“M-monster!” they cried out, slinging fire and gales of air from their hands as they fled from him. They did nothing to Sin, passing through his ethereal body much as anything from reality might do to a dream. Flame and smoke shot through his empty chest, not even doing so much as fizzle through his incorporeal flesh. It was not nearly enough to stop Sin, not nearly enough to stop him from walking forward.

Vae Derada—Throne of Virtue—was the largest of the cities that the Shai’mon had fashioned. There were twenty of the Vae, each a different Throne, and every man in these stone walls was Shai’mon, save for the thralls that served them. The air crackled with mahji, drawn from crystals below the surface to augment the strength of every man in the city. The stones swallowed echoes and sound, the weavings in the sky keeping out rain and snow, all to prevent any distraction from spellmaking. Every aspect of it suited a city for channelers, for the greatest of the channelers.

It was these same streets that he now strode through, the walls and stones shattered to dust as Skal’ai burst through. They were servants of his god, birthed from their mother and fashioned to better serve his will. Their writhing, shapeless bodies were constantly shifting, much as shadows do from a flickering light. With formless fangs, they tore into the bodies of idling thralls on the streets, the black mist that they released stifling any screams.

The thralls were bound to the Shai’mon, prisoners or their children, with runes carved into their skin that dulled their will. Their souls were broken or stripped entirely, their bodies now vessels and tools. Some were subjected to experiments, others to trivialities, but they gave no resistance in either case. They made no resistance as they died, either.

See how they are twisted, broken. See how this world is misshapen beyond repair. You cannot carve out the rot that had taken over the entire tree; you must burn it to the ground, that a new sapling might sprout from the ashes. His god spoke the truth, and he did not question the veracity. These channelers were no miracle-workers, no blessings upon this blood-caked world. They were abhorrent abominations. He would rid this earth of their presence.

As he opened an outstretched palm, he felt power wreathe his fingers. Skal’ai danced around him, whispering in their strange, wordless tongue. He could feel their excitement, their anticipation. It would not be something simple, but his god demanded it of him. Drawing in a deep breath, ignoring the spells that were being hurled at his image, he began to swirl the Skal’ai around him.

Their black shadows spun in a spiral, growing ever darker in the center until it seemed like he was gazing into a bottomless pool. Faster and faster, deeper and deeper, tighter and tighter they spun, until he pushed on them with his will. That tempest shrank in size, growing in speed until its surface seemed utterly still. His hair was whipped from the storm, thrown in the wind as the shadows grew denser and smaller. Finally, there was no more motion. In his palm, there was only a small stone, its surface glossy and bottomless, practically trembling with frenetic energy.

“Atal wills it,” he whispered, eyes dancing as he gazed at the gem, “and so it shall be.” There was the faintest of tugs against his being, as if ants were tugging at a giant, as he glanced over in irritation. A circle of Shai’mon had just collapsed, the backlash causing blood to pour from their ears and eyes as they twitched on the ground. The fools had tried to strike at his soul, knowing that his flesh was there no longer. They found themselves against the strength of his god, who shielded him with indefatigable strength. They would have better luck shattering the world into dust than they would disrupting his spirit.

“You all will serve my god.” he proclaimed, his voice echoing off the stones and carrying down the streets as he rose, supporting by the churning mass of Skal’ai underneath him. His field of vision grew, until finally he could gaze down upon the whole of Vae Derada, could see all of its antlike people fleeing for their lives. Such noble Shai’mon, people of such grand power and even grander arrogance. How satisfying it was for them to face humility, to know their true position in the face of his god.

“Kneel in service.” he demanded, and the writhing shadows that proliferated the city suddenly burst into motion. Like an array of spears, they suddenly buried themselves into the bellies of every Shai’mon, a sudden blur of black that came faster than any arrow. They hardly had time to cough before the shadows twisted in their chests, withdrawing viciously with a soundless squelch. Blood dripped as they retracted, crackling as it touched the black mist. Every flickering tongue of shadow held a faintly glowing presence within its clutches, a gentle light sneaking out of their black wreaths.

A thousand people fell, suddenly butchered on their own cobbles. A thousand souls rose, borne before him like offerings to his god. Sin raised the stone in his hand, the countless Skal’ai surging towards him before throwing the souls that they bore into the gemstone. Like so many faceless serpents, they lunged towards him in a shapeless wave before burying themselves into the boundless surface of that stone.

Flickerings of light escaped briefly as soul after soul was carried into the depths of the stone, Yet they were chained once they entered, unable to escape and only ever able to be siphoned for the service of his god. Their voices screamed in a cacophonous symphony, in riotous torment as they felt the shapeless fetters close around them. They were bound now, bound for an eternity. Or at least, Sin thought, until this world is remade.

Then, they can be graced with the gift of death.

