Year 1257, Month 4, Day 16.

  The Lordkeep slammed his scepter against the base of his throne, the clang echoing through the hall and fading with silence in its wake.

  Chambers cleared his throat. The throne stood atop twelve stairs arranged in a half-moon that was divided into four quarters: stone, black-iron, glass, and wood snarled with roots.

  The figure atop it lifted his head. A pair of eyes resembling giant blood clots glared down at him from within a white hood.

  “Speak, Chambers of Firecalorse,” the Lordkeep said, his voice rattling the glass wall on Chambers’ right.

  Chambers interlocked his fingers, orange sleeves swallowing them. “Lordkeep,” Chambers began, the words running back down his throat. “I have reason to believe… that the Shadefall is spreading.”

  The Lordkeep’s giant hand tightened below the eye atop his black scepter, a golden claw holding it in place. Its slit pupil glowed like a dying ember as it stared Chambers down between those metal fingers. There was no use denying it. Fear was a weakness, but no amount of courage was going to stop the chill that ran down his scarred back.

  What in the ten muses is that thing? Chambers thought.

  “Have you brought evidence for this claim?” a voice rumbled from beside him.

  Chambers turned to the right, meeting the pin-pricked gaze of Petrus. The Sentinel of Stone. His throne stood six stairs high, carved out of stone grey as rain clouds. The floor-to-ceiling glass wall behind cast him in shadow. Petrus’ hood tightened against his high cheekbones as he lifted his chin. Wisps of white hair streaked to his chest, framing a mouth split by scars. His thin lips peeled back in a snarl, flashing teeth sharp as a Khobalian’s.

  Chambers swallowed hard. He’d heard rumors about the Lordkeep and his Four Sentinels. But standing in their circle, swallowed by their looming shadows, reminded him of how cheap stories are. Just gazing at the Lordkeep reminded him of how small he was. How little he knew.

  In a world so vast with monsters this gargantuan, a lone merchant surely couldn’t make a difference.

  “Of course, Sentinel,” Chambers said, reaching into his orange cloak with a trembling hand.

  He hadn’t come all the way from Blacalorse just to be dismissed. Or slaughtered. Another chill ran down his spine like a thin claw.

  He produced a small tree branch, the tip blackened as if burnt by fire, the bark peeling like rotten skin. Chambers tapped the branch, loosening grains of what seemed like ash… until they curled into the air.

  “That’s Shadefall blight,” another voice said from behind.

  Chambers glanced over his shoulder. The Sentinel of Wood stared with narrowed eyes, a finger over his lip. His throne was carved out of a Devil Tree stump, leaves still growing out of the backrest in bunches of green and pale red.

  His torso was human, freckles dotting his cheeks. But his legs were like intertwining roots that resembled human limbs. He wore wooden gauntlets and vambraces, green leaves sprouting from them. A pair of living branches draped over his shoulders and covered his chest, leaves sprouting from them like splayed fingers.

  Five leaves, Chambers thought.

  The Lordkeep leaned back in his giant throne. “Take it to the alchemists.”

  Chambers leaned back as Thorley held out his hand, a dark green vine entwining it like a snake. It sprang forward, curling around the stick Chambers held and slithering back. Thorley caught the branch, and held it up to the light. He leaned forward, the side of his nose scrunching up as he examined it.

  A hollow growl rumbled on Chambers’ left. He turned to the Sentinel of Iron, the six stairs leading to his throne made of black-iron. Slabs of the dark metal made up the throne itself, the backrest topped with glinting black spines.

  He sat with his elbows on the arm rests. His gilded shins and sabatons glistened in the light streaming through the glass wall across from him. The wall behind him, however, was made of stone etched to appear like the surface of a shifting grey ocean. Giant runes were etched into it. Glyphs of some language older than the land Chambers was born on.

  His face was missing a nose, his eyes a dark green that would make the deepest emerald look pale. His lips were pulled taut, framing his interlocked teeth. Each one a shard of black-iron.

  A man stood next to his throne, dark ink highlighting his eyelashes and painting smaller glyphs on his cheeks. A white robe draped over his shoulders, leaving his chest and stomach bare.

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  “What else did you observe of the Shadefall?” the man asked, translating for the Sentinel of Iron.

  What else? The Shadefall spread slowly compared to something like clouds, even those in a place like the Dunes of God’s Hand. But for the damage it caused, that crawl was worse than a raging wildfire.

  One did not observe the Shadefall spread moment by moment. They would have to watch the ground along its edge until the blackness moved over the course of a day. In which time, Harbingers would slaughter whoever lingered close enough to observe. Maybe even an Unholder, if one was exceptionally unlucky.

