Chapter 155

“Archmagus Amberleigh,” I greeted, inclining my head. “Thank you for making time to see me.”

He gave me a toothless smile and waved a thin hand. “Come. Sit. There’s no need for formalities.”

His back was bowed, his weight resting heavily on an ivory staff carved into twisting vines, a ruby the size of his palm set at its crown. Purple robes trimmed in yellow draped his frame, stark against the wild fall of white hair and beard that refused all order. His face was a map of deep lines, one eye clouded and dim, the other, a sharp, vivid green. His mind hadn’t dulled in the slightest despite his advanced age.

“As you wish, friend,” I said, taking the seat across from his desk.

He made his slow way around his desk, settled into the tall, padded chair, and exhaled as though he’d just finished a long journey.

The desk was as chaotic as ever - piles of books stacked at precarious angles, loose papers spilling into one another, reports half-buried beneath scrolls etched with spellwork. It looked like a disaster.

It wasn’t.

He could have reached out, blind, and found anything he needed.

“How is Her Majesty?” I asked.

“Up to her elbows in refugees and assassins,” he replied dryly. He worked his gums for a moment, thinking. “These are troubled days. Trust is thin. The nobles grow paranoid. Refugees from Esmori arrive daily. And Caldris sends its bandits to gnaw at our borders.”

He sighed, the sound worn and heavy. “Thanks to you, we understand the cause, at least. Zelmyra’s ****. We can name it, see it for what it is, but knowing does not spare us. Even I find suspicion creeping in where it never lived before.”

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I’m still searching for a way to fix it. But… this may be something we have to endure until a new god ascends.”

He let out a soft, wheezing chuckle. “You’re not at fault. You didn’t kill Zelmyra.”

“No,” I said. “But my actions led to it.” I ran a hand through my hair, then **** myself forward. “How’s Dunfield?”

The old man’s expression darkened. “Still in self-imposed exile. The prison remains his chosen home. The Queen has tried to ease his stay, but he refuses every comfort.” He shook his head faintly. “I fear something in him has broken… and may never mend.”

I nodded, the weight of it settling in my chest. I couldn’t blame him. Not after what he’d done. I wasn’t sure I would have survived that kind of guilt intact.

“So,” Amberleigh said at last, breaking the silence, “what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“I’m afraid I bring bad news,” I said. “And a request.”

He inclined his head, patient.

I told him everything. The Weeping Gallows. The Gallowborn. The Covenant. The pyramid. Earth.

“So this is my warning,” I said. “Be careful. There are almost certainly Covenant agents already at work - trying to influence the Queen, the nobles, the direction of the country. I don’t know what they want, but I doubt it’s anything good.”

I met his eye. “Watch anyone new - anyone who’s risen to power in the last five years. And watch those who vanish for long stretches, then return without explanation. Not all of their people are Gallowborn.”

He chewed his gums, silent for a long moment, turning it over. “And you want help finding them,” he said at last.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I burned my best lead.”

“Mm.” He nodded slowly. “Spycraft is an old man’s game. A patient one. Youth… tends toward rash action instead of patience.” He gave a faint, amused chuckle.

“I’m not exactly young,” I said.

“No,” he agreed, the smile tugging at his lips, “but come back to me at a hundred.” He tapped his staff lightly against the floor. “And again at a hundred and fifty. The way you see the world changes, I promise you.”

He sighed. “I’ll send word should I discover anything of note about this Covenant of Mercy.”

I couldn’t help but smile back. “Thank you, High Council,” I said, rising from my seat. “I’d stay longer, but there’s still much to do.”

I gave him a short bow. “Please convey my regards to the Queen. And let her know - if she ever needs a place to breathe, somewhere beyond politics - my demesne is open to her.”

* * *

I met with Cedrion Crowhurst - the Master of Malefic - in Morentis. Their border with Caldris rivaled Esmori’s, and their trade ties ran just as deep.

We didn’t like each other, but we respected each other.

He was a powerful wizard and a sitting member of the Council that ruled the nation. I was a god, a war hero, and - technically - the ruler of the goblin lands. Not that the title meant much. There was no real goblin nation. No structure to rule.

Arvellia had granted me the lands that had been taken from them. I’d given them right back to the goblins.

The report I gave him was nearly identical to the one I’d given Archmagus Amberleigh. The request, too - I needed leads on the Covenant. Unlike Amberleigh, Crowhurst didn’t commit. He said he’d bring it before the Council and let me know. Which meant nothing.

