A moody silence descended over Amara and Evander as they navigated back through Lucyra’s wet streets in the direction of the inn, despite the determined assertions they’d just made to one another. Shock and dread had settled over Amara’s spirit like a wet blanket, and the continued rainy weather did nothing to improve it. There was so much she needed to get off her chest, but the person she wanted to dump her thoughts onto had already flown away.

  I can’t be a hypocrite about this, she thought. I’ve inflicted pain on people, too. Not all of those soldiers I burned in Shiloh died instantly. Some definitely lived long enough to experience some pain and fear. But I didn’t really intend for them to suffer. Those Destined suffered immensely before they died.

  She’d hoped telling herself that would help to alleviate some of the guilt at having just stood back and watched as the Destined on the gallows were killed. But the guilt remained exactly where it was, painful and unavoidable. For a moment she considered trying to talk to Evander about it, but the distant look on his face while they walked told her he felt at least as lost as she did.

  You’re a proper bastard, Mattias. Never here when I actually need you for something.

  Evander barely said a word to her when they finally made it back to the inn, bidding her a quiet good night before retreating into his room. What had happened between them needed to be resolved, but it was beyond obvious that neither of them were ready to talk after what they’d just seen.

  After locking her door Amara laid back onto her bed with a loud sigh, trying to enjoy the soft comfort and warmth of the blankets against her back. As far as she knew Mattias still intended for them to infiltrate the castle in the morning, and rest would obviously be important for whatever was to come. But the image of the three hooded Destined hanging limply from the gallows remained etched into her mind, a memory that refused to be set aside.

  She laid in bed for a long while, wrestling with her thoughts, and before she knew it night had fallen. Dim yellow-white lights shone through the silk blinds of her window like tiny, uncaring stars. An urge to see them unobstructed suddenly struck her, and she lifted herself out of bed, crossing the room to the window.

  Heavy black clouds hung low in the sky, illuminated by the glow of hundreds of lit lanterns spread throughout the city below. She could see shadows milling about through the windows of the nearby buildings, strangers going about their evening business like nothing was wrong. Public executions were probably not rare in Lucyra.

  I really might die doing this, Amara realized. It’s not like before with the wolf or the soldiers. They came after me, and I did what I had to do. But now I’m seeking out the danger. Putting myself in it.

  She leaned against the windowsill, turning the thought over in her mind. The danger was real, she recognized that, but at the same time she felt no less determined to keep going. Risking her life seemed like a secondary consideration in comparison to the peril her mother was in. Shiloh had likely been starving for weeks already. The mental image of her mother sitting at the dinner table with nothing to eat, wasting away as the days passed, filled Amara with anxiety.

  It doesn’t matter what’s in the way. That’s the simple truth of it.

  Sudden movement in the darkness of the clouds overhead drew her attention. A tiny black bat swooped in from the sky, landing on the windowsill mere inches away from where Amara had been leaning. She recoiled for a moment, more out of surprise than fear. The bat was a tiny black ball of fuzz, smaller than her pointer finger from the looks of it. It drew in its leathery wings and looked up at her before letting out a silent yawn. She’d never seen a bat up close, and its doglike face was surprisingly cute.

  “A lira for your thoughts,” it suddenly said.

  Amara let out a yelp and nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “...God! Now you’re a bat?!”

  “What? It’s a far more useful form for flying at night. I’ll return to my raven form if you’ll tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “I won’t tell you no matter what you look like. You missed your chance.”

  “Hm. Is that so? Maybe you'd be more willing to talk if I assumed Evander’s form.”

  “...You can do that?”

  “Why not? Though if I were you, I imagine I’d like to speak with someone who has more wisdom. Hippolytus is quite solemn and serious, not to mention handsome. Would you prefer to talk with him?”

  “Absolutely not,” she said quickly. “And stop making fun of me.”

  The human-like grin which crossed Mattias’s tiny face was both endearing and uncanny.

