The dream was peaceful.

Valdemar and Marianne watched a sunless ocean while sitting along the balcony’s edge of their dreamscape, their feet dangling above the water. Ktulu swam underneath the surface, leaving them alone. Both magicians had put on light clothes, leaving their heavier robes and jackets aside. In the dream, they didn’t fear the cold, and they were beyond the point of modesty.

A wall had fallen between them.

Valdemar didn’t have much experience in dealing with women, or… what just happened. He and Marianne had grown closer over the last weeks, and he had noticed certain tensions. What they had just done went beyond that.

Things had been good before; but though human relationships weren’t his strength, Valdemar knew they had just crossed a line and there would be no going back. Even now their bodies in the real world were as intertwined as their dreamscapes.

Marianne said nothing as she enjoyed a warm cup of tea she had conjured from her memories, gazing at the ocean. Valdemar himself watched his companion in silence, the same way he would observe a beautiful painting that had caught his interest.

Noting his attention, Marianne turned to face him without a word. Then she did something wonderful, something that filled her companion’s chest with warmth and lifted all of his doubts.

She smiled.

It was a beautiful sight, worthy of being immortalized in a painting for all eternity.

Inspired, Valdemar called upon the dream and materialized a flower in his hand; one with red petals, thorns, and a sweet smell. He offered it to Marianne.

“What is this?” she asked. “I don’t remember seeing it in the Institute’s greenhouse.”

“It’s a rose,” Valdemar explained. “It’s a flower from Earth. Grandpa used to draw it. He said it smelled great.”

It was also customary in grandfather’s homeland for a man to offer a rose to a lady he courted. Valdemar didn’t know how the flower smelled, having never seen a real one. He only had his grandsire’s words and his imagination to draw upon.

Marianne swiftly took the flower before smelling it. She seemed to enjoy the gift, but Valdemar could see the embarrassed blush spreading on her cheeks. Even in a dream, some things never changed.

“I’m sorry,” Valdemar apologized.

“For what?” Marianne asked, holding the flower with both hands like a treasure. “I love it.”

“I don’t know how to deal with girls.”

“I am no romance veteran either,” she admitted. “I haven’t been with a man since Jérôme, and I have known no one else.”

With a man. “Are we together?” Valdemar asked while clearing his throat. “I mean, together together?”

Marianne’s smile turned sheepish. “Are we not?” she asked. “It’s not that different from what came before, Valdemar. It’s like being best friends, but deeper.”

“It means commitment and complications,” Valdemar pointed out. “The people after me will come for you.”

“They already would, simply because I am your friend and sword.” Marianne frowned. “Unless you think I cannot defend myself.”

“No, of course not,” Valdemar replied with a chuckle. “In fact, I’m pretty sure you’re stronger than I am.”

Marianne chuckled at the compliment. “You sell yourself short, Valdemar. I have seen you do things with the Blood that are beyond anyone but the Dark Lords. In terms of magical might, you eclipse me completely.”

And yet if they came to blows, Valdemar had the suspicion that she would win handily all the same. “If I were to be honest,” he said, “I love your strength; not just with arms, but your moral fortitude too. I find them attractive.”

His words were terribly clumsy, but Marianne seemed to appreciate them all the same. “Thank you,” she said. “It matters more to me than you think.”

In her heart, Marianne was a romantic.

Her head leaned against Valdemar until it rested on his chest. The summoner put his arm around her shoulder, fingers brushing against her light hair. Though he knew both of them were mere projections in the dreamscape, her warmth and soft breath felt all too real. Valdemar hadn’t felt something like this since the days of his childhood, the rare days when his mother took him in her arms. It had made him feel safe and happy, his mind undistracted by the terrors of the world.

Marianne felt like home.

“What do you want?” she whispered. “For us?”

Valdemar didn’t wonder for long.

He looked up at the darkness over the sunless ocean of his dreamscape, and tried to conjure a new sky. Beforehand he had struggled to manifest even smaller objects, but now the Primordial Dream seemed to indulge his desires. Perhaps the fall of the invisible wall of unspoken emotions between Marianne and him had strengthened his influence, or maybe he had grown more in tune with his feelings as Lady Mathilde advised.

