Gold lightning struck around Vantra, knocking her from the blissful wash of syim power. The crash of noise that followed would have deafened a living creature, and she clutched at her midsection, her essence vibrating a speedy tune.

She heard a sharp shing of sound, before electric fingers peppered the surrounding earth, digging holes as deep as her knee. Black soil splatted against the ring’s barrier; Darkness swallowed the bits, and spit them back out, to bounce across the shuddering ground and break apart into nothing.

Charged flashes circled Black Temple, congregating around the other Seal points. Several streaked away from the city in lines that stretched far into the desertland. Cracks grew from the strikes and zipped across the surface, creating snaking patterns that intersected; where they did, the earth crumbled.

Blue static crackled up from the holes, snuffing out before they reached much higher than her waist. The sound became a distant cackling, as if the magic laughed at the predicament. A silence descended, thick, suffocating, the kind of quiet that, had she been alive, she would have heard her heart beating in her ears.

Loose dirt shuddered and rose from the ground, trembling mid-air. The earth beneath shook, tiny tremors growing into violent vibrations. The ring remained firm as the land gave way, tumbling from the bottom of the glowing purple. The connections between the other ghosts wavered; a subtle pull sucked energy from her and into the magic, stabilizing the link. Darkness and Light raced through, power entwined, strengthening the Seal.

Vantra pulled her gaze from the empty air at her feet and twisted, looking around. Thick plumes of dust rose, encasing her. Fear pounded through her. Nothing would have remained of Black Temple or the surrounding desertland if the mephoric emblems had exploded without confinement.

Had the Nevemere escaped? Had it caught them as they fled? What about Kenosera, Temmisere? Laken would sit on the ring, but it did not encompass them.

The atmosphere dimmed; she could see the other glowing rings, but nothing else. Loneliness slammed into her, a reaction to her singular position. The touch of others was too distant, too faint.

The sound of wind whistling through thin tree branches rushed by, growing into a tornado’s roar. Flashes of gold burst from the funnel, bright against the darkness pulling the sparking remains up and to Verryn. Dark red clouds shimmered with Light as a larger wave, blue with golden streaks, zipped away from the central point. A disturbing emptiness encompassed her, weighing on her essence; doubt and fear knit together. She was going to discorporate. She was going to meet the Final Death.

The barrier surged towards the outer connections of the Seal, light shafts racing up it. It hooked into the links and the ring; purple melded with the attachment, and brilliance snaked through the magic. Her essence shuddered. She strengthened her Ether Touch, fighting the yank on her magic as the ring flared and a mixture of Light and Darkness rushed up and formed a dome over her.

Wind pulsed from the center, cold as a desert night, tearing through the dome, ripping her essence before carrying wisps with it as it continued into the night. The funnel blackened, streaks of glowing purple pushing the spiraling blue and gold up to the point.

CRACK. BOOM.

Vantra flattened against the ring, which wobbled and sizzled but held its form. Terror shot through her as the connection lines snapped with audible shink and sparkles of Darkness and Light magic erupted from the termini.

No! Numbness froze her, chittering frantically. Her ring bucked from the intensity of the blast. A line whipped about but held; she stared at the still extant link in front of her nose. The connections! She jerked her head around; two remained intact, so the Seal kept its structure.

A final, thick, oozy blue and gold wave shot outwards, the funnel collapsing and fading as it zipped away. The night sky reappeared, soft grey clouds gently lit by Moon parading across the expanse. A figure fell from the point, trailing reddish mist—VERRYN!—and she gasped, attempting to rise, reaching for him. Even as a syimlin, if he plummeted from such a height and hit the earth—

A shadow soared up and snagged him. She could not tell which mini-Joyful grabbed him, but relief tilted through her as the dome collapsed onto the ring.

Find Laken, Katta said. He sounded wearier than a soul who had wandered the Evenacht in search of the Final Death but had yet to discover it. Don’t let the naro vi-van near him or Temmisere.

