Tezca knelt among the ashes—the ruins—of his kitchen. With one hand, he palmed his forehead. With the other, he idly raked his fingers through the smoldering rubble. It seared his flesh like grilled pork, even as his Nirva healed the burns.

  That’s the cycle of life, isn’t it? Gods, how could I let this happen again? The saffron, the truffles, the caviar.

  Body waddled up from behind and placed his hand on Tezca’s shoulder. “Self. There is evidence indicating that this was no simple cooking mishap. No accident. I suspect the intruders started this fire.”

  “WHAT?” Tezca roared.

  Tail ran in from the next room. “Self! Luca and Octavia are both missing! Luca’s tank has been smashed!”

  “WHAT?”

  Legs came bounding through the door. “Self! There is a company of Leviathan troopers in the Stormwomb! They are doing battle with our servants!”

  “WHAT?”

  Body fell over, hyperventilating and clutching his chest. “Do-Do you think-” Gasping and wheezing. “King Yuma will come?”

  “Fucking, fucking, fuck!” Tezca pounded his fists against the floor, his face burning hot with rage.

  Then, he made a decision and turned cold. Tezca performed the silly warding gesture that he’d invented for the Malikauan scriptures. He didn’t know why he did it.

  The Elder Warden siphoned away Body’s Nirva. But he did not steal back the sliver of his soul.

  “Self?” Body whimpered.

  Tezca threw himself on top of Body, dug his fingers through the folds of Body’s neck, and started strangling him. The true Warden snarled as Body weakly clawed at his hands.

  The face, so like his own, turned purple. The eyes bulged, bloodshot and teary.

  Those dying eyes fixed on Tail and Legs, his brothers, pleading. The two clones looked on, silent.

  Tighter and tighter. Something sturdy within the fat neck crumpled. Drool and bile dribbled down Body’s chin, covering Tezca’s hands. He did not feel the warmth of the fluids as he squeezed, tighter and tighter.

  Body finally went still. His face looked like a mushed raspberry pie. Exhausted, Tezca collapsed and rolled over onto his back.

  The Deathwish came. ‘Would that the lunatic All-Father, Ezathiza, never arrived. Would that the children were not so greedy.’

  No time to rest. That was Tezca’s first thought upon murdering a piece of himself. How cruel life can be.

  He flailed like an overturned turtle; Tail and Legs helped him to sit upright.

  Tezca wiped off his hands on his robe. “Nasty business, but it had to be done. We are accelerating our timeline, that’s all. Body’s body will be left for Yuma to find. He will think the intruders killed me, and we will be able to escape unpursued.”

  “Brilliant, Self,” Tail said, wringing his hands. “But won’t Body’s body deteriorate before it’s found?”

  Tezca took out his deviled egg container and found it empty. He ripped it in half and then threw the pieces at the wall. “No. I did not re-capture his soul. I murdered him in the mundane way. As far as the World is concerned, he’s an ordinary dead man.”

  “Oh… how did you know that would happen?” Tail asked.

  Tezca’s gaze fixed on Legs. The tall man crossed his arms and turned, shifting uncomfortably.

  A sinister grin crossed Tezca’s face. “Ask Legs,” he spat. “He was there. He knows what happened to Hands.”

  Tezca took out his backup deviled egg container and popped one of the little delicacies into his mouth. He squished the goodness between his teeth. Blessed mayonnaise. He needed to keep his temper in check. He was bitter over the permanent loss of yet another sliver of his soul, but this was no time to mourn.

  He only wished it could have been Tail instead of Body. May you feast in hell, my most kindred self.

  Tezca forced himself to his feet. “Where is Claws?”

  “He was intent on joining the battle,” Legs said.

  “We need to… If I can… Dammit.” Tezca shook his head. “If only Head were still with us.

  “Those soldiers must have arrived via teleporter. We can only assume the intruders are to blame, though I can’t imagine why they would want to summon Leviathan forces. Are we certain that Yuma is not here yet?”

  “As certain as we can be,” Legs said.

  “He is on his way, then,” Tezca said. “Likely in that monstrous truck of his. That gives us some four or five hours. One possibility… is that the intruders are in league with Yuma. Some sort of false flag. He’s always hated me.” Tezca drummed on his cheeks, psyching himself up. “We must fight for our meal. There is no point surviving without servants. I’d rather die than live like a peasant. Tail, you must go door-to-door through the residencies. Gather as many servants as you can and lead them through the abandoned tunnels. The only option left to us is the escape boat.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “Legs, you and I need to go extract Claws and as many of the warriors as we can. But we need to be gone before Yuma arrives. If he sees that any of us are alive, he will deduce that Body’s corpse is a deception. I will not allow Body’s sacrifice to be in vain!”

  “Self!” Tail cried. “You can’t risk yourself like that. Allow me—”

  “I’m going! He’s my Claws, dammit. The best of you, the only one who’s worth a damn! Except you, Legs. And Body… Oh, Body!” he wailed.

  “Self?” Tail said quietly. “What of the Gracestorm? It will be impossible to leave port whilst it rages.”

  “Shut up, shut up, shut up! Just get in the tunnels and go!”

  ***

  Gwil and Challe climbed down the statue and found themselves awash in green light and enveloped by madness. Screaming warriors swarmed everywhere, directionless in their terror. Red-eyed soldiers with metal bodies marched across the auditorium.

  “Woah, do you know those guys, Challe?”

  “Wha! Demons!” Challe screamed. “Real dem-!”

  Gwil tackled her to the ground as laser blasts whizzed overhead. A pillar collapsed and a crucifix burst into flames. A terrible crack of thunder sounded. The entire chamber shook; dust poured from the ceiling.

  “Everyone, climb!” Challe commanded, her voice, too, a thing from a split-open sky.

