Year 221. Drõm - Tahrir

JIRA ne'JIRAL

Jira stood by in silence, her thoughts racing as she watched the broken, beaten form of the Tahririans be hoisted off the sand—dragged closer to the spires as mumbles of defiance eeked from their split, swollen faces. Misandros and the rest of his ilk knelt in quiet prayer alongside Crius and Nara-ward, casting aside their anger and hatred for the assailants and hopeful that this sacrifice of their bodies would be worth it.

Sodon stared at the ugly display. “So we’ll torture them, stop, try talking a bit, stop, torture them more, then allow this Holy Bishop of ours to alter them with his apparent arcaeno powers that no one in the length of this war or the timespan before it was aware he had. On top of that, whatever is in the pit we’re trying to break into can bring about the end of the world. Fuck this.”

“This is not right,” Prokos muttered, his arms crossed with hands clenching the loosest parts of the gambeson that usually lay under his armor. “This is not right, Captain.”

“What can we do about it yet, Prokos?” Jira asked, her voice quivering with the fear of the unexpected and wholly terrifying addition of this Crius and his, apparently, untold levels of power. “The man used the same thing we’ve all seen during this war. He swayed almost everyone. No, he did sway everyone but you, Sodon, and myself. And we cannot trust the rest of our guild to follow us as easily as the Harbingers will follow him. We must be smart and hope that the Tahririans were basing their actions solely on outdated faith.”

Prokos wasn’t listening. “Was it him this whole time? Was it he who turned us all into monsters? Sent us into that Tower?”

“You know that I cannot say. I do not know.”

“What I would give to have that wild man back here with us.”

“Milligan’s insight would be helpful right now.”

“And we shall stand here and do nothing while the word is sent deeper into shit,” Sodon uttered in a crackling tone. “So much for fixing ourselves in the Tower, eh?”

The desert was filled with flames, and all talks, prayers, and whispers were nothing compared to what came from the fire. It seemed to her that no one else heard what was within the flames that had been the Tahririans. Perhaps they were too blinded by the light of the spires to focus on it or lacked the faculties to perceive it. In either case, she had heard it. Jira had heard their screams as the flames from the crystal spires consumed them to open the way. They had been instant but an instant of a disaster. A mangling of pride and dignity. Scorching of the soul as their vocal cords rose in pitch—as they tore to impossible lengths for the human body.

But that was not the worst of it. After the flames died down, what remained of the Tahririans was a haunting apparition that would forever curse her for her acceptance of this course of action. Twisted and malformed like a leper that had been put to the torch to keep their infection at bay. She knew she deserved that haunting. She knew she deserved that hatred.

That is what she had repeated to herself for the hour she and her company traversed the labyrinthian halls of the cave system that lay beyond the disk. It was unnerving to her that the most straightforward answer had been correct. “How to open the way” was as simple—as horrid—as sacrificing four souls to whatever those crystals were. Not unnerving. Disturbing. Alarming. Frightening.

Leading down from the now open disk was a set of spiral stairs made from black marble denoted by ruby veins that seemed to throb with the pulse of blood. Descending these stairs was easy as they were wide enough to hold three men side by side. If anything, they seemed like stairs built for people of a much larger stature. Ogreish. At the base of these stairs was a circular room identical in radius to the entrance, though markedly different in that rather than crystal spires and sand decorating it, it bore worn stone furniture etched with dioramas and singular characters of a bygone pictorial language.

Gíla, indeed, could have identified it in an instant.

Five large unlit torches of equally old design were scattered around the debris-laden floor covered in dust and pieces of crumbled stone. Jira was curious in noting that the wood of the torches had not gone rotten or dried to the point of disintegrating to the touch, nor was it apparent that it had been recently used. They should have been desiccated. Four long tunnels connected this room to further areas, their arches curved like the bends of war bows. Within these tunnels were visible chunks of jutting stone and foundation, shifted out of place by either age or some other more corporeal being.

