[Second Era – Year 754 of the Divinity War; Hopron, above Orgwar’s prison]

  The grains of memory shifted. Some memories have a certain weight to them—you fall into their gravity. The cosmic pull of this memory was inexorable, and so we fell.

  Moraithe and his fifty companions ringed the sky, a family of mismatched knights upon an invisible platform, high above that dim world. A smattering of painted scrollwork marked the unseen floor, to prevent any boot from straying over the invisible edge. Completely invisible walls and floors were troublesome, very troublesome. There were none down there, surrounding the fortress prison; he had checked.

  “This is where the war began an eon ago,” Ryvern shouted, his words full-bore, as always. “May Elithir bless me to find shard-rods and mind-spears and dispair-bombs from the prime battle.”

  Too accustomed to his friend to wince at the shouts, Moraithe continued to gaze down upon the world far below. He had not seen the prime battle, but he remembered the research laboratory far to the east. But he wouldn’t distract his friend from their mission by mentioning all the wonders he might find in those ruins.

  Below them, cracks and fissures of lava still burned and steamed across the land, remnants of the powers unleashed in the prime battle, no doubt. Between the fissures, patches of lush green had emerged. The fortress prison squatted, barely a speck amid that large swath of green.

  “They’re trapped down there. I can just barely feel the drackmoor pain from here.” Moraithe took a deep breath to quell his nerves. “This feels like confronting Throm’tor. It was a rescue mission back then too. But it did not go as I intended.”

  “Yes, you started the war,” Ryvern’s words blasted the platform. “I know!” As he turned his intense stare on Moraithe, the veins in his neck strained. His magnificent mustache undulating in time with his words. “Everyone knows the story! How you severed Throm’tor! Broke his throne and unleashed the Severed! Why did the Severed start the war, do you think?”

  “Well, Throm’tor gathered the most ambitious souls, those who desired power, and forged his throne with them, binding together that desire into a force that no one could resist.”

  “I see, so when the throne was broken they were unleashed upon the world, and all their rage from their captivity, their anger and hatred exploded with them! They had been forged into one unified group, forged and twisted until their power was all tangled up!”

  “Well, yes. I suspect so.” Moraithe scratched his chin, considering. “I don’t know if anyone can tell you their reasons for starting the war—if there was any reason beyond ambition, anger, greed. Maybe the torture of being enslaved made them want to enslave everyone else. So everyone would know how it felt to be helpless, used as nothing more than a tool for the whims of others. Whatever their reason, they will never relent until they rule all and stamp everyone else under their boots. They will not let themselves be in a position where anyone can use them again.”

  “It rages still!” Ryvern stabbed a fist toward the green swath of the world below them. “Shame I can’t snatch the sites, tread the old battlefields, stand in the spot where the Amnesia Bomb was unleashed, or sit on Throm’tor’s throne!”

  “Sit on the throne? Elithir save us from fools. Thankfully, it was destroyed.”

  Ryvern’s famous stare wilted. “I only wanted to see, not to enslave minds.”

  Moraithe patted his shoulder.

  “But what use haunting old battlefields!?” Ryvern cracked his meaty knuckles. “Let’s make new ones!” Ryvern moved with the ponderous weight of worlds grinding at every motion. Yet nothing could detract from his magnificent mustache. “Leave the past with the dead. We’ve got captives to rescue! And some fun to be had!” Today his mustache was perfectly quaffed, sculpted into the head and wings of a windkrake, his beard playing the part of mountains, complete with burning villages.

  “Fun?” Nira, one of Saffrael’s sisters, scanned the world below them, avoiding even a glance up at that magnificent mustache. “I don’t see any oceans down there?”

  “One day you’ll learn that fun is all about fists and victories,” Ryvern bellowed, “not fingillies and aquatic kinsfolk!”

  Nira quirked an eyebrow, and looked up, only to sour at the sight, and rush her gaze elsewhere. “No battle could be more exciting than solving the ecological balance between the nargill and its sea predators.”

  Ryvern shook his head in disbelief. The wings of his mustache flapping seemed more than ever as if the windkrake was emerging from his nostrils.

  Moraithe draped a net over his shoulders. A gift from Saffrael. Oh, Saffrael. He’d left so many letters. They’d been taken, yet she’d never responded. Still, she’d left him his favorite treats and gifts. But why would she not respond?

  If she would only join him in the revenescent he could have taken her hand and pulled her through at any time, brought her out of that prison. Had she been hiding from him because she wanted him to come looking? Or was there another reason?

  He held the net to his face for a moment, as if it would bring her closer. Then he turned to look at his companions—the motley collection of family and friends who had gathered at his summons. He trained his gaze away from that magnificent mustache. But some things were just as disturbing. Even now, before battle, Destan and Hyrii were nibbling on each other’s fingers, groaning in pain and delight, right in front of everyone.

  “How close to Saffrael before it hurts?” Destan asked, caressing his last word.

