All Death could do was follow the bodies. He could not hide from their stench, nor could he find a direction free from slaughter.

  Those useless bloody Sentinels. What happened after that flash from that fool’s weapon? This is barbaric, even by me.

  “Help me,” a man whispered. “Please. I can’t feel.”

  Death knelt at the old man. His legs were crushed under a beam of dark wood. His legs had snapped at the knees, his ankles twisted, bones protruding out a wound at the heel. Nails of iron found a home in his stomach, pinning him to the concrete. If the nails were taken out, the old man would surely bleed and surely die. So, he did what he thought was merciful; he pressed his boot to the man’s temple and thrust his weight onto skull, crushing it flat

  A Valan guard wielding a morningstar flail, the black steel ball whirled around the sky as he came for revenge. Death danced with the brave fool, cursing the man and ordering him to flee for his life. The guard refused to yield, which he would soon regret—he lost his weapon to his opponent snatching the handle, and found the back of his head smashed from a clean strike. He staggered back, a chunk of something blue and pulpy leaked from the hole and onto the back of his gorget. To end his misery, Death struck him again, this time to the front, crushing his brain.

  Is this city full of fools? he thought. What a pitiful waste of one’s life. Died for nothing. Pathetic.

  He advanced the burning streets of Vatanil, inhaling smoke deep into his lungs. The city itself was at war with the storm, a challenge to see which would prevail—torrential rainfall or blazing fires from both dragon and Sentinel.

  A nearby building of prayer opened their doors to Death, yelling at him and bidding him to come in quick. They gave him a thick coat of white fur, the smallest man smacking him at the back of his head. “Are you mad?” he whispered. “The streets aren’t safe to be wandering around without thought. There are dragons about. Our own prince has abandoned us; the Sentinels attack us.”

  Death scoffed at what he saw. The windows were sealed with iron and silver, a mural of angels battling demons across the dome roof. A pillar of crimson light and rain came from a centre hole. The fountains of water were tinged red at their sources, the blood of their own people plaguing their only method of drink. They took small sips, weeping as they did so. Hundreds of people held their children close, praying to a robed, faceless statue of marble—the Voiceless One. Owls comforted the children, all with yellow-eyes, staring at Death as he entered. They lit their candles, gasping with each sudden boom and wishing their shrine was not the next victim.

  “Are you hurt?” the small man continued. “We pray for the owls to save us. Will you come?”

  “Do you have a second exit?” Death said bluntly. “I wish not to stay with the commonfolk. I intend to find Prince Stroke.”

  “You can’t. The prince has gone completely mad. He attacked the crowd after that flash; I saw it myself. His godsteel sickle cut apart families, you must stay here. I will have the guards keep you here if you try and leave.”

  He barged his chest into the small priest’s head. He collapsed, his head striking a block of marble, killing him immediately. Death threatened the second priest with the same if he wished to keep him there.

  “Have you gone mad too?” the second priest squealed. He tried to save his friend, but the blow was too hard. “Gods… he was only trying to help you lad!”

  “You can help me by showing me the way out,” Death said low. “Your people have not yet noticed the fate of your man. One would say moving him to a… hidden exit… may be the swiftest solution—they will not panic if there is no body to see.”

  Death put the body on his broad shoulder and followed the priest through a hidden door. Inside, there was a stash of ale, gold, and plenty of magical crystal, ones meant to be crushed and inhaled to ‘lighten the mind’ in hard circumstances. The priest crushed one on a silver platter with the bottom of a tankard, gathering it on his finger and smearing it onto his dry tongue.

  “You judge me,” the priest scoffed. “You are a man of sin. You don’t get to judge me, only the gods do.”

  “A man does what he must to feel sane.” Death laid the body on a table. “Did any see where the prince went after his slaughter?”

  “He would’ve known,” he said, pointing at the body. “Had you not been so quick to violence, you would have your answer. You will not find the prince, sinner. The lightning brings flashes, and the prince is known for disappearing in them.”

  Disappearing? Death thought. Must be his gifts, but it cannot be the light that powers him… I remember when he came to my cell, he got through the bars when I blinked. I’d have to see it myself to know for certain, but I’m confident that’s his gift—when he is unobserved he can… do something fast. Teleporting. Immense speed. Only the prince knows his own gifts. I must be wary of this.

