As the Malifori dragged him towards the pyre, Joy snapped at their throats with a dangerous lunge. Four men hauled him cautiously, keeping their distance. His teeth closed in on nothing but air, his captors already having anticipated the attack. He fell back from the attack, panting hard as he fought for breath. He was too tired to fight back, not after having struggling through the entire night. His arms burned uselessly, his legs almost too weak to stand upon, and he cursed himself for it.

They had fought him after he had killed Sister’s poisoner, after he had swallowed the thing’s disgusting heart and ripped its arms from its body. Three arrows had buried themselves in his chest, their metal heads punching through his scales and striking with enough force to knock him onto the ground. They had thrown rope over his body, as if he was a beast that they were hunting, lashing him and keeping him bound as he struggled. His claws had torn through the rope at first, had buried themselves into the stomachs of the first two men two had attempted to wrestle him.

Their corpses had fallen beside their brother in the dirt, and he had charged towards the rest with the blood rage pumping through his veins. There was screaming, howling in the air that drowned out thought and reason. Some of it was from the dying, some of it from the Malifori as they tried to kill him. Some of it, he realized dully, was his own.

It was his own scream that escaped his throat as an arrow struck his left arm, punching through the muscle and rendering it useless. He could feel the tip grating against bone whenever he tried to move. It was his own scream that tore out of his mouth another arrow buried itself in his thigh, followed by more until his leg gave out. Even then he wanted to claw forward, wanted to tear out their eyes and rip out throats to slake the flaming wrath that filled him.

More arrows struck his shoulders, the shafts snapping as he struck the earth. More ropes lashed around him, binding his arms and holding him down as they approached. More screams ripped his throat raw as he howled in blind anger, thrashing and bucking as he fought his protesting body. One Malifori came too close, foolishly trying to force Joy’s arms back, and the demon lunged with the force of an arrow from a bowstring, burying his fangs into his shoulder and tearing a chunk of flesh as they fell. The man howled as Joy buried his muzzle into the wound, savagely working through muscle and tendon before ripping out bone. In his blind bloodlust, he struck out at anything that moved, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. When he finally stopped, his chest heaving, his vision blurred by red, there was nothing but a ragged mess of flesh and ruination before him. The former man’s neck and upper shoulder had been utterly dismantled, bits of cartilage and tendon flapping in the wind for the sun to see.

“Demon.” the Malifori around had hissed, as if it were a warning or an insult. He merely smiled, baring those crimson-stained fangs as a warning of his own.

More arrows were loosed, burying themselves in his back and limbs. They refused to fire at his skull; it seemed that they still wanted him alive. For what purpose, he did not know. He could hardly even think through the haze of his blood rage and the pain of his wounds. When the strength began to flee from his limbs and his vision began to dull, he felt the rope tighten around his arms and the arrowheads burn in their wounds.

They began to beat him as he lost his strength, kicking him as they held fast to the ropes. As his resistance grew weaker, so too did their boldness grow in turn. He coughed as they beat him, choking on blood and bile as he lay on the ground. As he forced his eyes open, he blearily made out the crowd that he had attracted. They cursed him and spat at him, whooping with every blow to his flesh. Hateful rage boiled inside of him, yet his body was too weak a vessel for it. He could only watch and wait as they hauled on his ropes, bleeding out his strength until he was too weak to resist. He merely lay there as his lifeblood pooled around him in a crimson puddle.

Soon he moved no longer, using all his strength just to breathe. His lungs burned, his heart pounding out a frantic and futile rhythm. They dragged him, two pulling on him while two more kept his ropes tight. He was meek at first, hoping to lull them into overconfidence. The sun still had yet to rise above the horizon, the sky faintly lit with the knowledge the night would soon be over. Malifori were gathered in a crowd, their voices chanting and reaching a fever pitch.

Joy could see the remains of Sister’s poisoner burning in a bonfire, could smell his charred scent on the wind. As his captors dragged him closer, a sense of danger welled up inside of him. He knew that if he was to fight, it would have to be soon. Yet it could not be now, for they would be anticipating it. So he waited, dragging his limbs and feigning uselessness.

As he approached, the Malifori mocked and jeered him, cheering as his captors approached the pyre. He smelled a familiar scent in the crowd, turning his head and peering blearily before seeing Sister’s shocked face in the crowd. His heart began to pound, his claws flexing. Yet as his captors pulled on the ropes, he knew that he was not strong enough to break free.

What are you doing, scion? Why do you still wait?

Certainly, he could use magic. Yet with his mind so fatigued and his body so weary, he did not trust that he would be able to direct it. To channel a blaze would mean burning himself in it as well.

Think, scion. You are Shai’mon. Spirits are yours to command.

Spirits.

Joy closed his eyes, twitching his head as he felt for the souls of those around him. He had seen them before, when he had opened his Mind’s Eye. He could see them again. He remembered that sensation of wholeness and oneness, remembered how it had felt to be aware of all that was around him. And so while his eyes were closed, he saw. Pulsing white souls surrounded him, blazing red from where the fire danced in front of him.

He felt their souls, full of anger and wrath not unlike his own. Heart pounding, he pulled on the mahji in the pit of his stomach. Where it was typically a pool, right now it seemed more a storm. Trying to command it in this tired state was like fishing in a typhoon, trying to pull out a single strand from a raging torrent. Yet as he tried and slipped, mahji running through his hands, he finally managed to find a grip. He reeled it, pulled out that strand, and from it came power. Power flooded through his limbs, running through his claws and the air like purple snakes. They writhed before lunging, burying themselves into the Malifori around them.

