Madarame and Seraphiel leaned on the edge of a yacht, looking up toward the sky as they crossed into the purple fog of Rea, where even the air smelled beautiful.

  Yumi read the log, unearthing the arrival of Madarame and Seraphiel, and let out an inquisitive sigh.

  “Have you ever been here before, my dear king?” Madarame knocked back a shot of reus, a liquor customary to Rea.

  Seraphiel followed, grasping the empty cup close to his chest afterward, still entranced by the sky’s beauty and the intoxicating smell of myrrh in the air. He felt it deep in his lungs.

  “I never left the grounds as a child—or ever—until now, when I was kicked out of my lands and brought to Seriol against my will.”

  “Not quite exiled, eh?” Madarame retorted, addressing Seraphiel’s lie from a few days prior.

  “Oh—yes. Sorry about that—”

  “You know I hate lies, don’t you? Hiro told you. But seeing your predicament and the appellation haunting you, lying to a stranger was the most rational course of action. I appreciate your newfound honesty.”

  “Right,” Seraphiel said monotonously.

  He carried on. “I was groomed to be an heir. I hardly knew my father and was reared by a wet nurse. Leaving the kingdom was never necessary. What was necessary was a kingly education—and that’s it.”

  “Mmhmmm,” Madarame hummed, his tone signifying exactly.

  “My stupid sister was supposed to be Pontiff, you know.” He refilled his drink.

  “But Father saw me as more fit, being a man, and decided against that.”

  They arrived at Rea. As they stepped off the ship, a carriage awaited them. People lined the path, forming a walkway, bowing with skirts and hats lowered.

  “What has brought you back here, oh wise Pontiff of the Stygian Sky?”

  Madarame giggled, nudging Seraphiel.

  “Ahem. Your master has returned—with a king. And no ordinary king. This is the King of Cairnreach.”

  The people shot upright in awe, mouths agape.

  “But Master, you must be silent! The king is meant to be hiding his identity—”

  “Don’t worry, madam. This is a secret I have given unto these people as a means of conferring it unto you.”

  He kissed her hand.

  Seraphiel felt a shiver down his spine—both at the display and the language—as Madarame turned with a grin, much to Seraphiel’s chagrin.

  “Disperse, oh people of this… nice land.” His vocabulary ran dry.

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  They dispersed as Madarame slyly handed the woman a piece of paper.

  Seraphiel jumped into the carriage with him, and they made their way toward the Chateau d’Umbra. Whether that was its true name or merely Madarame’s ravings inspired by The Count of Monte Cristo, Seraphiel was intrigued to find out.

  Leaning back with his arms and legs crossed, Madarame’s slicked-back hair combined with his furrowed brow painted an intimidating sight. He opened one corner of his eye, peering at Seraphiel. Without lifting his head from its downward tilt, he flicked his eyepatch.

  “Now that is cool.”

  Stepping off the coach, Madarame now adorned his own replica eyepatch—this one bearing a large spider, its legs bending in all directions. A disturbing sight.

  “Chateau d’Umbra,” Seraphiel read.

  “My god. He named it after Chateau d’If. Did this guy even get the point of the book?”

  What he failed to realize was that this place was indeed a kind of prison for Madarame—and that Madarame was not a former High Pontiff, merely an absent one. He still held as much political power as ever. Simply deciding he didn’t want the title was not enough to remove it.

  They walked through the unlocked gates.

  “Terrible security,” Seraphiel noted.

  The double mahogany doors, engraved with beautiful artisan tapestries and an emblem of a raven at their centre, opened. Two men stood there, helmets covering their eyes and white cloth masking their mouths. They knew of the arrival—Yumi had informed them—but Seraphiel again found this strange.

  “You know, Rea is seen as a strategic country, not one of military prowess. I mean, we have Ryo, but—haha,” Madarame lectured.

  “As a Pontiff, my job was to be a holy figure—the most holy man in the land. But isn’t that boring? I decided instead to engage in some dark arts. I don’t need the power of an appellation to keep up. You could say I’m Rea’s secret weapon of sorts—but don’t tell anyone!”

  He turned quickly, bent over, and pressed a finger to his lips before walking on.

  They descended a spiral staircase, the velvet-red carpet reminiscent of the cavern from The Count of Monte Cristo. It probably was. Black candlelight darkened the hallways. They approached a room bearing a giant emblem of a crow.

  Madarame materialized a key and placed it into the crow’s eye. Turning it, he pushed the door open.

  A table was lined with all manner of materials. Amber glass jars held oils and raw substances. A scale precise to 0.0000001 grams sat among scattered beakers. Anatomical drawings covered the walls—men, cats, crows, and… something else. Seraphiel couldn’t tell what he was looking at: a creature with an elongated mouth, dozens of eyes, and a bulbous head. Other mythical creatures were diagrammed as well, beneath jars labelled Chimera Horn, Manticore Head, Griffin Beak.

  He was taken aback by the sheer complexity of the place—and most of all by the enormous creature chained in the corner. It resembled a dog, but with a man’s physiology. Alive.

  Madarame flipped through several books.

  “Aha.”

  He laid five pieces of paper in front of Seraphiel.

  Wide-eyed, finger pressed to his lips again, he looked exuberant.

  “Pick,” he whispered.

  Seraphiel stepped forward, reassured only by Madarame’s nonchalance in the creature’s presence.

  Devil. Daemon. Shinigami. Tengu. Leshy.

  Each offered a pact—power, and the entity’s assistance as an avatar in battle.

  He reached out. Devil intrigued him most. Its simplicity inspired fear.

  His hand burned on contact.

  Madarame giggled, hiding his mouth behind a paper.

  Seraphiel tried each in turn until the burning stopped.

  “Tengu.”

  The bird demon.

  He lifted it. An image was etched on the back: a purplish bird whose feathers resembled dead human hair. Its beak was crooked and several meters long. Its eyes were round, empty—glassless. An abhorrent sight. It perched atop a tree, and only after a moment did Seraphiel notice the shapes beside it: people, mistaken at first for ink blots. Its head hung low, hunched. He failed to notice that this tree was actually not a tree at all and a small mountain.

  Madarame read aloud the summoning recipe.

  “Uuuuhmmm… ah. No recipe!”

  He pulled out a knife—

  —and sliced his own throat.