There was silence, and then there was pandemonium. For a moment Sunday thought the ghouls had overwhelmed the forces of the city and were coming to slaughter all else. However, his thoughts were soon proven wrong as humans and undead started appearing from all sides of the city.

  He struggled to stand, finding a hand of support. Mera had soundlessly appeared next to him, watching Nysandra with wariness and fear. Her human body was all but gone, retaining only a few pieces of flesh here and there. Most of her was gleaming dark red Mesmer Steel, and Sunday saw his reflection in it under the many lights of the coming crowds and his own strange glow.

  His skin was cracked and broken like the skin of a porcelain doll dropped and run over by horses. The gaps were dark now, and only his stump shone with greenish sickly light that spread up to the shoulder. The agony was there but contained. Nysandra’s single fist to his face seemed to have taken the spotlight, leaving a stinging sensation in his jaw that kept the agony at bay. It was like a tiny flame stopping an inferno. A talent, perhaps. Wights were still a mystery.

  “The magi have gone crazy! Weak-willed bastards! Quick, lady Nysadra, let me take hold of the spell, I assure you—”

  “Your assurances mean nothing, lich. To have accepted the gifts of the Corpse Kings only to use them in a place like this, manipulating and scheming all of those around you… you’re nothing. You will keep quiet, and you will reap no benefits of what has transpired here.”

  “But—”

  “He knew you were coming,” Sunday interrupted.

  Nysandra swirled toward him, her dark mane of hair floating around her as if gravity was too scared to come for it. Her coat was mostly torn from the battle and she had ditched it, remaining in skintight traveling gear consisting of baggy pants, boots, and a tight black shirt with few armored plates that did little to impede her movements. What could even strike her, considering her nature?

  “He warned me you were coming. I knew, but not that you were close,” Sunday continued.

  Trust’s eyes, or whatever remained of them, bulged. He was constantly regenerating with waves of dark essence that were almost intoxicating, but Sunday still preferred the moths. Few were flying around him just as a way of comfort, bathing him with their soul-soothing properties. It was all he could manage after healing himself. Unfortunately, their essence did little to assuage his exhaustion or heal the cracks formed upon his skin. This was a different type of injury.

  “He did, huh? A mole? No. Someone is watching us? Someone dares?” Nysandra whispered, almost to herself. “Follow me. Help him, spell-fused. You should be capable enough.”

  Mera opened her mouth, but then seemed to think better of it and just nodded. Sunday too, was about to protest but Nysandra was already gone. Her blades remained behind, stabbing the torso and head of Trust and nailing him to the stone floor. They seemed just as strange as the wight herself, and the mage tried to thrash against them to no avail. Sunday hadn’t even seen the movement.

  “Come,” Mera said.

  She easily guided Sunday upon a platform of Mesmer Steel that rose slowly in the air and led them toward the roof of the Arcanum, or whatever was left of it. He could see Nysandra standing at the highest point, waiting for something. A piece of glowing stone was held in one of her hands.

  She crushed it just as the first magi arrived. Some were flying low to the ground, others jumping over rooftops and houses, and all of them looked mad with lust and desire.

  “Fools of Blumwin,” she said. Her voice penetrated the stone, the sky, the air itself, and Sunday felt Mera and himself shudder against the weight of it. “This is not a treasure for you. Whoever tries to reach for it with their undeserving hands will die with no trial. Save your lives, and stay your greed.”

  “She certainly has a way of doing things,” Mera whispered as they approached.

  There was a large gaping hole in the middle of the building, and Sunday didn’t dare think of all that was lost. If it had hit a vault, would the spells inside have become part of the process, or were they disintegrated, forever lost? There were quite a few spires still rising around them, but the bulk of it was even enough to stand on.

  Most of the coming figures stopped, but few seemed reluctant to do so. Sunday watched as a mage he knew well stepped upon the roof, and another few joined him. They all seemed to be utilizing some sort of a jumping spell, perhaps prepared for quick movement during the ghoul attack. They were all dressed in black robes with silver emblems on their chests. Sunday frowned at one of those among them.

  “Kloud,” Sunday spoke before Nysandra could act. “Don’t do this. Leave.”

  The mage’s cold face cracked just a tad as he smiled at Sunday, but he didn’t speak further. The leading mage gave a hand signal, and all prepared to cast, but weren’t given the chance to. It was a moment later that Nysandra was among them. Her hands were enough to disable the magi. She was more heavy-handed with the undead, but the living still suffered quite a few broken bones and puncture wounds.

  All without a weapon.

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  “I’m not a monster,” she said quietly. “I just hate stupidity. I won’t cripple the city.”

  Is she explaining herself to me…? Sunday blinked away his confusion and looked toward the spell above. It was covered in swirling chaos, which perhaps meant that the process was still not fully finished. That didn’t bode well for the magi of Blumwin. While he knew there were few strong ones, they were nothing before the wight called Nysandra. She was something else entirely.

  “Mera, can you hold a spell for me?” Sunday asked.

  He could feel the pull of it too, but quite clearly not as strongly as the rest of the magi. They were surrounding the building now, littering the streets. Ranks ones and twos. All that stopped them was fear or inability to come close to the spell itself. Whoever tried, Nysandra simply threw down.

  “I can encase it in steel, which will preserve it for a time.”

  Sunday nodded and tried to detach the Mournful Bear from his soul space. The process was quite easy. Despite the agony of the flesh still thumping through what remained of his arm, his soul was whole and unaffected. As a cube of Mesmer Steel wrapped around the spell hovering over Sunday’s palm, Nysandra came to them.