  “You can still stay,” the priest said. “Our gods keep us safe. They protect even red-eyed sinners like you.”

  “Your god is an owl.” Death unlatched the door. The cold hit him quick, and he dreaded the storm, but he hated the thought of staying with the commonfolk even more. “I will take my chances with fate. Fate favours me.”

  “Prince Stroke claimed fate favoured him. Don’t let your sins bloat your pride. You are a man, just like us.”

  “You don’t know what I am.” Death slammed the door shut and stood angrily in the rain. Bloody fool, does he think I am a mortal like the rest of these imps? When I kill the prince, this shall be the first place I come back to. They shall tear down that statue and place one of me, or I shall burn it all down. This fur they gave me is cheap and soaking already. I’d not even use it to wipe my own ass. He took of the coat and flung it into a tree. I’m not a man. I’m a conqueror. Prince Stroke shall fear me when he battles me.

  Death then received a deathly headache, worse than the ones he’d endured during the torment of the Dark Void. His vision went red and pink, and he fell shoulder-first into a crate of unripe bananas. A red fog spread around him, and screams echoed through the empty streets dozens at a time.

  “Curse the gods,” he managed. Be done with this. I thought these pains had left me… was my vision truly just a dream? I must endure this no matter how hard. Weakness leaves with every second I resist.

  The conqueror was unable to get to his feet—a crushing weight of judgement and loneliness fell heavy on his shoulders. Even while wide as they were, they burned from the stress, and he felt the ever-growing torment of his missing memories throbbing through his skull.

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  Death forced himself to his feet. He took one step at a time, each foot felt like a slab of steel had been tied to his ankles. All he could hear was a high-pitched ring, broken by the occasional whisper that sounded directly next to his ear.

  He looked to the dark clouds and saw a dragon descend, filling a single street of Vatanil in a blanket or rising flames, then dying to a Sentinel, which tore off their wings with tentacles of magic, dragging the giant carcass into the flaming vortex before the body wreaked destruction on the homes below.

  Was that real, or did I imagine that? Death thought. Gods, this ringing is making it hard to think.

  Wobbling to the fresh dragon-fire, his boots caught fire as he pushed into the smog, quickly extinguished by the storms. He heard the whinnying of horses, the clashing of shields, unsure of where or from whom it came from. He called out, but no matter where he went, it always grew more distant.

  “Fool,” a grating, dissonant voice said. “Look at what you have become. A lost fool; a clueless fool; a weak fool; a fool with a wish for death.”

  A horse made of shadows rode through the flames, a figure atop it wielding a scythe—unblinking red eyes glowed in the void of darkness, judging him. Death recognised at his himself.

  “Explain this,” he demanded. “What is cursing my mind?”

  “A conqueror knows when to be feared and when to be kind,” it said. “You know neither. You disgrace yourself.”

  “Why not be loved this time?” another voice rang out. “All need love,” a second, angelic voice chimed. “Even you, little lad.”

  He got a flash of Snow’s face, then the girl in his memories he’d forgotten entirely.

  “I am a conqueror!” he screamed through the pain. “I do not need love! I do not need anything!”

  “What did you conquer it all for?” his shadowy mimic said. “I bid you, fool, ask yourself that question. We cannot tell you what you do not know. You must remember. Think.”

  The form of his old self joined a charge of other dark horses, shaking his head in disappointment as he rode into the flames, relieving Death of his headache.

  I do not understand what I am supposed to gain from these visions, Death thought. How do I make sense of what I do not even remember? I must keep pushing. Stroke must be close.

  He was suddenly struck by a mass flung from the flames. It hit him hard in the chest, toppling him over. A meaty hand pressed his head into the gravel, fingers in his mouth on nostrils.

  “Fuck, am sorry lad,” said Bollo the Bald. “Are ye fine? I didn’t break anythin’ did I?”

  Death rejected Bollo’s help. “Do not touch me, creature,” he snarled. “I remembered you. You were in that tavern.”

  “Wha? Lad, we don’t have—”

  Bollo was impaled by a spike of wood through his stomach. A long appendage of bloody flesh emerged from the flames and lifted him above the rooftops.

  What the fuck? Death thought. What is this?

