The city was in its death throes.

  Through a haze of avenues, pools of Ichor, and masses of human flesh packed tightly into burning streets, the man ran doggedly onward.

  A tilt of the head provided a reminder of the task at hand. Whenever his resolve faltered, or the pain got too much, one merest glance at the tyrant’s abode dispelled any lulls in his conviction. There, like a ball of flame that had dethroned the sun, was a sprawling tower of gold and jewels. The false idol, dedicated to all things wrong with this world, was a monument of mockery, the very structure seeming to peer down and sneer at the attempts to reclaim its turbulent borders.

  He wanted to see its curvature twist at an ugly angle. No thought entertained him more, made his heart sing louder, than to envision the entire thing toppling over. Crushing every last guard and practitioner of greed that stalked its gloomy halls with it.

  Now, there was nothing else to be done. He would make that vision a reality.

  Guards stationed in abandoned streets were alive one moment and gone the next. A whirling vortex of flaming azure sent them back to the aether, and the man sprinted past before a snowfall of Infinity swept the avenue.

  Dashing ever closer, he ignored any physical discomfort that arose within. His adornments were lost beneath layers of congealed blood, and only some of it his own. The Infirnite fittings of his armour clung awkwardly to the man’s skin, and in many places, the tender tissue underneath.

  A lesser man in his place would have already died, and three times at that. He could almost imagine the corpses trailing behind him. Echoes of fates that could have been. One finished by a stab wound to the chest that had made it impossible to breathe. Another left limping on legs cleaved of their inner meat, forced to stumble to his own grave as he was crushed by an oncoming stampede. The third chopped into pieces by a horde of bloodlusted guards that, in a moment of panic, had gotten the better of him.

  But here he was. His body was a patchwork of injuries, and pain was a clingy lover who wouldn’t let him go, but never did he cease in his noble advance.

  Death wouldn’t have him today.

  First Rite became awash with gore, a golem of flaming magma trailing a path towards the false King’s tower. The scent of smoke deep in his nostrils, and his Mark burning its imprint into his flesh, the man steeled his resolve, as the doorway to the palace emerged into view.

  Following behind his titanic construct of wolfish vengeance, the man was only seconds away from breaching the tower’s lower levels. Then, like a tremor tearing the world asunder, he saw his reflection in a golden puddle.

  The liquid shook, the entire street quaking. Gigantic fists of flame battered down Damosh’s last line of defense, but the sweet taste of victory eluded him, displaced by a sour bitterness.

  That boy. That boy there, shimmering amongst a current birthed out of bloodshed.

  Dark ginger hair, youngish features. Navy blue irises that burned brighter than any star.

  Great links of chain slipped out of his fingers, and with rising realistion, a blood-curdling scream escaped his–

  Remus awoke with a start.

  He swatted away his bedsheets out of instinct, and it wasn’t until several moments later – still hyperventilating – that he realised the reality of what he’d seen. Recognised the blood-stained face, the snarling lips, the visage of hatred that was so painfully familiar. The demon positively dripping with blood-

  He stopped his thoughts right there.

  “A dream.” He uttered breathlessly. “You’re here, relax. You’re here.”

  A full glass of water awaited him on his bedside, always at the ready for nights like this one. As reliable as anything he had, nowadays. One gulp later and it was downed. Knowing full well that sleep would only elude him, Remus jolted out of bed, and began to pace around his private chambers. He walked in circles wearily, with all the practised neuroticism of a seasoned insomniac. The last few Durations had provided its fair share of practice.

  The monochrome stone of his walls was hidden behind maps inherited from Mason. They detailed territories Remus had and hadn't visited, pins stabbed into various locales like the talons of some terrible beast. The advancing ranks of Enos’ army of zealots. Remus tried not to dawdle his eyes too long on Ash’s progressing forces, dreading having to update their progress each and every day, moving like a wildfire that refused to be contained.

  One of these days, and sooner rather than later, he feared, he would wake up to news of the first of Descent’s cities falling.

  Charred books and notes that had survived the fire of Mason’s headquarters were scattered across the floor. Apart from collecting dust, the articles served little purpose. Mason’s legacy was reduced to a hundred glorified tripping hazards, brutalising Remus’ knees. Part of him wondered why he bothered to keep them. Perhaps to honour Mason’s memory? If that was the case, it struck him as a pretty lousy way to do so.

  Not like he ever had time to clean up after himself, anyway.

  Leading a rebellion had come with its fair share of problems. Leading a rebellion that had utterly failed presented new catastrophes with each passing day.