  “Go,” she said to Mera. “I won’t be able to save you again if something else goes wrong.”

  She saved Mera…? During the explosion, I guess? Maybe she’s not so—

  “I also might have to kill every fucking mage in this forsaken city, so you shouldn’t linger,” Nysandra added.

  “What about me?” Sunday asked.

  “You get no choice. This spell will belong to you, and you will put it to good use. Understand?”

  Sunday nodded and a flake of skin fell from his body. He was not sure whether he would have the time to put anything to good use. As it stood, his body was on the verge of collapse. The miasmic energy was not spreading, but it had taken over his right hand, while the rest of his body was broken down and cracked. Essence was difficult to circulate, and using his talents seemed like a pipe dream.

  “Say… what happens if I die?”

  Nysandra turned toward him. “You won’t die. You’re my charge, and I’ll turn you into a warrior that will make the continents tremble.”

  “Is that so?”

  He hadn’t given up, but his body felt like lead, and the pain didn’t help at all to put him at ease. Whatever had transpired tonight was way over his head, and he was suffering the consequences. The energy given to him by the Yew Tree was still on his mind too. It was power beyond his abilities to use, and it had found other ways to leave him. If he could harness it, then a simple palm would truly be able to wipe out a mountain… This was not simple magic. This was the power of something more… Perhaps not a god, considering all that had transpired.

  “At least we killed a god,” Sunday said.

  Nysandra scoffed. “You think we killed a god?”

  “Did we not?”

  “This was an incarnation containing only a sliver of power. Think of it as a fragment of them manifested here. This was not the main body, nor the full strength of a Divine. Even a lesser one can wipe the floor with us.”

  Well, that’s fucking disappointing. I guess I really can’t die yet. Not before I beat up one of those bastards at full strength.

  She must’ve seen his look because she tapped his shoulder while keeping an eye on the spell still forming above. She felt human in this moment, which threw Sunday off. Kallus had never felt so… mortal.

  “Don’t worry. We hurt it, which is what I wanted. And knowing its name… We can hurt it again. That’s one of the reasons you and those like you are so special. Perhaps the most important one. You can force the Divine to use up their strength and weaken them by simply knowing their name,” she continued. “Fighting a god at full force is not something even the strongest of us can do. This is one way to ensure our advantage and finally change the tides of the war.”

  Sunday listened with fascination, having forgotten his injuries and worries. What Nysandra was saying made sense, and it was something he hadn’t considered before. Their fear of his prayer was reasonable, but if he had done so when he had first learned of the name… Perhaps it needed a conduit? A prophet? And yet, it was not an incarnation of Joy that had descended.

  Two Divine, working together. Weren’t they supposed to be mad?

  “It’s coming,” Nysandra said. “It probably won’t reject someone like you, but be careful and whatever you do, don’t use it.”

  Sunday looked up. The chaotic membrane around the supposed spell moved wildly and in the next moment, another wave of force spread through the sky, pushing away at the clouds. The chaos disappeared, revealing the spell. He felt the attraction then, the thing driving all the magi of Blumwin here.

  This… this is not a promise of power. This is something else.

  The spell started slowly dropping down as if only to fuel the situation further. Sunday stepped forward, preparing to meet its descent, when he felt a movement of air. A spike of gravel and concrete almost crushed him as Nysandra gently pulled at his shoulder. It hit the roof of the Arcanum with mighty strength, making everything shake.

  Adept Ironbond rose from the ground and gently stepped on the ceiling. Next to him was an old woman Sunday had seen only twice before— Adept Juvinde. Two Adepts, the strongest magi of Blumwin, and a bunch of other mages.

  Sunday wasn’t hopeful about their chances and frankly found the attempts quite pathetic. Was it the spell affecting them to act so irrationally? He turned toward the wight next to him.

  “Hey, Nysandra?”

  She was gone.

  Sunday heard a groan and saw Adept Ironbond on the ground, his lower jaw torn off and thrown to the side. Nysandra’s palm was now pressing against Adept Juvinde’s neck. Whatever spells they had at their disposal were useless against the wight.

  Terrifying.

  “Yes?” she answered after a moment.

  “Can you please not kill them? And is the spell making them crazy?”

  “I wasn’t planning to. And yes. Low-ranked magi can’t control themselves in front of a high-tier spell, especially one born out of so many strange materials. Like perverts in a whorehouse… or a slacking vampire I know. I’ll rip his head off for this. Go. Take it.”

  Sunday didn’t need to be told twice. The spell was falling toward the hole the cauldron had made through the building of the Arcanum. It was still difficult to say if it had a shape or color, as it flashed with all of them. A gemstone of unparalleled beauty, gently falling from the night sky.

  As he got closer and stretched his arm, the world lost its meaning. Its aura was not all-encompassing or overwhelming, although it seemed to have that effect on the rest of the magi. To Sunday, it was gentle and right. Sunday felt his soul thump at the first touch, and the spell easily flowed into his soul space, not hesitating for even a moment.

  The essence moved gently through it, and as it did, the agony in his shoulder and the remains of his arm disappeared. The sickly green light melted away but it didn’t disappear. Rather, Sunday breathed it in, feeling a surge of power rise inside him once again under the guidance of the Yew Tree.

  The spell found a place in the crown, and fell there, awaiting to be called upon.