In any case, a bright star appeared on the horizon. Its light reflected on the ocean’s surface, banishing the darkness and painting the skies with a vivid, bright blue color. It was a landscape that only ever existed in Valdemar’s imagination and his grandfather’s stories. Now Marianne shared it, watching the bright horizon with joy and satisfaction.

“I want to show you this,” Valdemar explained. “A ceiling of light and clouds rather than stone. I want to show you the sun. Not in a dream, but in the waking world.”

“I would love it,” she whispered back, her heartbeat in sync with his own. “It is beautiful.”

“I…” Valdemar leaned against Marianne, their head touching. His hands brushed against her soft fingers. “I won’t regret what happened even if we decide to end it here before going further. But I would like to continue. It was good. It feels good.”

“Yes, it does.” Marianne glanced at the dream sun’s reflection in the ocean. The water’s surface seemed to be made of shining diamonds. “Whatever awaits, we will stand at each other’s side.”

“What awaits…” Valdemar sighed. “The worst is to come.”

“You’re still thinking about the portal?”

“No,” Valdemar replied firmly. “I won’t use it. I won’t drink from this poisoned cup. You were right, the fact another solution hasn’t been found yet doesn’t mean that there is none.”

Marianne nodded in appreciation. “You are better than Lord Och, Valdemar. Prove him wrong.”

“But there is the Outer Darkness to consider,” Valdemar said with sorrow. “So long as we remain in Underland, the living suffer and death offers no mercy. And Lord Och is preparing something. It makes no sense for him to work on studying portal technology if he doesn’t want to use it himself.”

“Maybe he does,” Marianne pointed out. “Just not to reach Earth.”

“Where else?”

Marianne pointed a finger at the sun.

“The Light?” Valdemar asked.

“If we assume his story is true, he was forever denied paradise and has been obsessed with it since,” Marianne said. “I think undoing his past humiliation is his ultimate goal. What purpose he hopes to fulfill upon reaching such a plane of existence, I cannot say.”

It made some sense. If the Strangers indeed originated from this supreme dimension above the material world, then it neatly fit Lord Och’s desire of escaping the reality he saw as a prison. However, Valdemar noticed a few problems with this analysis.

“The portal can only reach worlds bound by the Blood with the appropriate sacrifice,” the summoner pointed out. “It is part of a web of flesh that binds the Strangers together. But they were all expelled from this realm of Light and couldn’t return. No Blood-based magic should be capable of opening the way, so how does he intend to?”

Marianne glanced at him with a look of apology. “I do not know,” she admitted. “You are the summoner and know more about the field than I ever will. However…”

“However?”

“Lord Och is an ancient being centuries old.” Marianne adjusted her position, her face thoughtful. “Someone like him is patient beyond imagination. Decades seem no longer than the blink of an eye to him. If we assume that he has been pursuing a single goal all this time, then we should look at some of his previous actions.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You know how he is, better than anyone,” Marianne argued. “Is there anything he has done that strikes you as unlike him? Something that can be recontextualized knowing his final objective?”

Valdemar frowned in skepticism, but her idea had merit. Marianne had proved herself an excellent investigator time and time again, and he trusted her intuition.

“Hard to say,” Valdemar admitted after considering his companion’s question. “I would have said releasing knowledge of the soulstones, but he could have done that for any number of reasons. Safeguarding knowledge, building up his influence in the empire, using them as fuel… as he said, he has many plans running all at once.”

“But they are all tactical moves in the pursuit of a greater strategic objective,” Marianne replied before manifesting a dream copy of her soulstone necklace floating before their eyes. “According to his story, some souls could escape the Outer Darkness and ascend to the Light. Maybe he was trying to study the process and reproduce it through magical means.”

“Maybe…” Valdemar replied, slightly skeptical. “The problem is that everything we know about Och could be a lie or doctored.”

“If we can, we should check out the historical archives in Pleroma,” Marianne said with optimism. “We will find out the truth.”

She remained true to the vow she had made when their partnership started.