  Night should have been a sanctuary. A few precious hours where his head could hit the pillow, and all of his worldly problems slip away. A delusion, to be sure, but that made it no less comforting. Then, like invaders surging into his twilight realm, the dreams had begun. All of them exactly like the visions that dying Speed clansmen had shown to him. All of them more vivid than anything he’d ever dreamt of before. All of them harrowing to the bone.

  And all of them ending with the realisation of the monster he had become.

  It was always the same sequence of events. A possibility he thought himself moronic to still hope for, or fear: the siege of First Rite.

  Remus shivered.“Stop it.” He told himself.

  He walked laps around the headquarters, shaken by the night terrors. His residence was near the infirmary; a place that was steadily transforming into Gold’s Bane’s successor. Remus suppressed another chill at the thought. History tended to be forgetful, but this time, he prayed that it wouldn’t repeat.

  He refilled the glass with a nearby pitcher, hoping that a little hydration would settle his shaking fingers.

  You’re just thirsty. He told himself. There’s nothing wrong, you’re just parched.

  A third drink, then a fourth, quickly disproved his hypothesis. His fingers wouldn’t settle.

  For a few blissful seconds, the world went silent. Even the nightly breeze brushing in though his open window ceased its gentle ushering. Just Remus, alone, standing in a room he wouldn’t have recognised a mere Passing or so prior. He had to wonder: was this really a home? He tried not to think of his personal quarters back in First Rite, lest homesickness settled in. The curious part of his mind lingered there, however, and Remus couldn’t help but wonder if that place was still standing. If there was any token of his childhood remaining.

  Then, with all the inevitability of the moon rising anew, the thought returned. The one that came gnawing at the grey matter of his brain, always summoned at this terrible hour.

  Is any of this worth it?

  A fifth drink of water. His hands refusing to settle, Remus was about to pour himself a sixth, despite not being thirsty at all, when the shadows came to life.

  “You remind me of him.”

  A black, gooey mass encased half of the chamber. Remus stumbled backwards, his eyes adjusting to perceive the shape’s dark contours, and dropped his drink. The shattering of glass heralded the return of sound to the world, and the room was thrown into the heart of a tornado. Windows smacking, doors bashing against their hinges, it hurt to keep his eyes open as somebody entered his humble abode. And they most certainly didn’t have an invitation.

  Hands pushed out of the darkness, as if imprisoned in slime and bursting out. A face soon emerged, the top half splattered in an inky blackness. His heart jolted when he recognised the motif: exactly the way Ash’s features clouded when he adorned his cosmic form. But there was no trace of that boy here. No, the being invading his privacy, arriving to reap his soul at this late hour, was an altogether darker shade of sinister.

  Enos had arrived. Beneath his titled hat, oversized and casting a shadow over the darkness that was already the fiend’s stolen form, Remus recognised the ransacked body of the Chaos god, Teviel.

  “Consider yourself honoured, Remus.” An uncannily wide smile shook Remus to his core. “It isn’t often that I grace subjects with this particular shape.”

  His Mark activated on its own accord, and battle instincts drilled into Remus from years of sheer violence forced him into a battle-pose. Die fighting, or die cowering. Nobody would know the difference, but if Remus could salvage a tiny shred of pride in his final hour, then for the sake of everyone who had died for his fruitless, hopeless cause, he had no choice but to do so.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t come here to kill me earlier.” Remus hoped his fists weren’t shaking, that his poker face was convincing enough. “What, have you finally decided to take matters into your own hands?”

  “Rest assured Remus, if I could swoop down to Descent and destroy the planet with my own hands, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation. In fact,” Enos took a cursory glance over their environs. “All of this would be atoms, trailing separate paths through the cosmos. No, I’m afraid I can only appear on Descent in the form of Projections. Though, a Projection powerful enough to reduce you to ash . . .” He shot him with that toothy grin again. “Wouldn’t be so hard to create. In fact,” his face contorted wickedly. “I may have just made one.”

  Remus had to wonder what was stopping Enos from obliterating Descent. In theory, any one of Infinity's gods could destroy the planet. There was the Divine Oath to prevent that from happening, but that limitation didn’t apply to the Originator. Enos was certainly on that level, and some horrified part of Remus knew the man wasn’t bluffing. If it could have been done, Enos would have devoured Descent, rather than colonise it. The planet must have been the most well protected territory of the deities, a place they wouldn’t dare allow Enos get close enough to poke with a stick.

  But Projections could slip through the cracks. At least, this one had.