  “I watched men die,” Chambers said. “Soldiers ventured into that darkness and never returned. The only one who did come back had missing eyes and disappeared the next day.”

  The Sentinel of Iron’s teeth parted, saliva dripping from his bow-like iron teeth. A low growl followed, his gaze so intense it made Chambers’ heart cramp. It was like the damn Sentinel was about to turn into a dragon.

  “The Blacalorians didn’t kill him?” the robed man translated.

  “The survivor?” Chambers asked. “No. They tried questioning him, but he was unable to talk, or move.”

  “If the Shadefall is spreading again, Lordkeep,” a low, melodic voice said from behind. “Then we’re going to need a Nightfinder.”

  Chambers turned around, meeting her empty obsidian eyes. She sat with crossed legs, her elbow resting on her knee, chin in her palm.

  Her snow-white hair was straight as a curtain, reaching down to her back. A slight smile curled the end of her pink lips, her dark eyebrows raising.

  Her throne was made of glass, the backrest shaped like a colossal diamond. Her dress was an iridescent white with a slit running halfway up her thigh. Her body was sheathed in silver, a skirt of blades hanging around her hips where her dress met armor. The symbol of a tiger’s head was emblazoned over her breastplate, its mouth open and teeth bared.

  “There hasn’t been one in Candor for… ten years now, Lordkeep?” Chambers asked, glancing at the giant in the throne.

  A crown of black iron and gold glistened atop his hood, gems shimmering within it.

  Four gems, Chambers counted. Each worth more than a city. Dark tree branches weaved between the spines of the crown, autumn leaves sprouting from them.

  “Yes,” the Lordkeep mused. “But I have sensed his return. Two weeks ago.”

  Chambers frowned. That was sooner than anticipated. Had he learned about the Shadefall? It seemed to be the only answer. No sane man would leave New Eden.

  “The Nightfinder has returned?” Thorley asked, wooden gauntlets clenching. “But we killed the Starforger.”

  “Darkness emerges sooner or later,” the Lordkeep said, raising a hand as if willing Chambers to lift off the ground. “But there will always be a dawn to face it from the east.”

  There will always be a dawn to face it, eh? An idea old as time. One Chambers had come to loathe. There were no suns among men. And those who existed were long dead, nothing more than idealized memories that were used to inspire and dictate.

  “Are you certain the Nightfinder has returned?” the Sentinel of Glass asked, her chin lifting from her palm.

  Chambers stopped himself from counting her armor's curved shoulder plates. Counting calmed him, but now wasn’t the time. He needed to think.

  The Lordkeep gave a slow nod. “I can sense a monster before it sees me.”

  Chambers raised a hand to his mouth, pretending to ponder as he stifled a smile. A monster? The Lordkeep himself calling a man a monster? What was he?

  So long as he’s here, Chambers thought. We can make it work.

  An itch began to spread up the back of his hands. He clenched his jaws. It couldn’t wait any longer.

  “Is one man really enough to stop the Shadefall?” Chambers asked.

  “Oh, he won’t be alone,” the Sentinel of Glass said. “I’ll find him.”

  The Lordkeep raised his scepter, the slit in its eye pulsing. “Find him, Raina. Tell him what we know.”

  The Sentinel of Iron gave a low growl. “I will travel to Blacalorse to confirm that the Shadefall is spreading,” the robed translator said.

  The itching intensified. Just keep your sleeves together, he thought. So long as it was just in his hands, they wouldn’t see it.

  Chambers glared at him. “Such little faith for a merchant who travelled through the Red Desert and the Deadwoods to relate what’s happening?”

  “There’s no such thing as too much caution,” the Sentinel of Stone said, scratching the corner of his scarred lip. “As for me, Lordkeep, I will leave for Aschyth to ensure the Unholder there isn’t awakening.”

  The Lordkeep gave a nod. “Go forth, Sentinels. Pray your paths remain enlightened. Chambers, you are dismissed.”

  And he slammed the base of his scepter, the glowing slit in its eye widening. Chambers turned, passing the Four Sentinels on his way out, boots rustling along the white carpet that ran like a river down the center of the giant hall. Core Guardians flanked the hall. T-shaped openings allowed them sight and breath through their flaming orange helmets. Their black hoods were drawn, chains around their necks holding capes in place. Each carried a double headed axe twice Chambers’ height, the blades like frozen tongues of flame. Various shapes, but all the same size.

  He walked on, heart pounding, the first burns beginning to open on the back of his hand. The giant doors at the end of the hall groaned open, just wide enough for him to walk through. Then they ground shut with a clang, leaving Chambers in pulsing torchlight.

  Just in time.

  The itch spread up his arms, then shoulders, into the sides of his neck. He glanced at the back of his hand, the tan skin he’d worn turning dark and peeling open like burning paper.