Misandros turned to two of his favorite officers, and Jira could see the pure focus in his eyes. “Astera, Nikias, go above with one hundred men and keep the entrance guarded. If the disk starts closing, choose four to give their lives to the greater service. Move.”

The two warriors saluted, selected their one hundred—Goscelin forced to be among them due to his previous behavior—and returned to the surface. Jira shuddered at the casual order to sacrifice themselves so that the company could escape if need be. “Thania, Naulan, stay here with fifty and protect this room and those halls,” she said to two of her officers before dropping her voice low. “Do not sacrifice your lives needlessly. Get out if you can.”

Thania and Naulan nodded and selected their fifty.

“Which way do we go, Your Excellency?” the Bulldog grunted to the Holy Bishop.

“We shall go...north,” the old man said after a moment’s thought. “I believe the evil is coming from there.”

Sodon stood close to Jira, his hand never leaving the hilt of his blade. “Evil, says the man who sacrificed four souls to living crystals without a care in the world.”

“Quiet, says the woman who does not want you to die a second time,” Jira said with a commanding look.

Sodon nodded and distanced himself from the Silver Knight.

Crius, Nara-ward, and Misandros led the way, the latter holding a large torch as the company examined the crooked, stony walls of the cave, inspecting them for any sign of where exactly to go in this winding, secluded site. Prokos and Sodon performed similar tasks, though were clearly more intent on ensuring no more lives were lost on this excursion into Tahrir’s hidden places. Their hands were permanently clenched on the hilts of their swords, and their now shields were heaved in constant preparation for defense. The Silver Knight was also enticed by the environment they had delved into, trying to find some rationale for its design.

The halls of the system, which went on for miles each, were very clearly naturally formed, created by centuries if not millennia of erosion, though the occasional piece showed nigh-imperceivable signs of some purposeful manipulation. Yet the supposed place they led to was—according to the man of God at the head of the train—anything but.

“What a day it has been! Hasn’t it?” a gruff, familiar voice said from her right. Jira’s back stiffened, and she began to twist her head to face the source of the voice. “Don’t look at me. They can’t see me. Not even Prokos. Or the dead boy. Only you. Talk quiet. Talk silent. They’ll think you’re crazy otherwise.”

“What the hell are you doing here, Milligan?” she whispered, a voice so hushed only a gnat could have heard it, and the footsteps of sabatons and leather boots drowned out whatever sound that could have been. “Where have you been this whole time?”

“This place is a conduit, and you are a tether. With you here, I can be here.”

“You could not be here by yourself?”

“The laws of my corporeality and where I am allowed to be are...dubious at best, and I’d rather not tug on already strained cords until I have certainty.”

“What is this place? Is it—”

“As I said before, this is the Athenaeum—a place of learning, lore, and history. One of the Gods Aedol killed placed it there in a time lock after Khirn and Aqella existed. Here, we will find out how to kill Aedol.”

“What are you, Milligan?”

“Looks like your Holy Bishop has something up his sleeves, too. That surprised me.”

“You didn’t know he was in the game?”

Milligan was gone before he answered her question.

Year 221. The Athenaeum - Tahrir

JIRA ne’JIRAL

“What does it say?” Misandros asked the Holy Bishop.

The company stood before a monolith of sorts, discovered in a cavernous, square-shaped room the rightmost path of the system had led them to. It reminded Jira of the chambers in the Star Bastion, built to house hundreds and thousands, though markedly lacking in supports and indications of any previous habitation beyond the monolith and three other passages for the company to traverse.