  “Oh, fine. If you don’t want to talk then we can just sit together in the dark for a while. Wet and moody evenings like this are never good to spend alone.”

  “I can’t believe I used to enjoy your company.”

  “Don't be so dramatic. Though to be fair to us both you hadn’t heard me speak until very recently.”

  A sigh exploded from Amara, and she shook her head.

  “...How are we going to break into the castle tomorrow? You still haven’t said a word about it.”

  “We’ll take one of the entrances into the sewer and I’ll guide you to the castle from there. I know the labyrinth of waste tunnels below the city quite well. I helped to build the oldest parts of it, after all.”

  “And that’s it? Really. Why does it sound like you’re doing all of this from the seat of your pants?”

  “You know me better than that by now,” Mattias snapped.

  Amara gave him a shrug. “I’m just saying. You’re not exactly a wellspring of trust.”

  “Do you know what the three principles of an ambush are?”

  She frowned at him, then shook her head.

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  “Speed, surprise, and violence of action. Shabboleth’s defenses are more…impressive. Than you can currently imagine. But they’re all planned around defending his vault. Seizing his daughter will be like ambushing him within his own fortress.”

  “You sound like a soldier, or something.”

  “I was a soldier,” he said. “A very long time ago. Back when I was your age.”

  Surprise held Amara’s tongue. She had no reason not to believe him, but somehow it didn’t quite match up with his personality. She tried to imagine him in human form wearing armor and wielding a sword like one of Shabboleth’s guards, but couldn’t quite make it seem real.

  “You don’t have to trust my intentions,” he said. “But you can trust my sense of self-preservation. If the danger of this was too great, the probability of success too small? I wouldn’t have even suggested it.”

  “That’s fair, I guess.”

  “I certainly think so.”

  “Then again, it's not like I have any other choice but to believe you.”

  Mattias fell silent for a moment, his beady black eyes studying her as if she were some sort of fascinating insect.

  “...You looked upset when I flew up here. Won’t you tell me what was bothering you? Please.”

  Amara turned her gaze away from him and out to the city. She scanned the nearby windows and building tops, searching for the right words.

  “I’m still thinking about how those people died. I can’t…get the mental image out of my head.” She paused. “They suffered for so long. Why do it that way?”

  “The sheer cruelty of it was the point. It’s a message meant for Shabboleth’s foes.”

  “Meaning us.”

  “Not just us,” he said quickly. “Anyone looking to take something from him. He’s become jaded in his old age, too accustomed to power and being obeyed. When he thinks about threats his mind automatically goes to the other Seraphim. The Destined register as a distant second.”

  “Do you know what they did?” she asked. “What did they want?”

  “I don’t know, truly. But it’s well known that Shabboleth has many priceless treasures in his vault. Things he created himself, and things he’s acquired from the other Seraphim over the long years of his reign.”

  “So…he killed them in order to protect his stuff?”

  “Is it so hard to believe?”

  “Well, yes! He’s a Seraphim. And you even said he’s invincible, right? Why would he do something like that if he’s so untouchable in the first place?”

  A wide smile crossed Mattias’s face. He’d clearly liked that question.

  “...Tell me. What would you do if one day you woke up with the powers of a demigod?”

  “I mean, I kind of did, honestly.”

  “But much moreso. Imagine you’ve been given vastly more power than mere control of fire. You’re so powerful, in fact, that you’re not sure how much you even have, let alone what to do with it all. And the entity who gave you those powers failed to give you any direction. You have absolutely no idea what you’re meant to do with them. What would you do?”

  “Um. I dunno…try to help people, I guess?”

  “A vague but reasonable answer. And so it was with us. We thirteen were normal people before the Cataclysm. Intelligent, well educated, competent in our areas of expertise, but still. We were born normally, lived normal human lives and had normal human flaws.”

  “...Okay, but…what does this have to do with Shabboleth executing those Destined?”