Yes, scion. Command them. Their lives are yours to use.

With his Mind’s Eye open, he saw that purple mahji latch onto the pulsing white, surround it and constrict it like the ropes that bound him. He willed the men around him to let go of the ropes, to stop, and he felt the pressure on his body loosen. Gritting his jaw as the weight on his mind grew, he willed the mahji to tighten around their souls. He saw as that white light grew dimmer and dimmer, blocked by the ribbons of purple until only a few stray beams of light could escape. Their pulsing forms grew smaller and smaller, until finally the ribbons of mahji fell away to reveal nothing.

A sharp, piercing pain stabbed at his skull and Joy clutched at his head, closing the Mind’s Eye out of reflex. His breathing was heavy and ragged, and when he opened his eyes his vision was blurry and filled with black spots. The world around him swooned as he staggered, his heartbeat racing. Yet he looked at the men around him, at their soundless figures on the ground. Blood trickled from their noses, dripped from the corners of their mouths. Their eyes were open and unmoving, staring at empty sky. Their hearts still beat, their bodies untouched, yet they would not act. Certainly, they would move if commanded. They would eat if told and piss when needed. Yet they would live no longer, for their souls were gone. Without it, they had only body and mind left. They were automatons now, mere constructs and vessels without memory of the lives they once held. For all uses of the word, they were dead.

Gazing around him with dull eyes, Joy saw his mahji still threaded to the Malifori in the crowd. Their eyes were bulged, blood trickling as they fought his will. Yet it was not enough, and he held their lives still. Sister ran over quickly, throwing away the ropes around his legs in a hurried motion.

“We need to leave.” she insisted hurriedly, looking up at him. “We—we can’t stay here any longer.” She did not explain, yet he felt her urgency in her voice.

He let himself be led through the camp, holding on the mahji that enthralled the Malifori with all his might. Blood filled his throat, his claws trembling and his vision growing fuzzy, yet still he held onto it with a clenched jaw. Dimly, he noticed Sister binding him, setting him down. Dimly, he heard brass clanking, the sounds of pins and locks being snapped. DImly, he noticed the sounds of horse hooves, of wheels clacking against stone. Then he could hold onto it no longer, the purple ribbons from the tips of his claws abruptly being torn. He coughed a mouthful of blood, his vision flashing black. It felt as though a mountain had been taken off his mind, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst. For a brief moment, terror filled him as his vision remained black and he was afraid that blindness might have seized him.

Then he realized that he was asleep.

His lucidity was a strange sensation, as if he was detached entirely from his body while he slept and thought. There was a dull throbbing from his wounds and the pains of his body, but it was as if they were numbed. It was then that he realized this sensation was a gift, and a time for much-needed answers.

You seek us, scion? The dead felt his call and rose in the back of his mind like a nest of vipers. Aye, he sought them out. He had questions, had held them within for too long. These fools lived in him, lived with him. Yet who were they, truly? They were spirits that had been bound in the blackstone, that he had freed in the Outlands before the Fells. They called themselves Shai’mon like him. Yet what were they?

Few know of our story. Shai’mon were once the strongest of our kind, able to control even other channelers. What use was fire and storms when your own allies turned against you by our will? We had built grand cities and seats of power, spanning across the land and crackling with arcane brilliance.

When Sin rose to power and sought to blot out the sun with his darkness, he first tried to stifle all magic that could oppose him. He fashioned the blackstones, gems of power, and he aimed to seal the Shai’mon inside of them. Me’jai and Oa’kul abandoned ourselves to that fate, left us to fight him alone. We blasted him with flame in our citadels, froze him in our streets, buried him in our tombs. Our thrones became wastelands, what you call now the Outlands. In the end we failed. He shackled us in his blackstones, drawing upon our power to augment his own.

There was truth to their words; he could feel their sincerity. He could feel the anger and hatred that they held, so strong that he thought his mind might burst into flame. Yet if they had failed, then how did Sin come to fall?

There was a single man who challenged Sin in his own temple. He strode forth, a Me’jai and his child. His daughter. He had burned with such strength that the Skal’ai could not touch him, and that the Skal itself shirked from his presence. And as he approached Sin, he plunged his hand into his daughter’s heart, drawing from it a blade of blazing light. With it, he struck through Sin’s heart. Yet the creature would not die, for it had bound its will to the blackstones. As long as they remained, his thread would wind on.

So the Me’jai shackled him, bound the weakened Sin with magics and buried the blackstones into his daughter’s corpse. With his spells he enchanted them so that they would only be found on the brink of death and dreams. Then he entombed himself with Sin, knowing that the forbidden magic he had used was too great a sin of its own.

A single Me’jai succeeded where an army of Shai’mon could not? Joy found himself doubting these words as truth.

Yet it is truth, no matter how you deny it. He was called Andahiel, peerless in his strength. And you, scion of Andahiel, are born of his hate.

Now wake, scion of Andahiel. You are needed.

Questions filled him, clawed at his mind. He had a million things to ask the dead, but he felt a familiar tugging sensation. When he woke, it was with a knife at his throat. Sister was standing over him, looming over him as she glared down with eyes of white that danced with madness.

“Who are you?”