Climbing the hill in the heat was a trial, his shirt starting to cling with sweat by the time he passed through the gate. It was a tidy, neat place, new enough that the graves were arranged into tidy grids, the grass between them neatly trimmed. Along one edge, towards the back, were the crypts, for those that didn’t want to be dug up in a few decades so the ground could be re-used.

It’s high enough to overlook a decent chunk of the city, massive concrete slabs of tower blocks, looking more than a little like gravestones themselves, pock-marked with windows and balconies. Behind them are the gleaming glass towers of the financial district, blue and silver shining underneath the sunlight.

The crypt he approached had guardian statues by the door, big fat cats, their jaws agape. Inside the jaw cavity of one, he could see the remnants of the last offering he’d bought; a cheap fast-food meal, six burgers shoved into the space between the teeth. They had been picked and pecked at by vermin, only the greasy wrappers left, and even they had been gnawed on by rats. The heavy stone door was sealed, no sign that it had been breached, or that any attempt had been made to open it. Was it worth the risk to check?

He shifted, feeling his necklace, the crystal clinging to his chest thanks to the sweat. He drew it out – an elongated black bead, a thin, pale finger sealed within. No sign of disturbance there either. He approached the heavy stone doorway, placing a palm against the stone, feeling the protections placed there, a warning thrum of energy as it detected his probing.

He turned around to check he wasn’t being watched, and now, suddenly, he was. Although the place was low and open, with precious few hiding spaces unless someone hid behind a gravestone, someone had appeared, far too close.

They had virtually no presence, the sort of person that would somehow slip by in a crowd without notice despite their appearence. A slender form, body wrapped in a smooth grey suit, exquisitely tailored, at least by Brandon’s estimation. Fine material, custom made, the sort of thing that showed a lot of money and some specialised contact. Their hands were covered in leather gloves, most of their face hidden behind large sunglasses, an elegant sunhat on her head, neatly trimmed black hair gleaming in the sun. They were female, or at least had a slender waist and a slight swell at the chest.

They spoke, their voice smooth and soft, the tones of one far too used to power, for whom the world itself bowed at their feet. It was a surprise that she didn’t have any followers, unless they were hidden somewhere as well.

‘Master Argovieso. How strange we only now meet in the flesh.’ There were long pauses between each of her words, despite the cultured tones, as though she were distracted. ‘This place was not easy to find. Such a strange place, I would have thought somewhere with more grandeur, for the last resting place of such a thing. To leave such a thing so exposed… Touching, but foolish. There seems little to protect it.’

Brandon stepped back from the doorway. ‘If you want to try and enter, then go on ahead. It’ll be entertaining to watch.’

She kept a safe distance – both from him, and the crypt, showing at least some caution. But she does take a few steps forward, eerily smooth, her heels not crunching the gravel quite as much as they should. ‘It really would be much easier if you simply cooperated. Far easier than having to resort to more forceful measures. I hear you are far weaker, without your ally.’

The head turns to look at him, features hidden behind the oversized glasses. Not being able to see their eyes, never a good sign. She doesn’t have any of the regalia someone would need to cast magic, at least visibly, but virtually all her flesh is concealed, only skin visible a small amount of forehead and her jaw and lips, and those are covered with foundation and other makeup, enough that she could be marked and scarred with anything beneath, and not be showing it.

‘I don’t know who you are, but I’m really in no mood to deal with you. This is not a place for you, or whatever you want. Leave, and we can keep things calm.’

No expression, not even an annoyed sigh or a harsh grin, as her head turns slightly – behind the tinted lenses, she’s probably staring at him. He meets the stare, as best he can when he can’t see her eyes. She seems too passive and uncaring, her body relaxed and languid, none of the tension that presages violent action.

Power surges, an attempt to seize and crush his will. Surprisingly delicate – she’s had training and has power to spare. Where is she from? He lets her in, just slightly, trying to get a sense for her. She’s definitely not one of Courtessa’s, all burning flames and scorching fury. There’s light in the intrusion, blinding and scourging, the burning flagellation of the pitiless desert, without any shade or succour. And determination and pride as well – she has a purpose, something she has dedicated herself to.

But he’s encountered stronger, lived with fiercer every day. He focuses his own will, wrapping it around his spirit for protection, before pushing back. Time slows as their wills clash – fierce burning light tries to crush him, as he reaches out in a counterattack. Her form is the same here, the same elegant and precise human body, her spiritual form tied entirely too closely to her physical body. He doesn’t need to look at himself to know how he’s shifted rather more, his form becoming shadowy and vague.

He stretches, feeling, in this place, sensation from his missing finger, returned to him as an astral projection. Here, his body is different - runes of power burn on his chest, tattoos of binding power, invisible in the material world. Here, they burn with dark energy, rings and spirals bright enough to be seen through his clothing.

It’s hard to see her through the painful light, but it seems her expression hasn’t changed, so bland and passive. The light brightens even further, making her blinding to look at, strands of light moving with deceptive slowness. One wraps around his wrist, and there’s a surge of burning pain. The instinct to obey and drop to his knees, to make the pain go away, flares up, a simple trick and easy to ignore. He flicks his wrist, and the frond is dislodged, but immediately tries seeking him out again.

Around them, the graveyard has turned misty and ethereal, the world shrunk down to a mere circle around the two of them. Brandon steps back as another frond of light lazily drifts towards him, squinting through the light. Power, and some measure of technique, but compared to what he used to live with, nothing that impressive. He steps forward, grabbing a tendril and using it to project his own will, draining the power for himself. He can feel power flowing into his own spirit, more than he’s felt for years. The tendril darkens as he devours the light, making the barest impression on the emptiness within himself. For the first time, there’s some sign of emotion on her face, slightest quiver of a lip – fear, maybe?