  “It’s the absence of direction. Ndomadyiri was by far the most faithful of us at the time of the Cataclysm, a true believer in an era where religious faith was seen as a relic of the ancient past. He saw the Cataclysm as a confirmation of his beliefs—a trial from the One True God. He created your religion based on his practiced faith, borrowing elements from his memory of others that seemed useful. The other Seraphim saw the benefit in adopting roles for themselves in the religion Ndo created, but in their heart of hearts suspicion remains.”

  “Suspicion...of what? The Pattern?”

  Mattias nodded. “Secretly they each fear that it is speaking to one of them, one of the others, telling them its plans. And so they guard themselves as best they can, gathering followers, building realms for themselves and creating tools to augment their power. The small folk worshipping at their feet are barely an afterthought in this silent conflict.”

  Amara frowned, then squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose. With Mattias it was always either idle banter or the truth of God, nothing in between.

  “Normal people must seem so boring to you,” she said, scowling.

  “There’s no such thing as normal, and you know it.”

  “So is it talking to one of them?” she asked. “One of you?”

  “No. But after twenty centuries of silence from God and mistrust of one another, paranoia becomes the status quo. Thus, they use the Pattern, but they also fear it. They’d make open war on each other if they weren’t so terrified of provoking a divine reprisal. Each of them already has everything a person could ever want, unimaginable wealth, supernatural powers, respect of the masses, and yet they still live in a state of constant fear.”

  “...I get where this is going,” Amara said. “You’re implying that’s why Shabboleth attacked Shiloh. He sent the wolf and poisoned the crops to crush us so that we couldn’t threaten him. But Shiloh isn’t part of any kingdom, we’re a million miles away from everything. We almost never see strangers.”

  “The mere existence of the Destined is what gives the Seraphim so much reason to worry. That the Pattern grants powers seemingly at random to mortals is proof to the Seraphim that there is some sort of divine will, one they aren’t privy to. And in fairness to them, the Seraphim have never agreed on how to handle the Destined. They don’t all see you as a threat that must be destroyed. But Shabboleth does.”

  “There’s something important you’re trying not to tell me.”

  Mattias seemed to sense the question she was about to ask, and fell silent.

  “You said that the other Seraphim are afraid the Pattern is talking to one of the others in secret. But you also told me once that you’re here to help me tear down their monolith. So…is it you? Is the Pattern speaking to you?”

  “...It’s a reasonable assumption after what I’ve just told you, but no. See here, for the last two thousand years I alone of the Seraphim refused to play the game of power. I focused all of my attention on trying to understand what’s really going on. And in all my centuries, I’ve never seen the Pattern grant a Destined more than one power.”

  He began to crawl across the windowsill towards Amara’s hand. She turned it over and opened it when he finally reached it, and he immediately made himself comfortable within her palm. He was just small enough to fit comfortably within.

  “You’re the final point of failure,” he said. “I truly believe that. The last breeze that blows the crumbling old structure down for good.”

  “And that’s really all there is to it.”

  “Yes!”

  “I don’t believe you. And even if I did, I still wouldn’t care. Destined, Seraphim, Nephilim, none of that matters to me. What you want does not matter to me.”

  The smile which crossed his face was full of pity.

  “...As I once discovered the hard way, Amara, the Pattern simply doesn’t care what any of us want. You’re under its influence just as much as I am.”

  “You hate it,” she said. “Don’t you. You hate the Pattern.”

  His smile faded slowly as an abrupt silence fell between them, and for a moment she thought he might lash out at her. He’d clearly not been expecting her to make that connection.

  “Get some rest,” he said eventually. “We’ll be entering the labyrinth in the morning.”

  He then lifted himself from his resting position and stretched out his wings before leaping out of her palm. She lost track of his tiny black form in the darkness almost immediately.

  I dunno how much of what he said was true, Amara thought. Maybe none of it. But I think I got closer to what he’s really after with that last question.

  She moved to shut the window, then halted, turning back to look at the point in the darkness where she’d lost sight of him.

  “Don’t play games with me, old man,” she said. “I’ll make you regret it.”