She peeled herself off the ring, tightened her core, and held the wisps of essence close as she concentrated on Laken’s link. She pushed from the ring and fell, gliding down into the magic-laden haze. A rising breeze from the depths below caught her, and she rode it, digging to scrape together the last of her magic and shove it into her Ether form. The wind puffed her above the ground; a faint line of a greyer black marked the edge of the pit. Everything inside had disappeared.

The city. Black Temple. It was gone but for a haze.

She drifted just past the edge and collapsed. Her mind fogged, her essence quivered, and she could not remember a time she felt so drained and still functioned. Katta told her to reach Laken and Kenosera. She had to keep the naro vi-van away from him and Temmisere. How was she going to do that when she could barely float?

The remains of her energy flickered, but she ignored the warning and latched onto Laken’s link. When he realized her presence searching for him, the connection strengthened. She slid along it like a ziptrail, too deadened to wonder about how she managed it. Or did he pull her?

Cheeping, screeching. The long, angry note of a caroling soared through the air. The flutter of commotion came from a position near the edge of the destruction, scattered Nevemere watching. A grey-haired, wrinkled woman raised an arm and protected her face from a zealous Fyrij; others stepped in the way and slapped at the little avian. They all wore tattered, transparent tunics and grime marred their skin. Paint smeared across faces and down necks, into hair sagging from beaded combs knocked from their positions.

Kenosera held Laken, a still-bound Temmisere at his side; the stake remained in her chest but did not chain her to the ground. Men armed with natural sticks topped by pointed stones or knives with blades the length of their lower arm stood in front of them, intent on the vi-vans. Tagra and Memmi weighed rocks in their hands, their legs spread, waiting to throw. Four others held torches, the light anemic despite the roaring flames lifting from the rag-wrapped tops.

Behind them, Levassa regarded the situation, kneeling on one knee at Verryn’s side. Passion was not conscious, and his skin looked burned. An unknown elfine knelt at his head, his knees planted next to his ears, his hands holding his cheeks. Ginger, shoulder-length hair fluttered in the crisp night breeze, the ends of the water-blue bandana he had tied around his forehead dancing with it.

A healer? Who had reached them so quickly?

“Really?” Levassa responded to something Vantra did not hear. “I’m not about to explain to Erse why I let her husband plummet to the earth while I watched and did nothing.”

“That wouldn’t be a conversation I’d want to have,” the man agreed with a small smile. His voice, soft, silken, eased her trepidation.

She alit next to Kenosera and fought to remain upright. He sucked in a worried breath as he noticed her.

“Vantra?” Laken asked. He sounded peaked and as worried as the nomad.

“I’m fine,” she lied. “Did the ground fall away from you, too?”

Kenosera shuddered. “Yes. I’d not like to repeat that. Standing mid-air is . . . terrifying.”

“As a ghost, you do it all the time.” She glanced at Verryn, then pushed herself in front of her Chosen, peeking between the guards.

“Vantra, the Fort will protect us,” the nomad said.

She nodded, though the prickling of unease and the certainty that something was amiss paraded through her. “Fyrij!”

The caroling sang a sweet, cool note and careened to her. He landed on a guard’s shoulder and cocked his head at her, cheeping.

“Thank you,” she whispered. The Nevemere flinched when they realized a ghost kept them company. Kenosera waved a hand.

“She is Vantra. She is—”

“Evil!” the older woman screeched, pointing at her, her twig-thin finger shuddering in emotion.

A snapping sound echoed from Fyrij’s tooth; he did not have a beak, so she did not know how he made the noise, but the menace resounded around them.

“She is not!” Kenosera seethed. “The evils here tonight were Nevemere-born. You took Rezenarza’s hand and endangered us all!”

She said something in a nasty voice, and he gritted his teeth.

“Speak so all can know your deception.”

She did not.

With a disgusted snarl, Kenosera eyed her. “Laken said my grandfather and his personal guard died.”

She nodded. “Yes. When they used the mephoric emblems, the backlash killed them and the vi-van who stood with them.” She looked behind him at the Nevemere, many who gaped at the vast, hazy pit that they once called home, some collapsed, weeping, holding loved ones. “I think Katta saved everyone he could.”