  The warriors did not need to be told. Those near the fallen statue were already scurrying up like ants on a log.

  “Mar’Jade,” Challe muttered, looking up at the burning corpse. She traced some sort of warding gesture across her chest.

  Gwil scrambled to his feet as more lasers fired, this time focused on the statue and the Malikauans gathering around it.

  “Gwil! Gwil!”

  He grinned even as he turned around. “Leira! Cort!”

  Gwil grabbed Challe’s ankle and, keeping low, dragged her across the sandy pit to reach the others, who were huddled beneath the jade bird statue, its radiant light shining upon them. “Hey, Eagle-man! I told you he’s alive, Challe.”

  Challe scrambled forward and threw all four of her arms around the eagle-man and a green-haired lady Gwil recognized from earlier. “Brother! Sister!” she cried.

  “Hey guys,” Gwil said, crouching beside Cort and Leira. “What’s going on?”

  Another barrage of lasers flew. Gwil watched as several shots that should’ve hit the jade statue bent impossibly around it, as if deflected. Challe had said it was the corpse of her goddess.

  “We kinda fucked up,” Leira said. “Those are Leviathan stormtroopers, Gwil. They have secret hallways here filled with food, and there was a teleporter and—”

  Red lights flashed through the auditorium. Everywhere Gwil looked, Malikauans were dying. The troopers had split into several squadrons as they crossed the chamber, herding the warriors for slaughter.

  Gwil’s Mir marked something as strange about the way the stormtroopers moved, as if a design guided them.

  “Right, no problem,” Gwil said. He plucked the snaketopus off his shoulder and planted it on Leira’s. “Let’s go, Cort.”

  Gwil bolted toward the nearest squad of troopers.

  “A Monarch might be coming, Gwil,” Cort shouted from behind. The array of shields that he’d strapped to himself clattered as he ran.

  Gwil flashed him a thumbs up and then launched himself at the squad, hooking his arm around the lead soldier’s neck and barreling into his comrades, knocking them to the ground in a heap.

  “Wawhaaa!” Gwil shouted as a laser slug ripped through his shoulder. He whipped around in time to see Cort crush the spine of the trooper who’d fired.

  His shoulder searing as it healed, Gwil found his footing and started jumping around on top of the pile, Nirva-stomping whoever was closest to standing up. He laughed at the ridiculous dance; it was almost like a game.

  Swinging between Gwil’s footsteps, Cort delivered brutal strikes with his hammer, crumpling helmets and shattering masks.

  “These guys don’t stay down easy, Gwil. This is strong armor, and they’re all jacked up on drugs.”

  Gwil nodded as he stomped a helmeted head into the ground. “Split up?”

  “Yeah,” Cort said. He picked up a trooper’s body and held it like a shield. “I’ll stick close to the statue. You get behind them. Focus on taking their guns away.”

  “Got it.”

  Gwil spotted Leira and Challe amidst several hundred warriors. They’d taken up position around the jade statue, which, based on the fact that it hadn’t been destroyed, was still affording the Malikauans with its uncanny protection.

  It was not enough. They were still dying in droves.

  The warriors had used chunks of debris from the collapsed ceiling to form a makeshift barrier that ran between the two statues. Many of them were holding that line.

  Gwil ran, hurdled over the barrier, and pop.

  He shrank down, not too small, about the size of a doll. That was fine—he didn’t want to get thrown around too easily or get obliterated by a single laser slug.

  As he moved around the edge of the Leviathan position, making to get behind them, skulking in the eerie green lighting, Gwil reached into his pocket and pulled out his shrunken fork. “Aha! Yes!” he cheered, brandishing it over his head.

  As he approached the next squad, Gwil noticed how the troopers had to fiddle with their weapons after they fired, folding them in half and inserting canisters into the midpoint.

  He pumped Nirva into his legs and hurled himself into the face of a trooper who was taking aim. Gwil clung to the man’s head like a cat stuck on the curtains and then slammed his fork down. It harmlessly glanced off the bowl-shaped helmet, leaving the prongs bent out of shape.

  Stupid armor. The soldier tried to rip Gwil off his face. Gwil caught two of the man’s fingers and, with a pulse of Nirva, snapped them both.

  Being at this size, he was a good deal stronger than when he was mouse-sized. And this soldier probably felt like an idiot for getting beaten up by a baby.

  “Hallow,” called out a mechanical voice, one of the squad mates.

  Gwil rammed the mangled fork into the soft of the soldier’s neck and then stabbed repeatedly, hammering, but the meshy material was too strong.

  “Dammit.” He wrapped his arms around the soldier’s head and then swung himself around, growing back to size at the same time.

  The soldier’s neck snapped and was limp as a noodle as Gwil clobbered the rest of the soldiers with the body like it was a giant club.

  Gwil flared Nirva all through his body and started ripping the rifles out of the hands of every trooper within reach. He threw the weapons away into the heights of the auditorium’s seating, except the last one, which he used to bash them in their heads.

  One soldier appeared behind him. Gwil spun and stabbed his fork—which had remained miniaturized—through the lens of the trooper’s mask. The metal sank into an eyeball.

  Gwil glimpsed a pale face through the broken mask. Huh, that’s too bad. He’d been wondering if these stormtroopers were human or not.

  He smacked his palm against the protruding end of the fork, pushing it all the way in. The man, who’d been screaming and writhing, crumpled, still.

  At least he’d killed one person with it. But overall, the fork was a big disappointment. Maybe he needed a four-pronger.

  Gwil’s Mir whispered in his head. He shrank as a wave of laser fire converged overhead, exploding in a shower of sparks.

  He’d drawn the attention of three more squads. That’s right, look at me, he thought as he eyed the stream of warriors attempting to make the climb up the fallen statue. About half had made it out.