  Whoever told them of drackmoor pain should be tossed on their head in an Amnesia Storm.

  “Oh, yes,” Hyrii added, her words barely distinguishable around a toothful of Destan’s finger, “nothing could comfort her more.”

  “Your sister is nothing like you,” Moraithe said. “I don’t see what comfort pain will be.” He didn’t need drackmoor pain to tell him she was down there. Still, a faint prickle of irritation emanated from below. “But yes, she is down there.”

  “You are the last few drackmoor. It will comfort her to feel you near. A good pain.”

  “We are possibly the last. I’m still clutching hope that some have escaped.” But would it comfort her to feel him near? He could only hope.

  “You could always make us drackmoor.”

  “Yeah, a little pain won’t stop us.” Hyrii bit down hard, and Destan groaned.

  Moraithe turned away from the immortal masochists in disgust, and toward Fickral, his brother. “Those seeds are from the forest below?”

  Fickral placed a fingertip-sized seed in his palm, quickly passing out the rest.

  Moraithe clutched the seed tightly. “I’ve been preparing for this for thirty-five years.”

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  Ryvern puffed out his magnificent mustache. “Has it really been so long since Threllmissel’s betrayal!?”

  “Long time to wait for rescue.” Not that Saffrael had needed to wait, not while he shared her revenescent. If she would merely take his hand. So many times he’d imagined her working on a plan to pull all her fellow captives to safety with her. But after all these years, nothing.

  “I’ve waited longer,” Fickral chimed in.

  “So have I,” Moraithe agreed, “much, much longer.” He drove those memories from his mind. The horror of those endless days trapped within a morthel, planning his own rescue in his other body.

  “No fear. It’s ready!” Ryvern thrust a wrapped bundle into the air, the petrification bomb. Once placed upon a morthel, it would entangle all morthel, across all galaxies, petrifying them completely and ceasing their menace at last. “We’re ready!” He roared as he ran full-bore off the platform, tumbling off the edge and falling, still roaring.

  Moraithe sighed. No sense in delaying it. “Everyone know their mark?”

  A murmur of agreement answered.

  “Battalion Wolth break the northern outpost, then swap targets to the fortress. Meet at the beacon. Battalion Fickral make your way from the eastern redoubt along the lighthouse towers. Await my beacon. Battalion Ryvern, follow your commander, empty the western wilds, and lure the morthel from their pits to both north and south. We will be waiting.

  “I don’t need to warn you of morthel, nor the dangers of soul corruption. Whatever you find, you must forgive. Please. Except when precisely directed, anger only serves the Severed. Let’s have no tragedies today. Move out!”

  Moraithe watched them fall, down toward that broken world. He adjusted the stone tied to his forehead and clenched the seed, his spyglass, and his courage.

  Turning to his remaining companions—his battalion—he swept his gaze over them one by one, to be certain they were ready. “Battalion Moraithe, jump.”

  His men began running toward him, and he dove backward off the platform into midair.

  Wind whipped his sash, tore at his face and eyes, and hissed in his ears. Once he had stabilized his fall, he aimed his spyglass through the seed at the ground. And he swapped places.

  The sudden halt was not jarring, except mentally. He had swapped both position and momentum with the tree. Now he stood surrounded by a hole the shape of an old scaletree.

  He glanced up, but could not see the trees falling from this distance.

  Quickly, he strode through the forest to a rise where he could survey the enemy fortress. Then, he activated his beacon to gather his battalion to his position.

  He peaked through the spyglass at the fortress prison. No alarm from the wardens.

  Destan emerged from the trees to his left. “Where are the morthel?” he asked. “They should be guarding this area.”

  “Ryvern will deal with them.” Moraithe turned to find his battalion gathered behind him. “Summon your cages!”

  Each of the men had been soul bonded, entangled to their maiden’s Revenescent. The few bachelors had been paired with others, and the few women … well, they had their own, of course.

  He glanced past his men to Nira and Hyrii, Saffrael’s sisters, who already had their cages out and were tossing ropes over branches to hoist them.

  Moraithe blinked and opened Saffreal’s revenescent. Her pocket world superimposed itself over the forest, sharing the space, the lighting, the time; but only in his senses. No one else could see or interact with her sacred space.

  Before him, a long set table, fifteen empty chairs, and three walls containing three closed doors superimposed themselves over his surroundings. Sometimes overlapping trees made them inaccessible, the only solution being to close the revenescent, reorient, and reopen it. Along with them, rows of shelves—some covered in books, others in tools, creations, and keepsakes. A warm fire sat upon a hearth with a spit and pot-hook, but no chimney, as there was no roof. Several warm pots and plates of freshly cooked meals offered their tempting fragrance. A large iron cage loomed behind him. Saffrael did not await him, though she must have felt his presence by now.