“Including my grandmother,” he grumbled. “She deserves it not.”

“Kenosera.” The light chastisement came from an older woman who strode to them, carrying her years with pride. She slipped an arm around Memmi, and Vantra assumed she was their grandmother. She tried to remember if she saw her in the room when she fought Temmisere, but did not recall her. Bruises lined her face, so her time within Black Temple had not been kind.

“You speak of forgiveness, but what she did cannot be forgiven,” he snapped. “She deluded thousands who trusted her. How many died for it?”

“You speak the lies of the false ghosts,” the naro vi-van shrieked. Her carriage, her tone, meant she did not believe the words, knew her fault, but could not appear to those around her as regretful.

“Black Temple is gone because of you!” Kenosera shouted. “Your corruption destroyed it! We who were blessed by you killed our kin, our friends, beings we didn’t even know, because you lied to us about our Blessing. You lied to us about our link to Veer Tul.” He raised his hand and pointed at his forehead. “I accepted the true Blessing. It is nothing like you gave. Kindness and softness, rather than a pitiful emptiness we declared sacred.”

The earth rumbled, the nomads gasped, cried, screamed. The naro vi-van whirled, her attendants grabbed each other, the guards at Vantra’s side readied themselves for a fight.

Up from the hazy clouds filling the pit rose a black stone. The base widened, the top flared out to create a roof, ovals sank into the sides. Light danced across them, creating shutters, though she could not distinguish details from her position. Balconies formed, connected by a spiraling wooden staircase with a railing that formed thin, twisting balusters and posts with protrusions that looked like the scraggly trees of the area. Domed doorways sucked back into the stone, and fluttery curtains with two vulfs and a golden circle behind their heads bounced down from the frames.

Symbols etched in soft greyish-purple ran up the sides, brightening once they reached their place and sinking into the stone.

Kenosera blew out a disbelieving breath. “He’s recreating the mesocreata.”

“What’s that?” Laken asked as his wide eyes took in the sight.

“A sacred temple from before the rainforest died. Its likeness is carved on the walls at the Snake’s Den ruins. It fell, as all else in the peninsula, when the dryans destroyed the lake. Or so our myths say. Mesocra, a venerated leader of our ancestors, built it as a promise that Darkness would soften our hardships. There are many versions of the myth and what Mesocra said, but it is the first that we know of, where our people strayed from the Evenacht divines and honored Darkness. That Darkness was Ethi.”

Ethi. An elfine syimlin, she held the mantle before Rezenarza. Perhaps that explained his interest in the desert; he expected continued respect from the Nevemere, but they turned to Veer, as they turned to him after Ethi gave up the mantle.

Vantra frowned. There was controversy in that, but she could not recall the details. Should she ask Katta about it? He would know, but the thought made her queasy. What if she brought up old hurts? Red might be a better choice.

The light surrounding the structure dimmed, receding into the stone, so only glittery outlines of the décor remained.

“How dare you desecrate the remains of our Black Temple?” The naro vi-van’s hate-infused shout caught everyone’s attention. She stared at the new temple, hands clenched, quivering in rage. The atmosphere dimmed, as if touched by her dark rage.

“Desecrate?”  Kenosera bit out. “You accepted Rezenarza’s blessing, lied to your people about the one you gifted during the shicoursa. It isn’t Katta or Qira who desecrated Black Temple.”

She screamed something, and the atmosphere darkened even more.

“The dor-carous, his guards, his vi-van, are dead.” The living froze at the nomad’s words.

“They raised mephoric emblems against the vo-tivan of Darkness and Light,” Vantra said, fighting the prickling itch through her essence. What caused it? “The Beast created them thousands of years ago, but they still retained his power. When the emblems exploded, the magic killed them, and the chain reaction destroyed Black Temple.” She pointed skyward. “We created a Great Seal and sent most of the energy into the air, away from you.”

The naro vi-van trembled, swayed, and her attendants grabbed her to steady her. Pain flashed across her visage; Vantra had seen the same on her mother’s face, before she died in her arms. The agony, the disbelief, of loss.