  Bollo screamed in agony as the tips of the tentacles wiggled their way into the wound, gripping him from the inside of soft tissue. He fought weakly, his face turning vomit-green as a spike of meat came out his throat, then mouth. His eyes rolled back into his head, his body convulsing. Slowly, his body ripped cleanly into two halves, his warm insides spilling onto Death below. It slammed the two halves to the ground, grating them to the bone against the gravel with vicious rubs. Fiasco came from the fires, sauntering. She brought Bollo’s remains close, biting into his brain, chewing slow.

  It noticed Death, tossing the body, screeching. Damn the gods, Death thought. That thing seems powerful. I do not know if I can stand my ground against it, even with my prowess.

  “Bollo!” a voice screamed. “No! Fiasco, what did you do!” Captain Quinn rushed down from a rooftop, spitting every second to form a staircase of water. He summoned a trident, striking his wife with it in the chest, turning it ice and stunning her. His attack was weak, for he did not wish to kill her. “What have you done?” he repeated. “My darling, snap out of it! It’s me, don’t you see?”

  She launched her appendages for him. He blocked one with a wall of ice, the other pierced him in the shoulder. A third came for his throat. However, it missed, as Captain Zishang met it with the tip of his weapon, releasing another blinding flash, which made the ritual monster flee away from the light.

  “I had her!” Quinn snarled. “She could hear me!”

  Zishang inspected the wound on his cousin. “We are lucky she doesn’t like… the… light…” He sunk to his knees at one half of Bollo, hands trembling. “I caused this. I could’ve stopped all of this if I just made better choices. I’m so sorry, Bollo. I just wanted to make the right choice.”

  “Cum Master,” Death called. “Until one of us falls?”

  Quinn summoned a trident after spitting in his palm. Zishang’s weeping made his cousin yield, waving Death off with a dismissive grunt and a sneer. “Begone, prisoner,” he said. “The dragons shall deal with you. You shouldn’t be here.” Quinn comforted Zishang with an awkward pat to the head. “We have to find Fiasco. We have to stop her from hurting others. We are her targets. We can’t keep warding her away with the lights. We don’t even know where Mara is. I pray for those in her path.”

  “You were stood with Prince Stroke,” Zishang accused. “What is his plan?” he asked Death. “Tell us his plan!”

  “You are still here? I said begone, prisoner,” Quinn yelled. “I will fight you until the death another time. Piss off.”

  “I know as much as you, Cum Master and other,” said Death. “I believe our goals have common ground. I intend to kill Stroke and put an end to this madness.”

  “Bullshit, you cannot kill the prince,” Quinn scoffed. “I fought you at Caron and had you sweating. You’ll die.”

  “We will need a God Arm if we are to save Fiasco and Mara,” Zishang whispered. “It can reverse—”

  “Fuck Mara,” Quinn yelled. “We kill that whore and restrain Fiasco, that is our plan.”

  “She is a living soul.” Zishang took Bollo’s gauntlet, replacing it with his Valan armour. “I won’t let anyone die if I can help them.”

  “Then stay with the prisoner,” Quinn snarled. “I’m killing that harlot the moment I see her. You heard what Stroke said, Prince Harren is dead, we have no need to entertain her.”

  “Death,” Zishang whimpered. “That is your name, yes?”

  “It is.”

  “Do you really think you can face the prince in combat?”

  “I don’t have a choice.” I need that God Arm. There is no path where I conquer everything without it.

  “He’s at the Leaky Knight.”

  “What?” Quinn screamed. “How do you know that? You knew where that bastard was and you didn’t tell me?”

  “He would kill us if we got close.”

  “The tavern with that odd fountain,” Death remembered. “How are you sure he is there?”

  “I don’t,” he said. “Runaya once told me he would sneak there during the quiet hours of the morning to sit in a warm place alone. He isn’t destroying the city, and Godwin is missing. If there’s any place he’d be, it’s there.”

  “Fuck this, we’ve got to go,” Quinn growled. “We’ve given her too much time to escape us! Bollo’s body will still be here when all is done, we have to leave.”

  “Listen to Cum Master,” Death advised. “I shall find the prince and slay him, do not worry.”

  “My name is Quinn, fucking rat.”

  “Good luck,” Zishang said. “We all need it.”