  Taking a step backwards, Remus tried to gauge how strong this current Projection was. To so perfectly mirror its creator's appearance, it must have been decently powerful. But when Remus attempted to level his spiritual senses onto Enos, to divine what Rank equivalence this unreal form possessed, he was left gritting his teeth. His senses became confused, at one second urging him to run, before a god reduced him to particles, and at the next, detecting a presence weaker than himself.

  Enos had fully emerged out of the wall now. He was a head taller than Remus, a sweeping robe and cape descending to the floor. Remus couldn’t help but notice random articles around the room glitching in and out of reality. Changing locations and sometimes disappearing altogether. Just the presence of the Chaos god’s vandalised body, or at least a lesser form, quarreled with reality.

  “Let me reiterate exactly how futile fighting me would be. One, even this minor Projection of mine has a decent chance of killing you, to no real risk to myself, and two: you haven’t heard my proposal yet.”

  Remus’ body stopped trembling. It wasn’t the water finally calming his mind, or some noble courage dug-up deep from the inner recesses of his soul. It was something altogether more cowardly. A paralysing, primal fear. But not one of death, though, certainly, that was a very real possibility. He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t move, or why all the moisture from the gallon of water he’d swallowed was drying up. It was that unknown, that absence of reason, that quickened his pulse the most.

  Enos’ – or Teviel’s – teeth glinted beneath the brim of his hat. Like rows of daggers grinding against one another, lighting tiny sparks.

  “You’re not scared of me, are you Remus?” Enos strutted slowly in a loop around him, as if he was a museum curator, and Remus the latest addition to his collection. “Logically, you must be a little frightened. Such is to be expected; you would be insane not to be at least weary: for every cell in your body to anticipate the climax of death. But there’s something . . . else too. Something you’re hiding from even yourself.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “You said I reminded you of him.” Remus changed the topic in one swift breath. “Who is that?”

  “My right hand in the shadows, and a man who isn’t afraid to get the dirty work done. Though his drink of choice is something else entirely, Edmar isn’t exactly discreet with his addiction to elixirs. Why, he doesn't need to be, with all eyes on Damosh and Ash as they make an extravagant dance out of their conquest. I’m sure you can understand my interest in having a few pawns that are a little more discreet in how they go about things. The tongue that keeps quiet never has to fear being cut off.”

  “So that’s it: he really is conspiring with you.” Remus kissed his teeth. He’d known as much since the attack on Gold’s Bane, but to have it finally confirmed, spoken from the tyrant’s lips . . . there was suddenly a horrible taste in his mouth.

  “He’s going to betray you – you must know that – and I’ll take great pleasure in it when he does. To say I understand the psychology of a man like that would be a lie, but Edmar is as self-serving as they come. He’ll stab a knife in your back at the earliest opportunity. He’d kill you if he could.”

  “And yet here I stand now, talking to you.” Enos inched closer. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Why I’m here, speaking, and why you’re not yet a lump on the ground leaking Ichor. Indulge me, and chew on what I have to say before you spit out whatever rebuttal comes to mind first. I want you to become one of my recruits.”

  Remus physically recoiled. Flames were like ghosts hovering over each of his fists, and he was one hasty decision away from taking his chances in a fight. Bad chances.

  He spat at his feet. “And what makes you think I would falter in my ideals so easily?”

  “Your hands.”

  Remus raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “Your hands.” Enos tilted his head, his facial muscle spasming in a constant rictus. “They’re shaking.”

  Enos crept too close for comfort. With a yelp, Remus swerved his arm at an angle, a line of fire searing everything in a diagonal line. He spared a thought of sympathy for the last keepsakes of Mason. Final mementos were only fuel for the fire, swarming light crawling up the walls in a mad rush of heat. Maybe it had always been the man’s fate to set ablaze – if not the hearts of his soldiers, then himself.

  The fiend remained motionless. Even as a wraith of blue feasted on the threads of his ragtag clothes, inching closer to the Projection’s flesh, he stood absolutely still. Sparks of electricity zapped through the atmosphere, a prickling charge upsetting the air. All the while, Remus tensed every muscle in his body. It was no use – he was trembling again.

  Enos endured the first kiss of flame that ravaged his skin, and in a glare of magenta light, erased the space separating them. Then, a stoic indifference disguising any trace of pain, he tapped Remus on the chest.

  Remus swallowed down a yelp, scattering backwards. So much force behind one touch.

  This is the man that has caused Violet so much pain. Who bestowed the Supreme Being with the strength he leveraged to rob your grandfather of his last years of life. Who transformed Koa’s brother into a devil. This is the man upon whose death hangs all of Descent’s future!