Covering its sleek surface were several runic inscriptions, glyphic tapestries, and the same characters as those on the furniture from the entrance room. Curiously, she had seen similar shapes throughout the nauseating book that Gíla had lent, some even translated if her memory served correctly. She had left her nonessentials back at the camp in safe containment and now cursed her decision to leave the book. She breathed deeply and fished for images in her mind. There was a universal rune related to the feelings of apathy and withering, formed roughly like a gallows. On the monolith, a similar rune was created out of six lines and was inverted, implying - in her mind - resurrection and life. Another was formed in the shape of a crescent moon and a point facing away from it to mean constant movement. Here, that point was reversed to meet a half moon, perhaps to denote the end of a journey or a discovery of something along that journey. A third in the shape of a spear jutting upward into the heavens spoke of rebellion. Here, that spear was partially snapped and piercing downward, implying an end to that rebellion.

She relayed this to Crius and Misandros upon questioning after her expression hinted at her knowledge despite fighting her urge to keep it secret. The Holy Bishop’s eyes were kind but piercing. If she lied, he would know. Like a Nujant Chhank.

Crius nodded at the information and smiled widely. “We are getting closer,” he declared. “That, along with the words I have translated on this construct, makes me sure of it.”

“What do the words say, Crius?” Nara-ward inquired, stepping close to the monolith.

Crius traced a line before answering, scratching his bearded chin with his other hand. “It is unlike any language I have read, but thankfully, my vast library allows me to surmise general meanings based on logic. This place is definitely the wellspring from which those devils spawn. They must be in the center.”

Nara-ward cocked a brow. “Which way do we go?”

“There is something else, but I cannot translate it.” His eyes fell upon Jira like a waterfall of expectation. “Can you try, Captain ne’Jiral?”

“I am not sure,” she said with a waver to her voice.

“Try regardless,” Misandros commanded with a cold stare locked onto the monolith.

Jira sighed and brushed past the Holy Bishop to analyze the line in question, ignoring Nara-ward’s concerned looks and the Bulldog’s quizzical intrigue. When her eyes began to read the line, the words burned into her brain as quickly as she looked at them, her pupils dilating as her irises and sclera glossed over with a momentary sheen of deeply engrossed comprehension.

By command of Lam Av’an and the Locks of Entropy, we leave this place with a warning and hope that none shall ever read these words. In this place, deep below the rock to the west, with the gate facing out to the coast, shall you find your answers to erase the sins of the past if all is lost and only war remains.

“Can you read it?” pressed Misandros.

“Partially,” she said after the flash of understanding left her face, and a single tear began to leak from the corner of her right eye. “I...not really. It is a jumble of words that make no sense, but...it says it is further below us. It says to follow the path west.”

West, it had said to go. And to the west, for three days journey, it had brought them to the doorway. It was a massive stone entrance at the end of a long, straight tunnel so intricately carved into the rock that it could not have been anything else but mortal-made. Unlit braziers lined the smooth stone walls and produced cold blue-white flames when touched by the company’s torches. Halfway down the tunnel, an archway appeared on the side but looked filled in by perfectly shaped stone as if made to slot itself in the space.

The door’s surface was smooth and polished like the walls leading to it, almost presenting itself with a mirror-like quality when the torches were held up to it. Engravings of intricately detailed remembrances of legend, heroism, and betrayal filled most available spaces. Mythological beasts and advanced runic scripture covered the length between these pictures, written in the same languages as those on the obelisk and the monolith. Crius had difficulty translating any of them, as did Jira, despite her enlightening experience with the previous structure.

It was three times as tall as the Hamfist and four times his width—an intimidating sight, to be sure. But, most importantly, was the potent sensation of arcaenic energies practically erupting from behind the door—a warmth like a mother’s embrace. Crius could feel it, too, suggested by his nearly euphoric expression. Jira looked to Sodon and Prokos in the train and nodded, a gesture they returned. Across the days of this trek, they worked tirelessly to bring the Contemptors to their side as fully as they could, using the obvious lies the Holy Bishop had told to secure their loyalty without hesitation. She hoped it would last long enough to stab the old man if necessary.

“Is this it?” Misandros asked.

“Yes,” Crius said. “This is it. Hand built. So it was not natural. Someone built it, manipulated the energies of God’s world, and now the manticores are born into existence as a result.”