Her tears, so unnatural for a ghost, trickled down her cheeks. She cried with the woman, who lost so much she held dear that night.

An almost audible snap of a mental break. The older woman jerked, her agonized scream tearing away hope, leaving emptiness and blight behind. Kenosera’s stress, his reaching for her, ended with a black swirl of power engulfing the naro vi-van and those with her. Not the gentle ashen touch of Veer, but the hard, unyielding punch of Rezenarza. It fouled the air, puffed outward, obliterated sight, muffled senses, and Vantra felt the remains of her magic pulled away in wisps. She snatched it back, whimpering, as a flare of Light breaking briefly illuminated the lightless.

No! She wafted towards Temmisere, stretching, but the ghost was already gone, returned to the ex-syimlin’s embrace.

“Begone.”

The Darkness broke apart at the crisp, ugly hate in the word and filtered down, to dissipate before reaching the ground.

Levassa strode to the empty place the naro vi-van and her attendants had stood, the only things left a couple of broken combs. Kenosera rushed to the space, shaking his head.

“What happened to them?” he asked.

“Rezenarza retrieved them,” the Death deity replied, his voice lit with crackling embers. “The mephoric emblem residue is close enough to his Darkness, he hid within and took his chance when presented.”

“What did she mean, about an oracle and the Snake?” Tagra asked, frowning as the rock tumbled from his fingers. He spoke with his sister, then eyed the empty ground. “Memmi said she’s not heard of it, either.”

“Hmm.” Levassa did not elaborate. Had she spoken of the Recompense? That would make sense, considering what Rezenarza had whispered in Vantra’s mind. She wiped her cheeks, struggling with the punch of shame. The ex-syimlin not only snagged Temmisere, he took the naro vi-van and her attendants as well. She had failed.

Levassa folded his arms, his attention on a group of robed beings who hastened towards them. Not Nevemere; they towered over the nomads, with golden-red skin flecked with glitter and large eyes ranging from deep gold to burgundy. They wore elaborate escoffion, with jewel-colored braided hair parted on each side of their tall, tufted ears, and draped over one shoulder. They had sharp cheeks and jutting lower jaws twice as long as any human’s. Noses with rings along the bridge ran from the middle of their foreheads to their thin lips. Their mouths projected out to a point, like small beaks. They clutched three fingers with painted nails and multiple rings at belly-height, bent over in a pose resembling a religious acolyte who bowed in reverence—but nothing holy issued from them.

Astri.

“Did you sell the dor-carous the emblems?” Levassa asked, more than wrath riding his words. The Astri froze, and from the brief grimaces and twists of features, they fought against the whip-lash force of his compulsion spell—and lost.

“No.” The tallest, with an escoffion that had resplendent gemstones and ended in golden points, answered. The others deferred to her, so Vantra decided she was their leader.

“But you know who did.”

“Only by reputation.” She put a finger to the top of her nose. “Please, I—”

“Remember, your agreements with the syimlin don’t hold with me.” The Astri, in unison, gave the Death deity a squinty, displeased glare.

Vantra would have shrunk into a puddle, had he said the same to her, in that tone. Why did it not cow the beings?

He raised his hand, snapped his fingers, and he, and the group, disappeared, leaving behind a waft of deep scarlet haze.

The Nevemere stared at the space. “Our Deathlord Levassa?” Tagra and Memmi’s grandmother asked in an agonized whisper.

“Yes.”

Vantra whirled as everyone else jumped. The mini-Joyful had collapsed next to Verryn and the stranger, uninterested in the goings on. When had they arrived?

Only Katta stood, holding Kjaelle, whose head rested on his shoulder, her essence fluctuating. The amount of energy she grounded through the Seal would have destroyed a lesser ghost, and she wondered if the elfine had syimlin aid in doing so.

Katta looked around, his eyes glowing a soft purple, a complement to the shimmery blue that lit Red’s. The Light acolyte stretched, hands planted on his back, and grimaced, his typical cheer replaced by weariness.