  If you looked closely enough, one would see thin streaks of yellow light flashing against Remus’ blue irises. A phantom might reeling to be unleashed. Gauntlets of obsidian congealed around his hands, and Remus reached out to crush the skull of this Projection with his bare-

  His flesh beginning to burn, a flaming Enos rested his gaze on Remus.

  In mid-air, Remus felt his body freeze in place, the outline shining purple.

  Then the world fell apart.

  Light, sounds, and any telltale sign of reality slipped away from him. There was nothing, for one horrible moment, but darkness. Then in a great flood of energy, of life, Remus could see again.

  A quartz platform spanned across a great and dusty plain. The air was made thick with a perpetual sandstorm, like a grainy filter placed over each eyeball. Through the haze, a frenzy of movement took place below. Incorporeal, Remus was observing this all from an immeasurable distance, angled beneath the blinding luminance of the sun at its noon peak. Neat lines of soldiers were pressed tightly together in military units, all standing at attention, all of their gazes locked onto a figure at their head. As if connected by a hundred invisible threads hooked to their sweating brows.

  Remus focused down on what – still reeling from whiplash – took him a second to recognise as himself.

  It was him but . . . better.

  A more muscular frame than his own bulged beneath plates of intricately decorated armour. Contrasting shades of gold and white complemented one another as the main shades of the heavy material, the latter sharing the same hue as the platform they stood on. His irises had taken on a deeper navy, and, new altogether, plus an accessory Remus had trouble forming an opinion on, were two horns. Curving inwards, out of his forehead, and a greyish-blue. Something told Remus this was a far older version of himself. Advancing in Rank tended to make the aging process tricky to recognise, but where flesh alone betrayed no difference, an air of wisdom trailed behind his older self. There was a self-assurity that only life experience could bring, engulfing the man where present Remus only found hesitance; uncertainty.

  Déjà vu smashed against his senses. This was all so familiar: exactly like time Nova had dug into his brain. When he had been seconds away from killing Remus, before Maris had intervened. While there had definitely been something wrong with that woman, he had her to thank for his life.

  But there was no Maris to save him now. Besides, Nova was a laughing stock compared to Enos’s authority.

  “You could be the strongest being to ever step foot on Descent. Everything you’ve worked for, each grain of Infinity making up your being, every spark of Tanish’s energy running through your Ichor: you could be made greater than it all!”

  The scene changed.

  In a frenzy of light and images, Remus saw himself in a hundred places at once.

  He was seven years old, hand cut open by a saw, which, to this day, he didn’t know how to operate.

  The same age. Speaking with his parents, a Remus yet to be made jaded by life tried to understand what his mother meant. What exactly a Death-Marked was.

  He was sixteen, heart full of venom, and blood shot with ice. Edmar towered over his bleeding body. Chin split open against the rubble of the Labour District.

  Faster.

  Arguing with Briella and Aiden, taking his rage out on the wrong people.

  Months locked away inside of his family’s library. Desperate to find some hope for a better future. Some way to free himself from his-

  Head-spinning, the images refused to slow down.

  Older now.

  Tal’s mutilated body, sliced open by a thousand Inklings.

  The Tempest clanswoman, Iris, plummeting to her death.

  Andreas smiling for the final time.

  All of their sacrifices made for Remus.

  “Stop it . . .”

  Violet’s scathing rejection.

  Chained up and put on trial.

  And, possibly worst of all . . .

  Gold’s Bane burnt to the ground.

  Thousands dead because of him.

  “Stop it. I’m begging you . . . stop it.”

  “It doesn’t have to be this way, Remus. You’ve been through so much struggle, and for what? When Descent falls to its knees, what will you have to show for all your hard work? What I offer you Remus, is everything you’ve ever wanted.”

  The kaleidoscope of colours came to a stop. A panging migraine upsetting his thoughts, Remus struggled to focus on the images being projected deep into his consciousness.

  This was a memory he didn’t recognise. Less a memory than it was a dream, where that older version of him, fitted out with sapphire blue horns, took the reins.

  Hundreds of thousands of Paladins followed at Remus’ back as they stormed a hastily erected fortress. Unbounded were littered amongst their ranks, and a barricading wall of their monstrous flesh enveloped the army like an all-encompassing battering ram. Poised to smash through the bulwark and send stone scattering.

  Gazing over the parapets that lined their hold, beings resonating with the power of Warlords leered down at Remus and his advancing ranks. A battle cry boomed out of his throat – or maybe someone else’s – and this last stronghold of humanity braced itself for one final attack.

  The wind blew in his hair, an endless swarm of beings obeyed his every order, and Remus cackled in glee as an absolute power made him inevitable.