That left me with one last angle. After that, I was out.

For all the people I knew, all the power I’d gathered - everything I had, I’d built myself. No inheritance. No institutions. No networks. I didn’t know the first thing about intelligence work, about spies, about gathering information in ways that didn’t involve kicking in the front door.

I’d never needed to. Now I did. And I was scrambling.

I had to rely on others - and most of them would want something in return. I had no idea what the Council of Wizards might ask. Amberleigh was different. He owed me. That debt had been paid long before I walked into his office.

But this last angle…

I stood outside the tent and clapped once.

It was larger than the others, but made the same way - tanned hides stretched over wooden poles, worn smooth by years of use. The symbol of the Black Earth Clan had been painted across its surface in bold, dark strokes.

“Ven,” the reply came from within - clipped, hoarse, but steady.

I pulled the flap aside and ducked inside.

The scent hit me immediately - smoke, earth, crushed herbs. Thick and grounding. Bones hung from cords tied to the frame, swaying gently as I entered, knocking softly together in hollow, irregular chimes.

An old orc woman sat near the back of the tent. She had to be well over eighty.

Her hair had been painted red and hardened into jagged spikes that framed her head like a crown. Deep lines cut through green-gray skin, and ritual scars traced patterns across her face, her chest, and her arms. A necklace of small bones hung low over her chest.

She planted her staff and pushed herself upright.

“Grath-Vael Seth,” she said.

Little warlord. Not an insult, but recognition.

“Shaman Voretta,” I replied, smiling.

Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes softened when she looked at me. “Sit. Tea?” she asked in Drath.

“Yes, thank you.” I lowered myself onto the furs spread across the center of the tent.

She moved with deliberate care, stoking the fire, setting a clay pot over the coals. Water soon began to heat, and she gathered herbs into a bowl, grinding them down with slow, practiced motions.

“How is the new warlord?” I asked, keeping things light - for now.

“He was not my first choice,” she said flatly. “But he is… competent.” She divided the crushed herbs between two cups and poured the hot water over them. Steam rose, carrying a sharp, earthy scent. She handed one to me before settling across from me.

We talked, but not about anything important.

I asked about her grandchildren. She asked about Clo - the only one of my children she’d met. Their first meeting hadn’t gone well, but fascination lingered. It always did with the bloodchildren.

She asked about the others, too, as well as Ashlara, Mirri, Serah, and Elise.

It was how these things worked. Tea was not the time to talk business.

When we finished, she set her cup aside and looked at me. “So,” she said. “What do you seek?”

“Before that,” I said, reaching into my satchel, “I brought you something.” I pulled out a wrapped bundle and passed it to her. “Mountain herbs.”

She took it, turning it over in her hands. A faint smile touched her lips. “Thank Mirri,” she said. “These will serve well.”

“I will.”

She set it aside and I met her eyes.

“I need your help,” I said. “I’m tracking a group of dangerous people. They’re well organized. I think they’re planning something that could hurt a lot of people.”

Her gaze sharpened.

“I had a lead,” I continued. “I burned it.” My face fell. “Literally. I need a seer.”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “Mirri and Grams are seers. They see.”

“They do,” I agreed. “But they can’t call their visions. You can. And you’re the best I know.”

She scoffed softly. “You know three.”

“And you’re still the best,” I said, smiling.

She didn’t return it. “Tell me,” she said.

So I did. Everything. The Covenant. The pyramid. The Gallowborn. Earth. I gave her every detail I could remember - every thread, every fragment - hoping she could see what I couldn’t.

* * *

“This will not be like anything you have experienced before,” Voretta said as she worked. Her voice was low, deliberate. She ground herbs with slow, crushing turns of the pestle, then tipped the powder into a pot that simmered thick and dark over the coals. “I do not know if it will work for a god.”

She didn’t look at me as she spoke. “I will call the vision,” she continued. “You will sit with me. Hold my hands. You will see through my eyes.”

Now she paused, turning just enough to fix me with a hard stare. “If you let go, it ends. For both of us.” She paused. “The pain will be considerable.”

She turned back to the pot, stirring. The liquid bubbled sluggishly, thick as mud.

“There is a chance…” The spoon stopped mid-circle. She watched the surface for a long moment, as if something might rise from it. “There is a chance something interferes. Another seer. Or one who can reach across time.”

