Lindériu Derassi had not slept for three nights.
The image of the masked one on the throne, his hand raised to the sky, the second sun exploding – all of it repeated in his mind like an echo that would not quiet. The room, in the castle of Aryster, was dark, but the holy warrior did not light candles. He preferred the darkness. He preferred the silence. He preferred the guilt.
"What did you do?" he asked himself aloud.
"What I was ordered to do," he replied, the same voice, the same echo.
He stood up. The blue and gold armor, disassembled, was scattered on the floor. The pieces shone with the pale light coming through the window. The first sun, the only one remaining, was barely visible.
He dressed slowly. First the under-tunic, then the greaves, the gauntlets, the breastplate. The sword, at his waist, weighed more than the day before.
"Are you going back?" asked a voice from the door.
It was Sofia. The saint, with golden hair and clear eyes, leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed, her face pale.
"I am," replied Lindériu, without turning around.
"Why?"
"Because I left him there. Because I threw him into hell. Because I hated him without knowing if he really deserved it."
"And did he deserve it?"
"I don't know. But I will find out."
Sofia approached. Her trembling hands touched the saint's arm.
"Zirinos raped me," she said, her voice low. "In the dream, not reality."
"I know."
"And he killed me too."
"I know, Sofia. What are you trying to say?"
"Just that I..." Sofia hesitated. "I liked it. Before he killed me. I liked it. Might as well say I loved it with all my heart!"
Silence settled. The wind outside howled.
"That doesn't make you guilty," said Lindériu, finally.
"It doesn't make me innocent either."
"No one is innocent. Not the saints. Not the heroes. And definitely not the gods."
Sofia stepped away.
"Go," she said. "And if you find him... ask him why he did that."
"I will."
Lindériu left the room. The blue and gold armor shone in the half-light.
The castle of Aryster, once proud, now seemed more like a tomb.
---
At Derylini Academy, Ethan and Ana trained in the empty yard.
The first sun, pale and sad, illuminated the worn stone. The wind, cold, brought the smell of wet earth and pine. The candles in the lamps, lit since the previous afternoon, trembled with the drafts of air.
"Again," said Ana.
Ethan raised his hand. The flame – larger than in previous days, more stable – lit up in his palm. Blue-white, warm, alive.
"Now, higher," ordered Ana.
The flame grew. The heat intensified. The candles in the lamps trembled.
"Higher," repeated Ana.
The flame grew again. The heat was already uncomfortable, even for Ethan, who controlled it.
"Enough," said Ana.
Ethan closed his hand. The flame went out.
"You're improving," said Ana.
"I still can't cast complex spells."
"Complex spells are for mages. You are a chosen one."
"I was. Now, I no longer know."
Ana touched his shoulder. Her hand, cold, weighed.
"Your divine power?" asked Ethan.
"Unstable. Sometimes it works. Other times, not. The mark burns when I think of destruction."
"Then don't think about it."
"That's not how it works."
Ethan fell silent. The wind blew. The cold tightened.
"The repulsion," said Ana, after a long time. "The one you had for me. The one I had for you."
"It disappeared."
"It disappeared. But I don't know if it's good."
"Why?"
"Because the disgust protected me. Now... now I feel other things."
"What things?"
Ana did not answer. She only looked at him.
Her brown eyes, where fear and trust mingled, fixed on his. Then, for the first time in months, Ana smiled.
It was not a wide smile, nor a happy one. It was a small, hesitant smile, like someone trying out an ancient language they thought they had forgotten.
"What?" asked Ethan.
"Nothing," she replied. "Just... I'm happy."
"Happy?"
"Happy. Don't get used to it."
Ethan almost smiled too.
The wind blew. The cold tightened. But the yard, suddenly, seemed less empty.
---
In Ban, King Zayan received the envoys of Lunos in his palace of white columns.
The dark sky did not frighten the Ban – they were used to the heat, not the light. But the cold that now came from the north worried them.
"The Krakeriares have been reborn," said the envoy, a thin, gray-bearded man. "Marchioness Linda asks for help."
"What help?" asked Zayan, seated on the throne of dark wood.
"Ships. Soldiers. Weapons. Whatever you can give."
"Ban is not a kingdom of warriors. Ban is a kingdom of merchants, damn it!"
"Merchants also know how to fight. When profit is at stake."
Zayan looked at Magnus Troydís, who was leaning against a column, his arms crossed.
"What do you say, duke?"
Magnus took his time to answer.
"I say the Krakeriares are a threat to everyone. If Lunos falls, the monsters will come south."
"And you want to avoid that?"
"I want to protect my people."
Zayan scratched his beard.
"Then we will send a fleet. One hundred ships. One thousand soldiers."
"And the knights?" asked Magnus.
"The knights stay. We need them here."
Magnus did not insist. He only nodded.
Zayan stood up.
"Zirinos asked for help. We refused. Now, Linda's daughter asks. We accept."
"Linda's daughter is in a coma," said Magnus.
"Exactly. The living pay the debts of the dead."
The envoy bowed and left. Zayan was left alone with Magnus.
"Do you trust the Lunos?" asked the duke.
"I trust that they need us. It's different."
"It is."
Silence settled. The first sun, pale and sad, illuminated the palace of white columns.
---
In hell, a lesser demon ran through the tunnels of black stone.
His skin, gray and scaly, shone with sweat. His long claws cracked on the rock floor. His yellow eyes fixed on the tunnel ahead.
He passed torture chambers, lakes of magma, forests of glowing mushrooms. He passed guards who did not stop him, doors that opened on their own, bridges of bones over rivers of lava.
He reached Tryni's fortress, panting, on his knees.
"Sovereign," said the messenger, his voice trembling. "The hero who killed Trussum is in hell. Almost here!"
"I know," replied Tryni, seated on the throne of skulls.
"He has already killed Vharzug, the Devourer of Memories. Nyxara, the Queen of Webs. Ophisrael, the Serpent of the Abyss. Xalveth, the Monarch of Hunger. And Kharion, the Scarlet Executioner."
"I know."
"And now he approaches your fortress."
"I know. Do I look like some dumb bitch"
The messenger hesitated.
"Do you not want to do anything, sovereign?"
Tryni did not answer. He only raised his hand. His long, black fingers closed slowly.
"Let him come," said the sovereign of hell. "I want to see him."
The messenger left. Tryni was left alone.
The throne of skulls shone in the darkness.
---
Lindériu arrived at the first portal of hell at dawn.
The island, black and rocky, was deserted. The portal, a vertical gash with red edges, pulsed like a sick heart. The smell of sulfur, of blood, of death, came from within.
The holy warrior hesitated. His hand on his sword. His heart beating fast.
"Zirinos," he murmured. "Are you still alive?"