I remember it like yesterday. When you sat on God’s throne and pointed a finger at me. You yelled, “Burn them!” And I did. I burnt every single one of them. Their screams haunt me.

  Regilon’s dark velvet cloak had been untouched for quite some time. No one bothered to invite him to funerals anymore, not after he had missed the last few. Like any old man, he wondered if anyone would mourn his death when his time came. He doubted it, but he felt it wasn’t too late to make amends.

  He stood at the entrance of the Church of Rheina, where everyone of importance was seated, listening to the priest’s droning sermon. Among the thousand gathered there, he was the only one dressed in red—a sight that would soon draw everyone’s attention. The priest paused in his preaching, distracted by the unexpected appearance of the Blood Storm in public after some twenty-odd years.

  And just as he had imagined, it happened exactly as he expected. Both the regular attendees and his fellow ascenders gaped in awe at his entrance. There was one exception—Jay Arson, who seemed uninterested, or was trying hard not to care. Jay was alone, much like Regilon, as he sat on the pew closest to Tenrad’s. The little earthen ascender was buried under one of the Gallants’ cloaks. Regilon was reminded of the peculiar scent he carried—the scent of Genevie.

  Regilon met Tenrad’s eyes, but the big man looked away. “I’m sorry for your loss,” said Regilon. “No man should witness the death of his son in his lifetime, let alone two.” Tenrad shrugged, pretending to focus on the priest’s words.

  The little boy stole a few glances at Regilon, his heart beating faster than anyone else’s. Regilon smiled at him, extending the moment of contact. “One prodigy sitting side by side with another,” Regilon said, greeting Tenrad and the earthen.

  The boy seemed about to hide inside Tenrad’s belly but couldn’t resist his curiosity.

  “What’s a prodigy?” the boy asked.

  “To be one of a kind,” said Regilon, in English. “Someone with a special trait that gives them an edge over others.”

  “Ren Gallant is a prodigy?”

  “Ren Gallant?” asked Regilon. “I have met a dozen Ren Gallants in my day.”

  “Ren Tenrad Gallant, sir.”

  “Like I said,” said Regilon. “Yes.”

  It seemed that would be the end of the conversation, but Regilon was not done sniffing the waxy scent out of him. Whenever the earthen had an influx of emotion, the smell grew stronger. Regilon needed more of Genevie’s scent. It was a shameless addiction.

  “Do you know what makes Tenrad a prodigy?” asked Regilon.

  Giving Tenrad a look of apology, the earthen skipped over to Regilon’s pew. “Ren Gallant is a hybrid ascender,” said the boy. “Doctor Aureate taught us all about him in Bio-ascension class.”

  “And?”

  “Tenrad’s father was a crafter, but his mother was a ripper.”

  “Not just any ripper—”

  “A grim-ripper,” finished the boy.

  “Ah, grim-rippers. Don’t we love them?” said Regilon. “Did your teacher tell you about any other grim-rippers?”

  “No,” the boy said quickly.

  “It’s okay to mention her name,” said Regilon.

  “Another grim-ripper would be Genevie, sir,” said the boy, head down, a bit embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Why would I be uncomfortable hearing my own wife’s name?” asked Regilon. “Please, carry on. Tell me more about what you’ve learned.”

  “That would be all, really,” said the boy. “But I also know that Tenrad’s crafting art is recessive, while his grim-ripping abilities are dominant. But that was not the case with Votress and Alakam, or his other children. No Gallant since Tenrad has been a ripper.”

  “Some might call you brilliant,” said Regilon. “A brilliant prodigy. We all know who’s qualifying as a Gaverian from Se Fina soon.”

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  “Thank you, Sir,” the boy said. “It feels like a dream to be talking to you, sir. You and Ren Gallant and Renna Sorel—you are stories in history books. I never imagined myself sitting here, telling you all this.”

  “We are not all as heroic as the books portray us. Some among us carry misdeeds too dark to be written,” said Tenrad, glowering at Regilon. “Spectre.”

  “Ire.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I see no harm in mourning with an old friend.”

  “Would you have me believe you are not here because of a guilty conscience?”

  “If I am uninvited, tell me, and I’ll spend my afternoon elsewhere.”

  “Spectre.”

  “Ire.”

  “I know you were in Blackwood recently.”

  “I have been to Blackwood twice.”

  “Twice, but never when it mattered. A few days ago, the officers flew over and took pictures from above. I saw with my own eyes the desecration my boy suffered at the hands of the unnameable.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Knowing the kind of man you are, you had something to do with it.”

  “What is happening at Blackwood?” asked the boy, casting glances at the two men speaking over his head.

  “Your son was already dead before Talon and Savage came to me,” said Regilon. “My decision not to return to the south changed nothing.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Tenrad. “Tell me the whole truth.”