Whatever Och’s reasons for creating the soulstones, thinking about them left a sour taste in Valdemar’s mouth. The idea that only the privileged could afford a respite from the Outer Darkness filled him with disgust. Men weren’t equal, even before death.

The Blood connected all… Valdemar thought, his eyes widening. From the souls of the dead to the bodies of the living…

“I know that look,” Marianne said with an amused smile. “You have an idea.”

She knew him well. “Hermann once told me that a pictomancy portrait could be used to catch the soul of a target upon death.”

“Like a soulstone?”

“Yes, but without a limit of distance. Pictomancy creates a sympathetic link between the painting and the target that transcends space itself.” To the point it could open the path to another dimension entirely under the right conditions. “Now, it means that a pictomancy portrait can even snatch a spirit before Ialdabaoth can consume it.”

Marianne’s smile turned sorrowful. “You cannot paint a portrait for all people in Underland, Valdemar.”

“No,” Valdemar admitted as he looked at the sun of his dreams, “but maybe I can do better.”

If no good afterlife existed, then he would create one.

On the next day, Lord Och and Lord Bethor came to lead Valdemar to the Sabbath. Marianne had been exceptionally allowed to escort him, though she had to leave her rapier and revolver behind. No weapon would be allowed in the Dark Lords’ presence.

Marianne herself knew little about the Sabbath, except that it involved the Dark Lords reuniting at least once a year under Empress Aratra to decide the future strategy of the Empire of Azlant. Some said that the meetings took place in a secret room located somewhere in Saklas, that only the Dark Lords and the Church of the Light’s Enlightened One could access. To be welcomed to a Sabbath was a rare occasion, and the few guests who survived this ‘honor’ never spoke of it again afterward.

It left Marianne a little uneasy as she looked at her partner. She didn’t doubt for a second that the Dark Lords intended to decide Valdemar’s fate at this meeting, alongside the Verney cult and plague.

If they wanted to execute him, their prospects looked grim. Marianne would fight to defend her companion, but she was under no delusion that they would survive a confrontation with the seven most powerful magicians in the world. Even if they did, no place in the Empire would be safe for them.

Speaking of them…

Lord Och knew the moment he saw the couple. He said nothing, but the sudden cackle he gave the two immediately made the truth clear.

Lord Bethor’s reaction was more measured. “Good,” he said with his customary curtness. “You will fight better if you have someone to lose.”

Marianne guessed that this was the closest thing to a blessing that Lord Bethor would ever give. “How was your offensive, Lord Bethor?” she asked him, trying to fish for information on the Derro front.

“Better than expected, not as well as I hoped,” Lord Bethor replied, arms crossed. “This would be long over if we could all focus on eradicating these vermin and burning their cities to ashes. I am strong, but I cannot be everywhere.”

“Alas, leading our brotherhood in one direction is like herding cats,” Lord Och said as he prepared to cast a teleportation spell. “Though I have a good feeling that we might reach unanimity on today’s matter.”

Marianne glanced at Valdemar. In his scholarly robes with the Mask of the Nightwalker attached to his belt, he looked every inch like a Dark Lord’s apprentice. Would his professionalism impress the empire’s rulers? She could only hope so.

Marianne wasn’t ready to lose another person dear to her so soon.

Something else bothered her too. As usual, Ktulu waited inside his master’s bag with his head peeking out. However, his behavior startled Marianne. The creature spent its time glaring at Lord Och with all of its six eyes, its alien face betraying an all-too-human expression.

A look of utter distaste.

Marianne suspected the familiar echoed his master’s inner feelings through their shared bond, but the baleful glint in Ktulu’s eyes went beyond Valdemar’s anger towards his manipulative mentor. The familiar looked ready to attack the lich at the first provocation.

And though Lord Och feigned indifference, Marianne’s enhanced senses picked the slight adjustments in his posture and the way his fingers fidgeted whenever Ktulu blinked. The lich was ready to cast spells on his apprentice’s familiar at any time.

Something was happening before Marianne’s eyes, and even her Elixir of True Sight could not perceive what.