‘Who sent you?’

The tendrils surge, wrapping him completely, but he simply accepts the pain, using each to spur his own activity, burrowing along the path she’s trying to forge and using it to devour her own essence. The amount she has is staggering – Courtessa can’t have known about this one, or she would have snapped her up! But most of the old masters are gone, so who taught her? Other than power, she seems entirely empty, stripped bare of any identifiers, anything unique.

‘This doesn’t have to end in death. What do you want? Who sent you?’

Her voice changes, now more alive, warm and comforting, as though stirring to waking from a long sleep. ‘All things end. As you should know, who once bore the most final of ends. But she is gone, and now who is left to protect the world?’

The woman’s body is stiff and rigid, one arm raised partway, an attempt to protect herself.

He stalls for time, hoping to find out more information. ‘There’s nothing left to protect the world from. That was dealt with already.’

‘So sure, so proud, so foolish. Nothing is forever, save the true light. Your control is impressive, for one bereft. I expected naught but an empty shell, I suppose you deserve some praise.’

He devours more and more of the light, several tendrils growing dim. It burns as he consumes it, like drinking scalding water. But after going without for so long, even the pain is welcome.

The woman’s voice grows more remote, as though contemplating some idle problem. ‘I was expecting this vessel to be more successful. Some more experimentation is needed, I think.’

The woman gives a strangled groan, head sagging forward, arms slack. Images burn into him – the graveyard, but now on fire, the stone markers melting in a powerful heat. A deep black sky above him, some vast bulk concealing the stars and moon, black smoke fouling his lungs. Down below, the city blocks resemble nothing more than tombstone markers themselves, dull grey slabs standing in memorial to unknown others. Except here, they burn, a firestorm whirling around, the tops wreathed in crowns of smoke. The whole city burns, a sea of fire, this place a tiny and shrinking refuse.

The beat of wings above, something unseen, making the smoke dance and whirl as the air is sent tumbling and whirling. An illusion, but strong and vivid. He counterattacks, nothing subtle or clever, turning her own power back on her, the light stolen from her now a stab of pure biting force. Something blocks it, the sensation like punching a wall, pain reverberating back. So, she has some skill, at least. But the block is clumsy, a simple barrier, easy enough to rend into dust.

Meanwhile, around him, the illusion continues – the sound of wings is even stronger now, the backdraft powerful enough to send flowers and other grave offerings flying into the darkness, or to be consumed by fire. The fires build, the buildings now towering pillars of flame, wreathed with swords of smoke and knives of fire, as the supports start to give way, the towers slumping unevenly.

He breaks through the barrier, sending a lance of will forward – hopefully only enough to stun rather than kill. And the illusion vanishes, and he’s suddenly back in the real world, the too-hot sunlight stinging his eyes. The woman regards him curiously, one hand raised, holding a line of darkness mere inches from her throat. She tenses her fist, closing her hand, and the darkness shatters and crumples.

‘Most intriguing, you are both more and less than I expected. But you have proven the weakness of this one.’

She collapses to the floor, like a puppet whose strings had just been severed, no attempt to protect herself, falling to the ground in a single movement, face down in the gravel.

The place goes silent, the woman now utterly unmoving. From here, he can’t even tell if she’s breathing. Fortunately, the groundskeeper has left a rake nearby, a convenient tool for prodding with, eliciting no reaction. Unless she has the least pride of any sorcerer in the entire damn world, then she’s dead or unconscious.

After another prod, harder this time, leaving grimy marks down the suit, Brandon approaches, carefully rolling her over. There’s no resistance in her muscles, limbs flopping as he flips her – she’s dead, or faking it very well. Her hat falls off, hair going with it, revealing a bald scalp beneath, covered with a swirling tattoo, reds and blacks intertwined in some sort of labyrinthine pattern. Not one he recognises, but magical lore never was his area of specialty. With her perfect, bland face now marred by dust, dirt and a trickle of blood, she looks broken and discarded, far removed from any form of power.

After glancing around to make sure no-one is watching, he checks through her jacket – no wallet, no purse, no identification, not even any keys. She either used magic to get here, or has people to deal with the petty mundanities of normal life. Either way, that makes her more than just some fool grasping for power.

Her glasses slide off, fully revealing her face. Around her eyes are more tattoos, carefully incised lines shaped like wings and feathers, even her eyelids inked, some form of glyph on each. That must have bloody hurt! He carefully peels back an eyelid, the eye beneath feeling strangely tough.

A sphere, polished to a deep, lustrous shine, gazes back at him, an orb of obsidian, dark enough it seems to drink in the light. The other is the same – hard, unyielding stone. That would take a lot of skill to do, and only the insane would try and do it to themselves. So she was insane, or someone else’s agent, neither of which was a good sign. There shouldn’t be any new players, hell, the events of two years ago had destroyed the board! There’s no way to get the eyes out without cracking her skull open, so he gently closes them again, then moves her over to a nearby bench, replacing her wig and hat, before making a hasty retreat, heading back into the city, trying to lose himself in the crowds, thought running through his head.

Someone after him, that know who he was, and also at least some of what had happened two years ago. And those eyes – could normal surgery do that? Although the subject would have to be insane to agree to have their eyes replaced with stone. The power she had wielded was far beyond anything that anyone should be able to wield, at least anyone he didn’t recognise. Even if she had just been a vessel, she had been a powerful one, and that raised the question of who she was a vessel for. Who the hell was left that had the power to fuck around like this, let alone the will? His maimed hand clenched into a fist. Why could people never leave stuff alone? Always someone poking things, raising up things that had been destroyed long ago, for no good god-damned reason.