  “Ire.”

  “Spectre.”

  “Why the spite?” asked Regilon. “I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Why are you here?” Tenrad demanded. “Let us not pretend my son meant anything to you.”

  “I knew of the enemy long before your son went to fight him,” confessed Regilon. “I could’ve stopped the enemy then, but I did not. I let them fester, and…” The boy froze, cold with fear. Regilon could not finish what he wanted to say.

  “And you let my son take the fall,” accused Tenrad.

  “You’re here,” said Regilon. “Do better than me. Find your son’s killer and avenge him.”

  “There would have been no need if you hadn’t fled from the enemy,” snarled Tenrad. “After all these years, you remain a coward. Get out.”

  Set them on fire! Burn them! This is the end of the church! Do it! Now! Burn them all to the ground!

  It was getting warm. Regilon’s sweat ran down his nose. Through laboured breaths, he reached the light outside, yearning for fresh air. All he smelled was smoke—thick and raw—forcing its way down his throat. He heard the crackling, the screams, the pleas for mercy. He saw his father on the throne of God, red eyes gleaming. Regis pointed a bony hand at Regilon and spat in his face.

  “Burn them all!”

  The red-eyed ascender clasped his hands against the two pillars. His knees buckled, but he willed himself to stand. He panted through his mouth, hair slick with sweat, strands slipping down his neck. He dared not shut his eyes, for that would make it far too easy.

  The air frosted. Icicles grew on the windowpane. A few people in the church began to glance about. One or two fanned themselves with pamphlets. Soon there would be smoke, and then fire would erupt. It would be over before they knew it. No one had noticed him.

  “Regal!” Tenrad roared.

  He was on his feet, and so was everyone else. The awe was gone, replaced by concern. Concern turned to fear. Fear to horror. And from horror came the screams. They did not know where to run—towards him or away.

  Panting, panting, panting, he clenched his teeth and searched for a grip. Who would stop him from burning them all? The true priests were long dead—the ones who could’ve restrained him with Shaphet’s Law.

  “Regal!” Tenrad again. His old rival, advancing. One step at a time, commanding his spiritual forces. All others stood back. All knew the power of the Blood Storm. Tenrad Gallant alone could face him. And he came, stride unbroken. None dared stand in his way.

  A ring of violet light spiralled across the marbled floor, a short distance before Tenrad. Within the ring, a portal tore open to another world. Haunting violet rays escaped from it, along with the screams of creatures born of nightmares. This was Chaos.

  Tenrad stretched his arm over the portal. A hand reached through from the other side—bloodied, ashen—bearing a battle axe for the old Gaverian. Tenrad gripped the axe firmly, and the hand withdrew into Chaos, closing the portal behind it.

  The walls rumbled, the pillars shook, and the chalice on the altar toppled over. Tenrad broke through the building and hurled his axe like a spear. It smashed through Regilon’s torso, dragging him across the courtyard, tearing through the cobblestones.

  Tenrad descended the stairs. Mercy was absent from his eyes. Thirty years had not been enough to bury old grudges. They would finish this now.

  Regilon rose, spread his arms wide, and snapped his fingers twice. Chains of ice wrapped around his wrists. He unravelled them, letting them clank along the floor.

  Like thunder, the two ascenders clashed. Axe met chains, ringing and clinking as metal scraped against ice. Tenrad struck harder and harder, shattering chains and splitting skin. Regilon fell back and conjured a flame whip, spinning with a touch of wind. The whip lashed around the axe and wrenched it aside.

  A portal opened beside Tenrad, and the undead tossed him a rusted mace. He roared like a beast and swung. Regilon clasped his hands together, and the wind drove him back. Barriers of ice sprouted before him as Tenrad charged, smashing through them one by one. With a burst of speed, Tenrad seized Regilon by the collar, lifted him high, and slammed him to the ground.

  The undead clawed up from the earth, seizing Regilon’s arms and holding him fast. Tenrad screamed, raising his axe high. Regilon’s eyes burned red. Flames erupted around him. From his back sprouted eight jagged limbs of ice, like the legs of a spider, shattering the ground and hoisting him aloft.

  Tenrad’s mace froze solid, ice crawling along the shaft and locking his fingers in place. He growled, clutching at his stiffening hand. Regilon gripped Tenrad by the throat. The icy legs clinked and clattered across the courtyard as he sped towards the church.

  Tenrad choked, straining with all his might to break free. With a heave, Regilon smashed him against a church pillar and began climbing the wall, his ice appendages gouging into the stone. Higher and higher they rose, leaving the multitude below.

  At last, they reached the roof. The ice claws held Tenrad high for all Henrikia to see.

  “Ire,” Regilon said, voice crackling. “Tell me—do I fight like a coward?”