Her eyes slid back to me. “You have seen this before,” she said. “Before the bloodrage battle.”

I nodded faintly.

“It is rare,” she said. “But if it happens, they will pull me free.” She gestured to the two warriors standing silent near the tent’s edge - broad, immovable shapes. “They will also ensure you do not behave inappropriately during the ritual”

Her gaze lingered on me, stern, measuring. I wasn’t entirely sure what she implied by that. I mean, she could be saying she didn’t trust me not to grope her. But at eighty-some years old? I felt like it had to be something else.

She returned to her work.

While the pot thickened, she lit candles - one by one - setting them in a rough circle. Incense followed, smoke coiling upward in slow, twisting ribbons that clung to the tent’s ceiling.

When the mixture was ready, she poured half into a clay cup. The rest she left to simmer.

She dipped her fingers into the cup without flinching and dragged the hot liquid across her face, painting sharp, deliberate lines over her eyes and cheeks.

Then she held the cup out to me. “Drink.”

Up close, it looked disgusting - thick, brown, and lumpy. The scent was overpowering - like dung, old socks, and something sour.

I raised an eyebrow.

“It is not poison,” she said.

I lifted it, letting the liquid roll into my mouth.

“But it will taste like it.”

Too late. The sludge hit my tongue, scalding hot, and somehow worse than it smelled. It coated my mouth, heavy and foul, like the contents had been left to rot in the summer heat. I gagged, swallowing on instinct, barely keeping it down.

Voretta watched me, expression unchanged. After a moment, she gave a curt nod. “Well done. Most vomit and I have to **** feed them a second dose”

I coughed, wiping my mouth, trying to ignore the way it seemed to move in my stomach - slow and deliberate, like it had its own will.

It suddenly got very warm in the tent.

“It is time,” she said before I could question it.

She lowered herself across from me and took my hands. Her fingers were thin, almost skeletal - cold and dry despite the rising heat. Sweat beaded along her brow. She closed her eyes and began to hum, low and steady, a rhythm I didn’t recognize.

The heat climbed quickly. The air shimmered, bending the candlelight, warping the bone chimes until they seemed to sway in slow motion. Sweat soaked through my tunic in minutes, even with my resistance. The warriors blurred at the edges of my vision, leaning - no, the world was tilting.

My balance slipped -

Voretta’s eyes snapped open - filled with fire.

Flame surged outward, swallowing the tent, the walls, the world. Heat roared around me-

-and then rain. Soft at first. A patter. Then harder - hissing as it struck the fire - though there was no smoke or steam. The downpour grew until it drowned everything, smothering most of the flames.

But not all. A dozen fireballs remained, hovering, drifting, dancing - burning steady in the deluge.

Around me, enormous bone spears thrust upward, rising impossibly high to pierce a flat gray sky. No clouds. No stars. Just a blank expanse stretching without end.

The ground mirrored it - featureless and seamless - blurring the horizon until it felt like I stood in the center of a void.

There was no wind. No movement. Only the rain.

Between the spears, strands stretched - thick, sinew-like cords, woven together in a vast, tight web. They pulled inward, converging on a single point - a loom.

Upon it, a tapestry formed - a flower, its petals sharp and curled inward as if caught in the moment before blooming. The threads glistened, slick with something that seeped from the weave itself - thick sap, dripping slow and heavy, like it was bleeding.

And before the loom sat a man - his back to me.

He worked in silence, shoulders hunched, drawing the beater forward in slow, methodical strokes. Each motion precise. Each strike final. No hesitation. No pause.

I moved closer and he turned.

There was no face. No eyes. No nose. No mouth. Only smooth, blank flesh.

Set into his forehead was a jagged crystal of salt. It spread outward, leeching the moisture from him, cracking his skin, drying him into something rigid and preserved.

The crystal began to glow.

A harsh, white light erupted from it - flat and merciless. It erased every shadow, every edge, until there was nothing left but brightness and absence.

I recoiled.

The vision shattered.

The tent snapped back into place around me.

Voretta lay on her side, unmoving, the two warriors crouched beside her. A dark pool had spread across the floor - bile, thick and foul, threaded with something else. Bone. Sinew.

My stomach lurched. I rolled and vomited, emptying what little I had left. Acid burned my throat. I spat, wiped my mouth, and **** myself to breathe - slow and steady.

When I finally looked down, there, in the mess I’d just expelled-

-were strands of sinew and fragments of bone.