“Yet we have not faced a single one since we came down here,” Nara-ward noted. “Isn’t that concerning?”

Misandros grunted and motioned to three of his most oversized elite guards. They pushed against the door with light effort. Electric bolts coursed from the entry into their arms, sending them reeling back with a shout of surprise and pain. “Damn!”

“More defensive measures,” Milligan murmured from behind Jira. “Whoever built this place built it to last and last in secret. Cunning people.”

“More defensive measures,” the Bulldog mimicked. “Whoever built this place built it to last and last in secret. Cunning people.”

“I’d rather we not sacrifice more people,” Jira heard Alden wish.

“Seconded,” Nara-ward sheepishly agreed.

Jira crooked her lip in thought and read the lines in some effort to translate them. Nothing spoke to her as it had at the monolith, leaving her none the wiser on how to open this passage.

“Perhaps it requires...a spell?” offered Crius, his voice light with jubilation. “This is a place of arcaenic energies. The power is strong here. Perhaps it requires sacrifice just like the crystals did.”

Jira nodded to this and looked at the old man. “Do you have any spells that could be of use here?”

Crius shook his head. “I have a wide array gained from my pilgrimage across our nations, but I am unsure if any could work without destroying this relic.”

“What of you, ne’Jiral?” asked the Bulldog. “You were friends of the Bear Maiden. Close friends. You fought at Acocaea and saw the worst of it alongside her, took part in the killing of the Runemaster. Did you learn anything from her? Are you yet capable of using the Gift?”

Jira shook her head. “I know of many uses but cannot use them myself. Nor do I think any of you are.”

“Destroy it,” offered Sodon from the shadows of the tunnel. Everyone turned to look at him, Jira’s eyes narrowed with worry. “When it doubt, destroy the damned thing.”

“Watch your tone!” Misandros barked, only for the Holy Bishop to place a hand on his shoulder.

“Peace, Misandros. Destruction does not equal worth, soldier,” Crius cautioned. “I very much doubt the creators of this place considered their tests to result in barbaric annihilation of their work.”

Sodon snorted. “With respect, Your Excellency, who gives a solitary shit what the creators of this place considered? They are dead. We are not. And aren’t we here to destroy it in the first place? Blow the thing up. That is my suggestion.”

Jira heard the Holy Bishop audibly consider this while the company muttered among themselves in not-so-quiet contempt of Sodon’s rigid attitude. Prokos stood next to him with a barely restrained scornful grin.

“Very well,” Crius shrugged with an almost laughable look on his face and giddiness to his tone, hands clenched to wreath a pole of fire in front of him. The company backed away in shock, murmurs passing between them as the flames of the torches lining the walls traversed the air to mingle and form a great spear of blue energy. Crius slumped his shoulders once as if exhausted, straightened again with renewed vigor, and angled his body to pull the spear back for maximum velocity and power against the door. He threw his arm forward and the spear of flame with it. The tip connected with the engraved stone and cracked inward like a fish-filled net. It ripped just as similarly and crumbled to the ground, unleashing the pent-up dust of arcaeno from behind into the tunnel, along with a howling wind and brilliant, luminous azure. Crius breathed hard and himself herself from falling to his knees, reeling from the effort of the act.

“Too fucking right,” Sodon laughed as the dust settled. He cleared his throat. “Practicality works every damn time.”

“Everyone, move in!” Misandros commanded.

“He waits for an excuse to use it,” Milligan said from the shadows. There was concern cracking through his voice. “Feigns his ignorance. Says he doesn’t want to use it. But I can smell his heart. He loves using it. Loves the idea of destroying this place. Something’s wrong.”

“I thought you knew what was here, Milligan.”

Milligan’s eyes flared in the darkness as Jira took a risk to look. “I thought so, too. No, I did my research. I did.”

“At what cost?” Jira asked Sodon as he passed by with the rest of the company entering through the door, her tone ponderous with a new gravelly texture.