  He extended a gauntleted hand. In the blink of an eye, the entire fortress was burning. A string of explosions were set off, each sparking the next like a chain of dominoes falling. There were flying limbs, crumbling walls, and the earth itself let out a terrible groan.

  What a rush!

  He was strong. He was powerful. He was someone to be admired, to be feared. He was never to be picked on, or belittled, or made to feel tiny ever again.

  But he was everything he hated.

  “I don’t want this.” He huffed, the vision becoming shaky at the edges, like a reel of film worn with age.

  “I’ve seen what you’re willing to sacrifice for power, Remus. Where were your morals back then?”

  Another scene. Lumi fighting desperately to protect the only home she had ever known, as Remus set himself to melting down an entire glacier, retuning its watery contents back into the sea.

  “Where were your morals when you burnt down the Frost Clan? All so you wouldn’t be thwarted in your campaign for self-improvement? Self-obsession, more like, and don’t you dare suggest otherwise.”

  Dozens of battles played out before Remus, on screens of light emerging out of the darkness. He recognised each one. It was every fight Remus had ever participated in, no matter how minor his contribution.

  He hovered in the centre of the circus show, mesmerised by the sparks, the searing light; the capacity for rage and destruction that resided inside of him.

  “What you’re really scared of Remus, is yourself. Of what you can do. What you could become if you lost control.”

  Remus snapped back to reality. It took him a few dizzying seconds to catch his breath, the room, the night, the chaos of it all boomeranging back. The force of it swept out his legs from under him, and Remus was flattened against his burning floor.

  When his eyes cleared, Remus saw Enos towering over him. The armoured hand of a false god reached out for Remus, faint traces of a purplish energy billowing from his fingertips. The pair of them were bathed by hellfire, a ghoulish white in colour that blurred their features, muted their differences, until you wouldn’t be able to tell the pair apart. Their histories were erased, the entire outside world was absent. All that existed was a decision to be made.

  “You can stop all the pain. Find purpose in a universe hollowed of everything that makes life worth living by self-consumed gods. Take my hand, and you’ll never hurt or want again.”

  Remus hated himself for it, but he was tempted. It would be so easy to agree . . . to let himself go. Why did he care so much?

  He had tried so hard, hadn’t he? Exhausted every other option. Was he expected to just continue to suffer? To shut his mouth and let the universe tear itself apart?

  Remus wasn’t sure how much longer that could go on.

  Slowly, he reached out to meet Enos’ hand.

  “This is the only way Remus. We’re the force of good in this universe; Infinity is on our side. Once we undo the destruction the gods have wrought, the true peace you’ve always longed for will be in reach.”

  Remus' voice was coarse, but he managed to whisper something. His hand paused in mid-air, inches away from connecting with Enos’ skin.

  Enos frowned with another god’s face. He hadn’t quite heard him. “What was that?”

  Remus found the will, somewhere, to speak a little louder.

  “At what cost?”

  The Originator paused. “Whatever it takes.”

  A junction in the tunnel of fate. As far as Remus was aware, there were two futures available to him. Each as suffocating as the other.

  The path the Speed clansman has bestowed upon him. Covered in Ichor, the boogey-man of his own dreams, galloping into First Rite to free his city of a tyrant’s rule. Hero of the Talents of the Future, but how many more people must he lead to their deaths, until their sacrifices weren’t in vain? In freeing First Rite, would he soak the city in blood?

  There was another way.

  Horned, powerful, a presence of reckoning that would lead Descent to resolution. A peace that could only be seized by abandoning his people. Leaving the gods for dead. The ones who had deemed him unworthy of the humble Mark. Who had upset the balance so much that they had forced Infinity's hand, creating the very fiends they fought so desperately against now. They were diseases in the immune system of existence, and they had to be purged out. He could fix it all.

  But Remus would have to swallow up his soul in the process.

  “You know there’s only one true option.” Enos’ voice echoed in the chasm of his mind. “So make it.”

  Remus closed his eyes.

  Inside of that darkness, he wallowed. He was a ship in storm, tossed and turned by turbulent currents, and unable to control the vessel for the life of him.

  Destruction or destruction was all the freedom of his choice; the main course of his destiny, served on a silver platter by the Grim Reaper himself. There would only be death left in his wake; it was hard-baked into the DNA of his person to wreak havoc. If he was going to leave a trail of blood behind regardless, then why not choose the easier option?

  Why not give in?

  Remus gritted his teeth, and felt his morals slipping away.

  Felt himself become what he had always feared.

  That unspeakable feeling bore down on him again, and the demon on his back laughed.