“Levassa vacated the ghosts before the mephoric emblems obliterated their souls and any chance at an afterlife,” the Darkness avatar continued. “If you value those lost, you should send a prayer of thanks to him. He didn’t have to interfere.”

Kjaelle laughed, a death-dull sound. “Neither did we.”

“Getting targeted by mephoric emblems kinda takes the choice away,” Red said in a heavy voice. He ran a hand through his hair and gave Vantra a small smile before focusing on Passion. “How’s Verryn?”

“As well as expected.” The ginger-haired man looked up. “Channeling that much energy isn’t easy, and he’s not had the thousands of years of experience you two have in it.”

“Death and Passion,” the grandmother said, her attention on the unconscious syimlin. “How are we so blessed, to have their presence at so terrible a moment?”

“Some would have deemed all that a miracle,” Red said, waving a hand at the new building. He flumped his head on the stranger’s shoulder. “Dad-dy, I have a headache,” he whined. “Do you think—”

The man’s eyes popped wide in exasperated disbelief, followed by a palm-smack to Red’s head. Vantra might have found humor in it, but the dire magic, and the situation of thousands of unsheltered Nevemere, weighed too heavy. Red rocked back, blinked, then grinned widely at the annoyed man.

“Thanks!”

Back to his cheerful self? By a smack to the head? She was certain he was not his actual father, but who?

“I’m taking him back to the Forest Temple,” the man said. “Katta?”

“I’m fine,” he murmured. “Nothing that rest won’t settle.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a smack upside the head?”

“No.” His firm denial sent the stranger into chuckles. He raised his arms and swiped them across Verryn’s still form; they vanished, as quickly as Levassa and the Astri. Curiosity prodded at her, but Vantra could not hold on to it. Later, after a long rest, she might ask after the man.

Katta settled Kjaelle down with the other ghosts; she slumped over as he strode to Kenosera. He gripped Vantra’s shoulder as he passed, a comforting act. Something deep in her responded to the touch, as if he wrapped a darker version of herself in a warm blanket and squeezed.

She assumed his compassion would evaporate once he realized she had not kept Rezenarza from retrieving Temmisere.

Fyrij chittered and hopped to Katta’s shoulder, digging his claws in and firming his little body before clacking with aplomb. The ancient ghost eyed him, but he tipped his face higher. He was not going anywhere else.

One guard moved to stand next to the older woman, his hands tightening around his spear. The grandmother regarded Katta with curiosity mingled with suspicion. Tagra cleared his throat and said something; the Nevemere gasped, shocked.

“You are Veer Tul’s voice?” the older woman asked.

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you stop this?” she asked, sweeping her arm to the smoking pit, her lip trembling.

“We did what we could. Your dor-carous was the one who attacked with weapons touched by the Beast’s hand. Dozens were wielded against us by your dor-carous and his attendants. Without our help, the pit you see before you would reach to Watermarket.”

The Nevemere gasped, though the older woman did not look convinced.

“But don’t pretend this is only his mistake. Endrasine was given every opportunity to change her path, but she refused. The temple and her family, had they wished, could have replaced her with another who would not have seen destruction as revelation. They did not. If enough of your people protested, her power would have been mitigated, and even if she remained naro vi-van, her voice would have dimmed.”

“Both Netalli and Keraddi were with my grandmother when she disappeared,” Kenosera fretted. “There isn’t anyone else to alter the path.”

Katta laughed. “There is, but he’s leaving the desert.”

Kenosera raised an eyebrow and wisely did not respond.

“But your voice isn’t the only sane one. There are strong ones who can bear the burden of rebuilding. But they, as all others, must choose the Blessing or no. They must reject Rezenarza’s whispers, or the Nevemere will dwindle and disappear and a darker, more violent people will rise in their place.”

“And who will you call to this task?” the older woman asked.

“It is their choice,” Katta reiterated. “Will they lead? They must first accept the Blessing.”

“Dor-carous will hate the choice,” Kenosera said.

“It’s time the fantasy of astute leadership by birthright ended.”