The central chamber was as expansive as a throne room, meshed seamlessly with an archive of endless books, scrolls, tomes, volumes, treatises, manuals, and journals. Polished, ruby-encrusted braziers - some lit, some dark - hung from one side of each of the twelve black stone columns that supported a hidden—or nonexistent—second floor. When all the braziers were lit, they produced the typical blue light of this place, filling the entire room with a tepid warmth that was at least better than the suffocating cold. A saffron rug split the room from the shattered door to what appeared to be a pulpit settled in front of a red-glowing obsidian sphere coated in runic inscriptions hovering over a great pit that produced no light. Along the walls from the entrance to behind the sphere were numerous rows of bookracks filled to their maximum load of these ancient texts. Between some of the racks on either side of this grand chamber that was almost as large as the outer bailey of the Star Bastion, Jira surmised, were archways, collapsed doors, and built-in wall shelves for flameless candles. Many in the company whispered and yelled in shock and anger at the “heresy” of this place, terrified of the apparent age it possessed, only adding to the stresses this trek had put on them.

The Bulldog began handing out orders. “I want guards stationed at the door, sweep the connecting rooms, and make sure no traps or demons are waiting for us here. Oeagnus and Phoibun, take five men each and see if you can find the second floor attached to these pillars. Everyone, move slow, move safely. Don’t be rash, don’t rush.”

Jira looked at her portion of the company. “Markos, Hamfist, go with Oeagnus and Phoibun with five men each. Relay to me what you find; keep your flanks covered. Understood?”

“Yes, Captain,” the Hamfist grinned.

The warriors set out to their commands, leaving the remaining numbers to investigate the central chamber.

“This place is incredible,” Alden loudly stated as he rushed to one of the stacks. “How could this place have been hidden for so long? Should there not be skeletons, at least of past explorers?”

“God’s will is mysterious,” Crius declared. “I feel as though we are the first to explore this place since it was abandoned.”

“Then we truly are soldiers of God,” Praxis the Brambleheart said. “May His Grace shine upon our further successes.”

“This place is wrong,” Milligan heaved from the shadows. “I did my research. I hunted it down. But this place is wrong.”

Jira stared hard at the obsidian sphere behind the pulpit. “I thought you knew what we needed to do, Milligan.”

“No. No. I have to be right. Not again.”

“Figure it out, Milligan.”

Jira joined Alden at the stacks, slipping her rations pack off her shoulder to rummage through the piles of maps of old kingdoms and empires stretching to the days of the proto-Golden Lords before they had conquered most of Khirn and even diagrams of various landmarks supposedly nested beyond the edges of Veoris. Many in the company began shouting and weeping upon these revelations, having to be consoled in groups by their officers.

“Imagine if Gíla had all of these things at the Bastion,” Alden said with a forced laugh, trying to ignore the spreading outrage of the company. “We would never have gotten any training done.”

Jira smiled. “Maybe we could have avoided those battles.”

Alden picked up a map of a nation called Charin, now the land of Dekun. The date on it was from the oldest year Khirn’s historians could chronicle. “Maybe. Do you think she’s right? That the world is bigger than Khirn and Aqella?”

Jira watched with sadness as a warrior of the Harbingers tossed down a journal that supposedly told of the Khirn before humanity’s arrival. “I mean, I have to now.”

Alden’s smile vanished into a frown of contemplation. “It makes me worried about that story she once told about the Spellblade and that member of her people who went north and came back insane. If that turns out to be true, what else will turn out to be true?”

“Captain ne’Jiral!” Crius shouted from the pulpit.

“Be careful, Captain,” Prokos warned as she walked past him toward the Holy Bishop. “We’re ready to strike when you are.”

“Yes?” she asked as she stepped up the three stairs of the platform.