Space twisted around them as Lord Och cast his spell, and Marianne focused on the matter at hand. The metal walls of Lord Bethor’s tower collapsed around them, replaced with pillars of cerulean stone and a ceiling of fossilized stone.

The group had teleported in a vast underground cathedral without any exit, one that put even the ones in Saklas to shame in its dark beauty. A layer of porphyry covered the ground, its surface so polished that it acted as a purple mirror. Floating phosphorescent orbs of various colors provided the light, and magic suffused the air. A mere look told Marianne that this place was the center of the Empire, the beating heart of mankind.

Seven thrones of black marble formed a circle at its center, some taller than others.

The other Dark Lords were already present. Marianne immediately recognized Lord Hagith, whom she had already seen during her investigation in Horaios; the obese Dark Lord occupied the second largest throne, which had clearly been altered for him. He greeted the newcomers with a polite nod.

The seat to his left was occupied by an old man in his sixties wearing black armor of Soulbound steel. The man’s eyes were as gray as his hair, but colder than ice and harder than iron. He wore no left gauntlet, revealing putrid purple flesh underneath. A hundred eyes covered his skin, their irises replaced with summoning circles; all of them glaring at Lord Och.

Phaleg the Binder, Marianne identified this particular Dark Lord. Lord Och’s former apprentice and foremost rival. The next throne was occupied by Ophiel the Mad, whose infamous black mirror mask had become terribly known. The body wearing it belonged to a busty woman whose skin was hidden beneath a black suit.

Next came Lady Phul, a creature of lust and darkness. Some whispered that she could use oneiromancy to make her dreams real, to the point her dreaming avatar had subsumed her physical form. Marianne guessed it must have been true, because the Dark Lord had taken an exotic shape. Lady Phul’s skin was red and her impeccable hair was black as coal. Her eyes were burning flames, while two bat wings were folded behind her and a forked tail played with her breasts. The Dark Lord of Astaphanos wore little more than silken veils and jewelry leaving little to imagination.

And then there was the largest throne of all, occupied by the Dark Majesty of Azlant herself; the ruler of all humanity.

Empress Aratra was reputed as the most beautiful woman in the Empire, and if anything the rumors couldn’t do the truth justice. Her long hair looked like woven silver, and her deep purple-blue eyes were more beautiful than any gemstone. Her sharp, ageless face put artists’ statues and models to shame. Her black dress adorned with rubies and purple silk gloves cost more than a noble’s estate. A diadem of blackened bones with seven horns stood atop her head, with a crimson ruby shining on her forehead.

As she observed the Empress sitting on her throne with aristocratic grace, Marianne wondered if there was ever a fairer creature. She radiated power; not the overwhelming threat of naked aggression embodied by Lord Bethor, but a subtler, more regal form of strength.

“Lord Och,” the Empress greeted the newcomers with courtesy, her voice as sweet as a song. While Marianne and Valdemar immediately bent the knee as per the proper courtesies, Aratra’s colleagues remained standing. “Lord Bethor.”

Lord Bethor’s response took only one word, spoken like an afterthought. “Aratra.”

The empress frowned in displeasure. “Lord Bethor,” she said, stressing the honorific and expecting another in return.

“Aratra,” Lord Bethor repeated with a flat tone.

The Empress’ courteous expression swiftly turned to disdain and cold annoyance, her façade of serenity immediately falling apart. “I grow tired of your insolence.”

“And I of your vanity,” Lord Bethor replied coldly as he took his place on a throne as far from the Empress as possible. The tension between these two was palpable.

Marianne always thought that the Empress was the first among equals between the Dark Lords, but after seeing this, she started to doubt.

No, I can’t think this, Marianne told herself while trying to focus her mind on something else. Her faith in the Dark Lords had been shaken by recent events, but the Empress’ temper was legendary. She could probably read minds, and neither Marianne nor Valdemar could match her in a fight. While Lord Bethor was a smoldering Volcano, the Empress was a cave lynx; beautiful to look at, but quick to attack and lethal when roused.

They had to play the model imperial subjects to avoid a death sentence.