  He ducked around a tree, put a hand on the cage, closed his eyes, and dropped it outside of the revenescent. Saffrael would be glad to find it no longer defiling the pocket of space she kept sacred, apart—her family space.

  Moraithe reopened the revenescent and left his net on the cloak rack. He would be more likely to snag himself than his enemies in these conditions.

  Oh, she’d left buttered cinten-toast for him, still steaming, as it would be, preserved outside of time in her revenescent. Oh, Saffrael. He took the toast, kissed the seed still clutched in his hand, and set it on the empty plate, a token of hope. She would know the sign of his gratitude and love. He would leave her a proper gift when this was done.

  He snatched the rope from the table before closing her Revenescent. Everything he’d summoned vanished back into it, apart from the cage, the rope slung over his shoulder, and the cinten-toast held gingerly between his teeth.

  Quickly, he ate the cinten-toast. And with the rope, he hung the cage from a scaletree, tied it in place, climbed up into it—harder than it looked with all the swaying—and locked himself inside. With a wink, he left the key on a table in the revenescent, though unlikely to ever need it again.

  But as he left it on the table, his hand brushed up against a paper. Had Saffrael finally responded? He grabbed the paper and pulled it out of the revenescent. An envelope?

  Then he saw the first morthel shambling out of the woods. Its midnight bulk bubbled and boiled its way toward them, dragged forward by the shapes of humans and beasts clawing to break free—desperate souls grasping for dirt, roots, rocks, anything they could to drag themselves out of the morthel that had entrapped them. All in vain; only doing its bidding, propelling it forward.

  Was that Mirin’s slender hand, grasping so desperately, face contorted in an endless scream? His brother Kinlin beside her? Nithil, Kirin, or Nydra? Or was he only imagining their faces and movements in the boiling shape that writhed toward him?

  No one had ever broken free of a morthel, but some had been rescued. He had been one of them. Still, he shuddered at the shrieking memories, an eternity wrestling against that boiling monstrosity. They were the perfect weapon against immortals, who could not even escape into death. It was a weapon he’d come to destroy.

  Fifty companions, three goals—save Saffrael and the captive drackmoor, destroy the morthel, bring Orgwar and his minions to justice. Saffrael and Orgwar were his, but the morthel he had entrusted to his dearest friend, Ryvern. He would not fail them.

  Moraithe looked to his battalion, each locked in their own cages.

  The morthel were coming closer. Moraithe rushed to open Saffrael’s envelope. Closer. Hands trembling, he pulled the note out, and the paper slipped from his grasp. He watched it fall out of the cage and realized it was only the envelope.

  “Hyrii?” Destan reached for her cage, eyes flitting between the morthel and Hyrii. Was he wondering if he’d enjoy it in there with her? An eternity of pain together?

  Memories of the endless horrors screamed in Moraithe’s flesh. Get out, get out. Yet he fought them.

  “Moraithe?” Nira fidgeted in her cage. The others also eyed the approaching morthel nervously.

  “Closer, just a little closer,” he called out to his battalion. “Ready!”

  They raised their spyglasses to their eyes.

  Moraithe raised his spyglass, heart pounding like waves on a cliffside. “Give your mark.” Twisting the ring to change the depth at which he could peer into the walls of the fortress, he searched for his target. Many of the wardens were already marked by his battalion. The marks would prevent troubles from multiple people trying to swap with the same target. He marked his own, near the center. Then he realized many of those in the fortress prison were not wardens. Fickral’s battalion was already inside. Had they altered the plan?

  The morthel were almost upon them. “Hold,” he called. His battalion looked at the oncoming morthel, and then at him as if he was mad. Still holding the spyglass, he managed to unfold the note and looked down, heart hammering.

  Who are you? And how did you get into my revenescent?

  Saffrael had forgotten him? How? He had not yet set the anchor for the next Amnesia Storm. She’d known him for so long. More than known him. They’d pledged their immortality to one another. How could she not know him? But the writing, it looked off. Not her usual script.

  The morthel had almost reached them. “Moraithe? What are you waiting for?”

  “Almost there. Hold until my command.”

  He checked his mark through the spyglass. Suddenly, the figures in the fortress covered their heads. He zoomed out to find debris shattering and flying across the battlements of the fortress. Then a tremendous crash echoed through the woods. The trees they’d switched places with were falling from the sky, breaking upon the fortress. The wardens scrambled as if under attack, others fled deeper into the fortress.

  Then he realized many of the falling objects were not trees. Bodies fell to spatter and break on the fortress walls. Not his companions, but wardens from the keep. Fickral? Had he commanded this madness? They must have swapped places with the wardens when they were falling from the platform. He could only hope this would not corrupt their souls, turn them mortal.

  Now the morthel were close enough to hear, not the sound of shrieking as his memory suggested, only a pervading silence punctuated by oddly muted sounds—a terrifying underwater rumbling of popping, clawing, and slurping. The morthel swelled up like cresting waves, to consume them.