As the Skal’ai under him billowed out into mist, he slowly returned to the ground, the gem in his hand thrumming with power. The mantle around his shoulders had no spot for it, yet he slowly raised his hand towards the gold nevertheless. As it neared, the metal began to ripple and shimmer not unlike the shadows that he commanded, its surface growing malleable and reshaping itself until there was a socket in its center just perfect for the gemstone. With a single click, it was secured, resting gently against his throat. An icy coldness spread from it, mingling with the shrieks of torment from the souls trapped inside.

The sound of coughing drew his attention as he prepared to leave, surprising him that anyone was still alive. He turned to a pile of rubble, a section of a collapsed wall and stone that the Skal’ai had broken through. Blood puddled from underneath, and a figure managed to claw her way out after some difficulty. Stone and wood had to be shifted aside to make way for her, and the entire mass threatened collapse before she could escape. Ultimately, she had no more strength after her torso made its way out, deciding to lie there with the other half of her body buried amidst the rubble. Blood trickled from a gash along her skull, and he finally noticed a large chunk of stone that had pierced through her stomach.

“You…have no true strength.” she coughed out, this girl that ought not be alive. No runes, no Maes, she was neither thrall nor Shai’mon; she ought not be here in this city. Yet here she was, dying yet unafraid. “Your...your god blinds you. You flee from what you are too afraid to face, trusting—trusting his lies instead of thinking for yourself.” She threw up a mouthful of blood, her face pale as she faced him. “You are weak...pathetic. No strength to speak of.”

Rage filled him, unbidden and unquenchable. Who was she to judge him? Who was she to speak as if she knew him? She knew nothing of the hell that he had been through, of the hell that his world had become. Ignore her, whispered his god. She is nothing. Sin clenched his fists, Skal’ai chittering as they danced expectantly, waiting to sink their teeth into her flesh. With but his slightest command, he would tear her apart.

“Go then.” she spat out, her voice filled with disdain and mockery. “Set your hounds on me. Cower behind—behind your god. Y-you are nothing with them, just a puppet…foolish enough to have imagined himself power.” Her words were scathing, utterly contemptuous, as if she were speaking to a mere child.

Her arrogance made his clench his jaw in anger, but he opened his hands and the Skal’ai fell back with disappointed whisperings. “I am a puppet,” he rasped out, “but you are dying. Your words have inspired me; I think I shall pay a visit to the cities you hold so dear. I had not planned to turn your entire people in blackstones of power, but know that this world will know no Shai’mon, from now forever.” Her face turned pale at his words, as he leered at her dying form. “Know that you will die here. Slowly. And know that your arrogance has doomed your people.” With that he turned, leaving Vae Derada with a newfound hate and anger. The dying girl, he left behind, despite her screams and curses. A faint smile crept across his ghastly lips as he imagined her corpse, buried among the ruins of the broken city.

Hope was waiting for him outside the wreckage, the man’s disgusting face unsightly in the sunlight. He had been hideous enough underground, but the light only accentuated his maggot-pale skin and brought his putrefying wounds into further detail. Those rotten teeth smiled at his lord’s return, and he knelt with fanatic reverence. Behind him was an army of zealots, their faces obscured and scarred by robes and rituals. Some bore masks, others tattooes. There was not a single man without a sign of his rapture on his flesh, and some wore them with such eagerness it was as if every scar brought them closer to their god.

Ten thousand of them knelt on the ground, their black robes rippling in the wind like a sea, none of them daring to move before the bearer of their god’s will. Foolish creatures, Atal whispered in his ear. Yet they have their uses. Let them transcend the limits of their flesh, that they may closer reach the immortality they crave.

“Cult of Atal,” he spoke, his voice carrying easily across the crowd. Just those simple words brought many of them to tremble, and some shook so hard it seemed they might topple over. “You have served your god well. With this success, will come glory unto you. Accept the grace of your god,” he proclaimed with upturned hands, hearing the Skal’ai whisper greedily around him. “That you may better serve his will. Be blessed, my people.”

With those final words, ten thousands cultists suddenly threw their bodies back. Ten thousand Skal’ai plunged themselves into their mouths, black shadow swarming into their flesh with an image like a torrent pouring into the masses. Ten thousand ecstatic screams tore from the men undergoing ascension, their eyes bleeded and rolling frantically as they wept. Many twitched and collapsed in bliss and rapture, their flesh cracking and sloughing off like clay.

As they screams died away, the shadows fell away from their bodies. Their eyes were pitch black, weeping that dark mist from the corners. Cracks and veins ran along their flesh, pulsing with alien heartbeats as they flowed with liquid shadow. Their skin flaked, the color paler than ghosts. Their blessing finished, the Skal’ai made their vessels kneel, the sound like a sudden storm in perfect unison. The earth itself shook in fear, as his army prostrated before him.

“Rise.” he commanded, turning to look at Hope. His general was the only one left unturned, his expression a mixture of jealousy and relief. The emotions were fleeting on the man’s face and he bowed his head before his god. “We march.” Sin rasped, flowing forward like a dream as his face twisted with boiling hate. An army followed him, their every movement with machine-like precision as they marched, a sound like unnatural thunder.

“We have a people to exterminate.”