The Warden had less than a second to realise what Ylia had done. The light that erupted from the tiny weapon in her hand was a second sun. Yet, it did not remain in place, but streamed towards him like a rushing river. Lightning-hued, it bifurcated Reality, emitted a dreadful, screeching hum. He felt its vibration in the atoms of his being, in the gurgle of his own blood.

  And then it struck him.

  Pain.

  Pain.

  Pain.

  It was a different kind of pain to any he had known. When Lileth had seduced and embraced him, he had felt the agony of his vital forces being drained away. Many times he had felt the blow of weapons, the brutality of flesh marred. And of course, as a young man, he had known the exquisitely slow agony of the plague eating his flesh. A little gift from the gods.

  But this pain was the pain of deletion. It was the pain of substance being erased. He felt living atoms, imbued with the sentience of Daimonkind, evaporate, turned to mere mist. Parts of himself were not merely separated but dissolved in the hateful fire spat from the throat of that god-machine.

  He screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

  Backward, he was flung, a ragged cloak without body, tatters of skin and essence and gore turned into smoke.

  And then all went black.

  He blinked. He had been translated, as if by some spell or black technology. But no. This was no literal place. The room he inhabited now was not physical, though it was real to touch, as he caressed its chitinous walls, felt—through the membrane of hard shell—a kind of heartbeat, mirrored with his own.

  The Shell. Once more it had proved his refuge. Whatever the world destroyed, he could always retreat into this inner fortress. Without it, he would have gone mad long ago. Such transformations as he had endured were meant for centuries, not a few moon-cycles. He had shorn the cloak of personhood and become more, but the price—the price was not worth thinking about.

  He could have wept in the darkness.

  “Why do you fear?”

  He turned in anger. Who dared address him like that? And yet, there was truth in the words, was there not? Even now, at the pinnacle of his power, he was afraid.

  Even now, his body mended itself. His mind had retreated here to spare him the pain and agony of his reconstitution. Through the mind-link, he could sense the eleven Daimons—close by—rallying to his cause. They would set upon Telos and his companions, defending The Nergal with their lives. No, that was not true. They would kill Telos and his companions. Even though Telos bore the Godseed, he was no match for eleven of his kind.

  “Why then do you fear?”

  He wheeled around. Within the darkness, there was a deeper darkness still. A shadow in human form. The silhouette was hauntingly familiar. He had seen it in mirrors glimpsed in the dark, and in his dreams. The brother you always knew was out there. The killer of your mother. Yet he could not blame the little babe, not now. Not now he had held him in his arms, felt his every fear and woe and tragedy—and triumphs too—as he absorbed him into the mind-link.

  “Lucan…?” The Warden whispered.

  The shadow stepped forth, smiling. He resembled The Warden in many aspects. Both had lost their hair early, displaying domed scalps not unlike the Qi’shathian mace The Warden had once favoured. Both had recondite features, and glimmering eyes that shone too brightly, that had suggested the presence of the Daimon long before any union was formed. Lucan was a little taller than The Warden, though less muscled, and with a moderate paunch. His lips were blushed with a love of wine. He was mantled in the robes of an Emperor. Dreams that never were, The Warden thought sadly. Oh you were so ambitious brother. Unlike me.

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  The Warden had never aspired to be a king or ruler, merely a great warrior and servant. But ironically, the crown of power had been placed in his hands, not Lucan’s. Destiny, if such a thing did exist, had a sense of humour.

  Lucan’s trapping were all mirages, of course. Afterimages. There was no Lucan, not in the physical sense. But these impressions were left in memory, and memory lived in the blood, and Lucan’s blood lived in him.

  Somewhere beyond the Shell, he lay splattered across the floor of the jungle. Insects gathered. He absorbed them. Wild animals came to sniff the still-burning remains, and he swallowed them into himself to expedite the process of healing. The weapon-blast had destroyed much, but with the lifespan of two gods within him, he had a lot to give.

  “Brother,” Lucan said, offering the slightest bow.

  “Brother… Why are you here?” His question carried more meanings than the surface, and Lucan’s eyes twinkled in acknowledgement of those hidden depths.

  “They sent me to treat with you. They thought you might be more… amenable to my words.”

  The Warden sneered.

  “Indeed? Then they grow foolish.”

  “No, Brother.” Lucan stepped forward. “It is you who grow foolish. Even now, all may be lost. That is why you fear.”

  “It will not be lost. Not while I live.”

  “But you are reckless with your life!” Lucan spoke not with anger, but like a father scalding their child. The Warden bristled. He was the elder. And besides, Lucan was no more.

  But it seemed that, like the Daimons who had summoned him from the slime of thoughts long gone, Lucan possessed the ability of reading his thoughts, for he suddely threw back his head and laughed.

  “Oh, Brother… Do you really think that I am dead? Did you not tell Telos, only moments ago, that we are not slain? We live!”

  There was a flash of light, emanating from Lucan, and the cavernous interior of the Shell was lit, the way a temple is illuminated by the sudden flare of sacrificial fire. He saw them there. The faces of those he had slain. Every one. Men, women, and beasts too. The young couple. Dragonrider Gryll. The Daimomancer Jyn. The dragon. On and on, until there were too many to count. The sea stared at him and laughed and spoke with one hideous voice.

  And last of all, was his—their—father.

  His breath caught.

  “I was no Daimon when I slew you!” he hissed.

  His father grinned, showing his missing teeth, his black gums.

  “We named you Death because that is what you are, what you have always been! Your Fate was written, Daimoniac. But do not fail now, or you shall be consigned to the oblivion you fear. We alone have the power to preserve until the end of time. And we, too, have the power to erase. Never forget...”

  The Warden shrieked, but as suddenly as the room had brightened, the cavern went dark, and there was only himself and Lucan, who stood there smiling, hands outstretched.

  “So you see, we are not dead. I am not dead. I am with you, Brother.”

  “What does it matter?” The Warden said. There were tears threatening, tears of Daimonsblood, tears of burning lead, hotter than the volcanic flows beneath the earth, darker than the Void.

  Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, a soft touch of compassion. He turned to see Lucan, still smiling, but the smile had softened, and for a moment there shone a brotherly affection that seemed not arch, nor forced; not faked, but true. It was then, and only then, The Warden realised how titanically and utterly alone he had been. Ever since Iliyet died, he’d had no-one. No family, no friends, nor even a master. He had not cared for such things, not until this moment, when he realised with soul-scouring clarity all that he had given up in his quest for… what? For power? For salvation? Yes, that had a truer ring to it. If only the world could be purer, he had thought. If only I could make things better. But there was no purity, not in Reality. There was only chaos, and darkness, and change.

  And yet, despite all the hatred and distance, despite all the vicissitudes of existence, he had met his brother in the black jungle of Memory, and they had shared an embrace—albeit brief, albeit fatal. And here he was now, or rather the essence of him, reaching out, across time and void.

  “Take my hand,” Lucan whispered. “And together, we shall fight. Together, we shall rule!”

  The Warden stared. And he knew then, he had the strength to go on. One last time.

  “Together!” The Warden cried.

  He placed his hand in Lucan’s.

  The Shell melted away like a dream, and from the abysm of death he arose once more.