Just let me rest. A moment.” And then, he was asleep.

Eolh would not stop his pacing. “Who is she? Doesn’t she know there’s no one else?”

His crest feathers were rigid, giving him a kind of mohawk that bounced with each scraping step of his talons. “She calls you the Herald. What if she’s the destroyer? What if, by coming after you, she’s the one who will bring death to us all. You’ve never done anything, but help us.”

But Poire was shaking his head. Not disagreeing. Just defeated.

The Scribe was sitting next to the sleeping form of Kirine, with his back against one of the gate’s altars. The human had called it a terminal, not an altar, but Agra had seen far too many priests and ceremonies to call it anything else. He had pulled a pencil, and a wad of dry (or mostly dry) papers from his pack, and was scratching notes while he listened.

“I’ve been having dreams,” the godling said.

“Dreams are dreams, Fledge.”

“What kind of dreams?” It was the Scribe. And then, he seemed surprised to have talked to Poire - to a living god, child or not - and his mouth clamped shut, so that Agra could not even see the shining scales of his lips.

“Bad ones.” Poire said. His eyes were unfocused. Staring off into the distance. “There is a light. It shines down on a city that must go on forever. But the city is built like nothing I’ve ever seen. The city goes all the way down. All the way up. The doors move without moving, and the buildings do too. I know it doesn’t exist, not in all the worlds or all the universe. I know it’s a dream. But I can feel it. I can tell this city is alive. Until the light touches it, and turns it into ash. And a wind tears it apart. Blasting it open and washing it all away. And then, there is only me. Standing at the edge. Watching it all happen. I shout at myself. I tell myself to stop it. But I’m not listening...”

Eolh threw up his wing, crowing his disbelief. He questioned the godling. Argued with him. But never let himself get angry with the godling. Always gave the godling room to speak, as if the opinion of a child should matter.

And the godling… What makes him different than me? From what she could see, aside from his magic armor, he was like any other Xeno. Perhaps more flexible in his adaptations, but not so special. Yet, Agra was fascinated. She found it hard, for some reason, to take her eyes off the godling.

Meanwhile, the android was staring at Agra. And making no effort to conceal her stares. Fine. Let her. Androids were servant constructs. Not made for killing.

Kirine was getting worse. Agra could tell, because his eyes were open, but he wasn’t talking. Only coughing and sweating and laying there.

“Grid doesn’t have anything to help him, does it?” Eolh asked.

Poire shook his head. And there, the conversation died. The Scribe was asleep, with the pencil still in his hand. Even Eolh was beginning to nod off. The last few days of trekking through the cloud wastes had taken its toll. The moons of Thrass wheeled overhead, and the dark red sun, too. And day turned to dusk. And it was only the godling, the android, and Agraneia who were still awake.

Not talking. Just sitting, in a circle.

“What about you?” Poire said, after a half hour of silence, “What do you think I should do?”

Agraneia shook her head, and gave a non-committal, “Hmm.” She had thoughts. Too many of them. Tactics and maneuvers and battlefield theories on dominating one’s enemies.

But what did she know? About any of this?

Days ago, she had believed that walking into the mists was certain death. And she had gone anyway, because… Because why? Because she trusted the avian? Because she wanted to die?

The godling was waiting for her answer. The android, too, had her head cocked. The lenses of her eyes, irising tighter as she inspected Agraneia’s face.

Agraneia finally settled on her response. “Don’t know.”

“I want to hear what you think. Aren’t you a soldier?” the godling said.

“They don’t train soldiers to think. They only want machines.”

“Tell me anyway,” Poire said. He wasn’t going to give up. “I need any help I can get.”

Agraneia made a deep scratching sound in her throat as she hummed. Trying to imagine herself in the godling’s position. A being, with unknown powers. A child. Being hunted by another, whose powers were also unknown.

Too many unknowns.

“The Emperor,” Agraneia said. “I would speak with him.”

“Are you mad?” Eolh was suddenly awake. Perhaps he had been listening the whole time. “That lying tyrant is half the reason we’re in this mess-”

“You have no idea what he is capable of. Those are your words, Eolh. And you were right. None of us know what he is capable of. Nor, his hunter. We are mortals. We are too small to understand. Only the gods, or the ones closest, can see the terrain upon which they fight. The godling needs intelligence on his enemy, more than anything else. And only one can grant it.”

“I agree with the soldier,” a mechanical voice cut in. Soft and perfectly formed. Agra clenched her jaw, and felt her scales prickle at the sound. She had never heard an android speak before. They were the silent drones of the Historians, only there to take orders. Servant machines. But this one was different, wasn’t she? Her eyes were aglow with a pale, orange light.

“Laykis-” Eolh started, but the android cut him off.

“The Emperor was receptive before. And, in my memory, he claimed to disbelieve the visions. Another point in his favor, for the visions are precisely what drives Khadam to hunt the Savior Divine.”

Eolh was looking around, looking for support. But the scribe was deep asleep, and Kirine was making a wretched rasping snore. “It’s not a bad idea,” Poire said. “Maybe I could get him to end the fighting, too. You said they were killing each other?”

“Under the Emperor’s orders,” Eolh said harshly.

“He has listened to Poire before,” Laykis said.

“This is reconnaissance. Are you not a thief, Eolh?

Eolh pulled his head back. Offended? And then shrugged, agreeing with her.

“Do you not plan your escape?”

“You never show your hand if you don’t need to.”

Agraneia shrugged. “Sometimes, the only wrong move is to not move at all. Nobody learns by doing nothing. That is what I think.”

Eolh crossed his arms, those long black flight feathers layering over each other. “Gods damn it,” He gave a begrudging caw. “I thought you said they didn’t train you to think?”

“They didn’t.”

“Then why are you so good at it?”

Agraneia’s face burned so quickly, she had to turn away. It was the first compliment she’d had in a long time.