“Young Majesty,” Lord Och offered the Empress a bow, far too low for the gesture to be anything but a mockery. “Let us not bother with courtesies. We are all friends, are we not?”

The Empress took back her hand without dignifying the lich with an answer. Denying Lord Och’s very existence, she glanced at Marianne and Valdemar. Her mood improved upon realizing that they had offered her proper respect. “Lady Reynard, Lord Verney,” she said softly, “it is a pleasure to greet you in my hall.”

“I am no lord, Your Dark Majesty,” Valdemar replied while avoiding the empress’ gaze. Marianne noticed him sometimes glancing at the other Dark Lords as if expecting an attack. “Only a bastard denied any inheritance.”

“It is for me to decide who will be denied anything,” the Empress replied before setting her gaze on Marianne. “Or who shall find redemption.”

Marianne looked down to avoid the Empress’ gaze. I have to think well of her, the noblewoman thought, knowing that Aratra would appreciate it. “I am always the empire’s faithful servant.”

“That remains to be seen,” Phaleg the Binder said with a cutting voice, as sharp as Marianne’s sword. His aura of power was the most subdued among the Dark Lords, but the noblewoman noticed space bending around his unnatural arm.

“Now, now, let us not be hasty,” Lord Hagith said with a genial voice. “The audition has not even begun. We have much to discuss before a judgment of any kind.”

“Whose body is that, Ophiel?” Lord Och said as he took place on his own throne, opposite to Phaleg and close to Lord Bethor. “I preferred the last one.”

“Some noble who modeled for me,” Ophiel the Mad replied with multiple voices whispering at once, both male and female. ‘Her’ mirror mask glanced at Marianne, the surface reflecting the noblewoman’s face. “Though I find this one more aesthetically appealing. Is she for sale?”

Marianne bristled while Valdemar clenched his fists. But it was Lord Bethor’s words that surprised the noblewoman the most. “Try to claim her,” he said, “and you will die.”

Ophiel sank into her throne. “You would fight me over her?”

Lord Bethor let out a sound that Marianne took for an amused scoff. “Bold of you to think I will have to.”

Marianne noticed Valdemar frowning at her side. He seemed focused on something invisible. “What is it?” Marianne asked her companion, her voice as low as she could manage.

“I sense spatial magic in the air,” Valdemar whispered, too low to be heard. “It’s… like the Earthmouths. But focused, like a hub.”

But the Dark Lords had sharp ears. “Your apprentice has good instincts, Och,” Lady Phul said while slouching on her throne. The features of her body blurred briefly, like a fading dream. “But will he figure out this place’s secret, I wonder?”

“I have faith in my apprentice’s judgment,” Lord Och replied with a hint of pride before looking at the ceiling. “Here’s a hint.”

Marianne didn’t need to look up. She could see the reflection in the mirrored ground below.

Her eyes distinguished a fossilized shape integrated into the ceiling; a slender, naked woman whose flesh had turned to stone. Her legs were joined like a serpentine tale, her fingers roots of marble. The woman lacked a mouth and a nose, or perhaps time had eroded them like it would any statue. Marianne might have mistaken her for one, if her chest didn’t rise softly as if she breathed.

Red tendrils pierced her skull and back, pumping blood in and out of her. Her eyes shone like twin stars, but there was little comfort in their light. Unlike the warmth of Valdemar’s dream sun, only the despair of a crushed spirit permeated her gaze. Her torturous station had hollowed the woman of stone from within, leaving only loss and emptiness.

Marianne couldn’t confirm it, but she had a good idea of who this person was.

Together, they committed an unspeakable crime against Sophia in an attempt to steal her knowledge. A sin that forever barred them from ascending to the Light.

The undying corpse of Sophia the Unwise.

Empress Aratra gave Lord Och a dark look, and Marianne realized that the Dark Lord had probably read her thoughts. She looked unhappy that her colleague had revealed this secret, but quickly hid her annoyance behind a veil of regal majesty.

“Now that we are all gathered,” the Empress said while smiling at Valdemar and Marianne, her eyes briefly turning red. “Shall we begin?”

The weight of the seven Dark Lords’ gazes fell upon them, and the Sabbath started.