The old man lifted the tome from the pulpit to show her, holding it open on the page he had just examined himself. The parchment was yellow and partially tattered along the edges, but the words on its surface were legible—almost to the point of being freshly inked compared to the age of its host. She took the tome from his hands and began to read it carefully, flipping through the pages and recognizing the language as a comparable but ultimately different lexicon from the one previously seen on the door, monolith, and obelisk.

“Can you understand it?” he asked hopefully.

“Somewhat,” she replied honestly, relaying what she understood from her brief examination. “This part is seemingly a collection of spells from the older days when arcaeno was...first born?” Jira’s voice quirked at the final part of that translation.

“What does that mean?” Nara-ward asked, appearing at the base of the stairs.

The Silver Knight looked at the glowing sphere. The runic inscriptions along its surface were almost identical to those on the door and obelisk, save for a much more uniform, precise engraving. Arcaenic energies were practically pouring from underneath its surface. She went back to translating, the words slowly becoming easier to read in their formal style yet also falling from her lips as if forced past a certain point. Only after she was complete did she dread finishing the translation. “It reads like a journal or a manual. ‘Of all the volumes within this Athenaeum, none can compare to this, the Grimoire of Paths, so to become fabled for being the penultimate collection of spells and hexes born from Lam Av’an. Its myriad of gifts and curses can be so granted to those who can adequately recite its words, the lasting effects stemming from the source of its power within the sphere. Even those incapable of channeling the lifeblood with natural talent may learn to use it if their will is strong enough.’”

Crius’ mouth quivered behind his beard, and he quickly snatched the tome from Jira’s hands, his eyes furrowing with irritation as she held onto it for a second too long. “Magnificent,” he said with a hearty laugh. “What miracles could I produce with this if I could only translate it like you can?”

“What the fuck is that!?”

It was a crude but appropriate way of asking the question.

“Your Excellency! Move!”

Jira, Crius, and Nara-ward looked to the sounds of growling and were gazing upon something nothing short of genuinely horrific. It was horrifically draconic if the descriptions of anything draconic could be trusted from the texts, though pointedly felinoid as well. Four-legged and red-scaled with vestigial remnants of wings that fluttered in tattered-like ways in the cold, morning wind. Its tail was bent like a scorpion’s, and its face was feline enough to be that of a manticore, though this one was also markedly human-esque. When it breathed, puffs of ember-filled smoke came from its mouth and nostrils. But, worst of all, Jira decided, was that it was nearly as large as a two-story house and yet had somehow snuck up on them and the company. Had it crawled from the pit? Had it emerged from the sphere?

The beast was roused to action almost as quickly as the three had scrambled. It sprung to life with a roar and twist of its body, snapping its jaws for the Silver Knight with rapid, frightening speed. Jira yelled in worry despite herself and spun around as she fell off her feet, her sword unsheathing in slow motion for its terrifying face. A volley of arrows struck it, stopping it just short of snatching her for a meal.

She rolled to her feet and backed away, calling her warriors to form defensive lines. Misandros and the Bulldog did so as well, and quickly, the span of the room was a wall of shields, swords, and spears.

“Attack!” the Bulldog roared.

With quick strikes, stabs, and slashes of her sword, the company attacked the beast’s legs to drop it for access to its belly. It responded with back-dragging clawing attacks, repositioning to crush, snap, bite, or slash with its talons. Rows upon rows of books were sundered, countless names scratched off the history books as nothing more than victims of an abomination. Jira was nearly felled by many of these attacks. Somehow, the drive to kill this thing—the purpose of unknown origin—kept her from being hit fatally. Only shockwaves, slight glances of attempted batterings, and thin self-inflicted cuts from frantic rolling injured her. The beast roared through it all, its cries echoing like a thousand battle horns calling its forces to arms.

“I think we’re just pissing it off!” Prokos shouted as he recovered from being thrown around the air.

“I think I agree!” Jira shouted back.

“Dukh ruya lisyutich ru!” the manticore chortled. Flames erupted from the monster’s mouth down onto three lines of warriors. Howls of agony poured from the billowing flames, then silence against the roaring thunder of the attack.