Tagra smirked, though the others’ serious pondering of the words made his humor seem misguided.

“Then give me the blessing.” The older woman raised her chin.

“You already have it,” he said. “And while you advise, you’ve no want to lead. There are others who do.”

Memmi looked up at her grandmother as Tagra whispered to her. They had a brief conversation, then she pulled away. The older woman frowned as she stepped in front of Katta and straightened her shoulders before speaking. Tagra blinked, surprised, but the guard nodded and joined her.

“Memmi’s young but she’s seen the rot and fought it as she could in the caretaker ranks. And I’ve never been enamored of the dor-carous.” The guard paused, then glanced at Kenosera.

“I know what you mean, vasa-Danosa,” he said drily.

Katta regarded Memmi. “It will be painful,” he told her. Tagra translated, and she nodded, her chin firming.

“She knows. She experienced it as an outspoken caretaker.”

“The dor-carous are powerful and will fight the change,” Katta continued. “But this will make it easier.” He reached out and drew two greyish-purple smears down her cheeks. “It’s an old symbol, one used long before the rainforest became desert. It marked leaders.” He smiled. “It grants them the ability to Bless.”

He took a step back and held out his hands. The sleek, black stone orb with yellow veins materialized between them. Red slipped up and dusted the grime from the surface before running his palm over it; the veins throbbed with Light.

“The dosiv,” Katta murmured. “I gave it to Wevenril. Did you know, she was outcast filanra? They were the ancient equivalent of the ri-ake residents. The dor-carous family descended from her and her partner. She never meant for the corruption her successors propagated.” He handed it to Memmi, who grasped it and clutched it to her chest. “Veer’s Blessing resides within. Endrasine emptied it and set it aside because she viewed Rezenarza’s stone as a better alternative. It’s replenished. One touch, for the blessing to fill the vessel. That is all that’s needed.”

Another orb formed between his fingers, a smaller, ashen one with patters of lighter grey.

“Not all will accept Veer’s Touch,” he continued. “They must receive a Blessing, but this one will block them from any Darkness Touch. It’s necessary, to keep Rezenarza from repeating his destruction.”

Tagra translated, and she nodded, accepting the smaller artifact, then produced a watery smile.

“She’s going to have to learn the Reckoning, isn’t she?”

“If she wants to speak with Veer, yes,” Katta said. He regarded the guard. “Rebuilding the esci-tero won’t be easy. You don’t trust Ci Carrde, but he’ll help. You just have to pay for his release from Merdia.”

The man frowned.

“He attacked Passion when we disembarked at Merdia, vasa-Danosa,” Kenosera said. “The dor-carous and naro vi-van sent him to kidnap me. Dough and Trevel put him in the fort.”

Vantra was happy that all eyes were not glued to her in abject shock.

“He attacked a syimlin?” Danosa asked, as if he could not quite believe the temerity.

“He didn’t know Passion was on board the Loose Ducky.”

They all jumped at the smack of hands. Red grinned and jerked his head at the wagons that rocked towards them at a brisk clip.

“Sorry to create a new temple and run, but we’ve got a schedule to keep,” he said. “Listen. There’s a shield over the river, and the wells remain. Drink from the water upstream, not down. It’s contaminated with magic, which won’t go away until the haze goes away. Sunbright will send help and food. We sent what we could outside the barrier, but I don’t know how many edibles there are in the boxes and supplies. There’s going to be fighting over stuff, and you need to crack down on it, fast, to keep the problem from growing. Memmi, you need to be the first into the temple so you can name it. Call it what you want, Veer doesn’t care. He planted an eversprig, so it’ll always be fat with berries. Not enough to feed everyone, but it’ll help. Have fun, and with a sad goodbye, we have to go.”

“Go?” Vantra asked. But what about rest? None of the mini-Joyful looked ready to travel.

“Yeah. You get one guess where Rezenarza conveyed the naro vi-van and her attendants.”

Her emotions wobbled and fell. The place Rezenarza attempted to turn her from. The Snake’s Den Ruin.