Purpose was tempered with misery. Subdued, the eidolon stood over the warrior’s carcass - a position he had been in too many times before. Steam rose from his body. He was hot with blood and quicksilver, clutching the sword, cooling in the dim biolight. Marchemm’s body twitched and quaked, accelerated healing attempting to stave off the fatal damage. But, unfortunately, it would not be enough for him either. The eidolon turned away.

Menmarch kicked and screamed, held back, restrained by the giant grasp of Taneberr. The eidolon watched his reaction to the death of his brother, one whom once shared his body, before they were carved apart.

“I could have saved him!” Menmarch cried out. “You had no right!”

But the eidolon believed that he had every right. Yellow eyes glancing between the freaks still loyal, he hissed and gestured to Menmarch.

“Pain’s affecting his judgement. Relieve him. Now we can finally access the shrine.”

Sir Enhash watched the interaction closely but made no approach. When the knight superior remained still, Llewtoll hissed, lowered his weapon, and moved closer instead. The brute Taneberr hefted the weight of his injured ally by the arms, presenting him to their hunter. Llewtoll took out a squirming, tentacled subling from a strap and satchel, its dozen limbs hungry and barbed. This he put to Menmarch’s screaming, protesting throat.

The subling tasted flesh and wrapped its many arms around Menmarch’s neck. Barbs pierced thick skin and began to drink his blood as a parasite. More delicate lace pricked deep into his spine, intertwining with Menmarch’s nervous system, numbing the pain, numbing everything. Finally, the grieving vat-born fell slack in the giant’s grip, surrendering with a pitiful whine and a dumb groan.

Holding his head high, the eidolon resumed his march. Dripping with gore and quicksilver nanomaterial, he wrapped himself in his cloak as he crossed the plaza and took the passage up to higher reaches. In his wake, Taneberr dragged the numbed Menmarch, and Llewtoll reloaded his lance, stalking through the dark. Sir Enhash was the last depart. Before moving on, his star metal visor turned to the corpses, bestial and mutant. His throat clicked with contempt, and it was only with a bitter afterthought that his sword flicked against the nets that kept their prisoner bound, releasing the mistreated freak to run screaming back out into the lower cavity, alone.

The depths of the city groaned back to life. Almost palpable on the skin, the little sounds of the structures, the ghostly mutters and moans, carried through the thick, misted air. The eidolon crossed a vast bridge, suspended in the dark. He ached. Oh, how he ached. The battle had strained his bones, and the quicksilver burned his pale flesh. But then, the city’s breath caught his cloak and dragged his attention to the wailing towers surrounding him. Embedded in a nearby wall, an ancient form twisted in remorse, grown into the silicon wall across a shadowy gulf.

“Turn back,” the faceless martyr wept. “Spare yourself.”

With a sneer, the eidolon moved on.

Shortly before their deaths, the warriors drew to a halt at the forum. They stood before the great and monolithic head, the one which they all now resembled. At their fore, the eidolon basked in the sanguine glow of the mother lights. Closing his eyes, he steadied his breathing. It was a poor attempt to crush down his anxiety.

“Shall we?” Taneberr’s rumbling voice echoed on the concavity’s mantle. “Enjoy the glory, my kin.”

The brute was the first to enter the open passage, unsealed at the base of the tall spire. Dragging the drooling form of Menmarch with him, he quickly disappeared into the translucent glass, heavy basalt stonework, and pulsing arteries that made up the ancient structure.

The eidolon told himself that it was excitement that he felt, not fear. Stepping inside next, his yellow eyes were drawn around the entrance, into the chamber that reached deep into the tower. Around him, the floors were coated in intricately designed, violet-coloured tiles. Above, the walls and the ceilings were tall and broad. The space was angled with intricate, arching designs. It was cut through by a distant, muted glow, casting long shadows behind them. Finally, at the end of the long room, it opened up into a great nave.

“Welcome, welcome, at long last...”

At the precipice, the eidolon turned. From the vast space above the warriors came a tremulous voice. Then, on the tapered legs of a centipede, there crawled down the shape of a freak, his torso bent and aged. Compound eyes met the eidolon’s own. The nameless warrior’s lips twisted in contempt to see a creature with such a debased form here, of all places. Met with a hiss from Llewtoll, the freak drew to a halt, a dozen metres body crossing the archways above them, trailing back to distant reaches.

“Who are you?” The eidolon called up to the gnarled creature.

“Oh, I have long guarded these halls. Yes, and welcomed the glorious to this holy place of pilgrimage,” it said, faceted eyes catching the distant glow from the next chamber, belying its place in the shadows.

“You are the keeper of this shrine?” The eidolon asked.

“Yes, yes,” the crawling freak said from above, inching closer. The warriors stirred, ill at ease. Then, exchanging glances, they all inevitably turned to their nameless leader. There had been an expectation of a keeper, but not one that possessed such a form, half-finished. Still broken of senses, Menmarch laughed in his daze, his voice echoing throughout the tower. The eidolon was staring up towards the freak, weighing his fear against his contempt, when the keeper spoke again.

“You have brought it? The tribute?” The keeper asked as its many legs inched closer. There was something terrible about its head and arms. Like them, its shape had been carved down to possess the upper body of the progenitors. Yet he was knotted with the scars of ancient wounds, barely concealed by a shroud of cloth, not unlike the eidolon’s own cloak.

So the eidolon offered it up, the little artefact from the stars.

The keeper snapped forward, viper quick, in a lunge. He took the small device instantly before retreating to the high ceiling. The eidolon couldn’t have stopped him if he had tried. So, instead, his outstretched hand became a fist before lowering to his side.

“Look at this. Yes, look...” The keeper coveted the artefact in his scar knotted fingers, whispers just reaching the warriors below. “You have done very well. Very, very well, yes... Just what I need...”

“Keeper,” the eidolon hissed and barked up to him. “May we pass?”

High above them, already retreating into vast upper reaches, the shrine’s master hissed in return. Then, voice echoing across the immense arches and vaults, from a vantage unseen, it answered.

“You may.”

Looking around his kin, the eidolon was met with their gazes in return. A trepidation hung in the air, the knowledge that this would indeed be a final step, a boundary once crossed that could never be undone. Impatient as ever, Taneberr grunted, turning first and dragging Menmarch across the threshold. The eidolon nodded the rest ahead before him.

“Savour this moment,” the nameless warrior said quietly.

Next was Sir Enhash, who held his head high, helmet gleaming as he entered the wide nave. Just behind him, Llewtoll took a moment to examine the doorway, with its silicon flesh and silverline ribs, before stepping within. The eidolon was the last to enter, pulling his cloak fast about himself as he crossed into the light.