After a moment of abject horror, the remaining number of the company flew into a black fury. Screaming at such an octave that it was nearly imperceptible. Each swung at the nearest limb of the beast, connecting with solid flesh and hide. Again, they struck, and again, repeating side-swipes, downward slashes, skewering thrusts, and hacking hammerings. They beat and gouged the beast until their blades snapped in half, their spears splintered, and their maces dented. Dropping the weapons, the company punched, kicked, and elbowed the beast as it roared and laughed, digging their fingers into the bleeding wounds.

Jira, one of the few with a remaining weapon, leaped at the horror. The manticore roared and rotated its body, swinging its tail with enough force to crack her ribs as she was thrown to the ground, rolling to a stop near the space where the warriors had been torched. The manticore batted the company aside in furious excitement, glaring at her with a twisting, sadistic grin on its human-esque face as she struggled to her feet.

A fit of coughs came upon her. The most inopportune time. “Milligan...a little help?”

The manticore loomed over her, stepping down with a storm’s authority.

“Fine then,” she heaved. “Kill me.”

Slowly opening its maw, the beast made a horrific noise. Words. A voice. A language. “Terutrub da tʼi. Tʼu ye wush b’unynyeji jukh."

Jira’s vision was hazy as it spoke, growing blurrier by the second as her fit continued. She fell to her knees, then her hands, her entire life at the mercy of this grotesque creature.

The manticore neared her with its open mouth, teeth rotten and crooked, sticky drool dripping from its pointed tongue and split gums.

No. Stand and fight. You were remade for a reason, Guile Eclipse.

The voice was unknown to her in that she had never heard it before in her life. Yet, there was a familiar sensation in her body when it registered—a calming power of protection. A surge ran through her body, connecting every synapse, nerve, tendon, bone, and electron in a singular moment. Then there was a shaking, like a tremor. Then a crash. Quick. Sudden. Hard. Then, a roar followed by wet cracking sounds and the sudden lack of a mouth closing around her.

The Silver Knight fought the cramps in her neck to open her eyes. A smoking wreathe of grey formed around her fist. She had struck the manticore’s face, connecting with a leaping punch that shattered several teeth and punctured one eye into red jello. With a snort of fury, Guile ripped the armor from her body, the manticore stumbling from the impact. It roared as she jumped to its neck and clambered atop its head. She punched down onto its crown to lower it, lower it, and lower it again until it fell flat along the broken stone beneath its feet.

“KILL IT!” the company roared to her, uncaring of the sheer display of inhumanity. The manticore whined as Guile sent her fingers into its swollen flesh, again and again, rending it down with jagged lines until a fountain of blood was spurting from the many wounds, covering the Silver Knight in viscous crimson.

“Yatik! Yatik! Li!” the abomination writhed, kicking like a wounded dog into the ground.

Fingers wrapped around vertebrae, tips scratching the fibers connecting it to the meat. “Chiyik ʻem yosha,” Guile Eclipse commanded. A single tug and the creature stopped moving. Guile ripped more, flesh squelching as she forced the skull and spine out of the beast’s body. Its head deflated.

“God above, Jira,” Misandros shivered as she tossed the grisly trophy at his feet.

“What the fuck did you do?” Sodon asked with a crooked grin. A crowd had begun to gather.

Jira spat at the skull. “It’s dead.”

“That it is!” Crius guffawed as he emerged from behind a still-standing pillar. “What utter bravery you showed. And strength! Are you sure you’re not Gifted by God?”

“I am not. I just wanted to live.”

“Admirable,” the Bulldog said with an approving nod. “Considering what I saw the Great Blade pull out in Acocaea—hell, what I saw all Belanorians do there, maybe your people’s reputation is well earned.”

“You just decided that now?”

Misandros held up a hand to end the inevitable banter. “What do we do now, Your Excellency?”

“Now, we figure out where it came from and how to stop another from spawning.”