We watched the two men until they disappeared up the spiral staircase.

I rounded on Kerra, ax in hand. “Thank you,” I said in earnest. “Seriously. This is an amazing gift.”

“It’s nothing,” she replied gruffly. “Like Telent said, it’s just a small token of gratitude for your assistance with the Elder Bear. That and for any hard feelings about the way you were treated.” She cleared her voice. “Now, if we’re done being overly sentimental, maybe we can get back to what I really came down here to show you?” She waved at the odd chamber behind us.

Clearly, she couldn’t just say sorry like a normal person, but I knew that’s what this really was. A peace offering and an apology. I didn’t want to make her feel more awkward than she already did, so I dropped it. “By all means,” I said, gesturing toward the door.

“This is the crowning jewel of the Citadel.” She pulled open the door and strutted in, waving for me and Niels to accompany her. “It is the ultimate training room.” The air inside the chamber felt thick and humid. Charged with potent energy. “As I assume you know, Mortka manifest in areas where the veil between the Etheric Realm and the Material Realm are thin. This room is called the Angwin Nexus and it is even older than the Citadel. It is a thin place that overlaps with the Celestial Plane instead of the Etheric Plane.

“The First Custodians, under the guidance of Exarch Angwin, built the Citadel on this spot in large part because its proximity to the Nexus. Being so close to the Celestial Realm allows Raguel to speak more clearly here, than anywhere else on earth. But it also has a secondary benefit. Celestial Essence is much more malleable than Etheric Essence which means that with the right magic, alchemy, and engineering we can perfectly shape this space to suit our needs.”

Against the wall, sitting beneath the crystalline window, was a hulking bronze box, studded with levers, gears, buttons, and glowing runes. She tweaked a few of the controls and the vast golden arms overhead shifted, accompanied by the soft mechanical whirl of gears. She pressed another few buttons and the circular crystals flared to brilliant life. Abruptly, we were no longer standing in a cavern beneath the Citadel. Instead, we were on a windswept dune of black sands with an unnerving green sky overhead and the noonday sun at its zenith.

“The lens crystals are made from a substance called Ulacart, which is used by the Fae to amplify the power of their glamors. When combined with the pliable nature of a Celestial Nexus, we can phase-shift the entire chamber and project a wide variety of environments over the cavern topography.” She pointed toward a series of dials. “These are the location indicators. There are eleven hundred possible dial combinations, and each represents a unique landscape. These gauges here control time of day, elevation, and temperature.”

She reached over and touched a circular tray protruding from the right side of the machine. “This is the Soul Plate. The machine itself can mimic almost any environment, but it cannot manifest a Mortka without a little assistance. A blueprint. But if you place a Transformation Token on this, the room will conjure a Revenant version of the Mortka for you to practice against. Be aware that the console will consume and destroy the token. Also killing a Revenant won’t give you the same burst of Essence but it is an invaluable tool for learning to battle against common creatures that you may find out in the wild.”

“Holy shit. This is incredible.” I bent down and scooped up a handful of onyx sand. It trickled through my fingers and pooled in a small pile below. It felt perfectly real and so did the heat hammering down on me from the false sun. This was just like the X-Men Danger Room or the Holodeck on Star Trek. “It feels real.”

“Indeed it does,” Niels said, kicking up a puff of dust with one foot. “But it is not. Remember that. It is only a very advanced form of glamor, combined with a very unique location. Once your Insight hits the high thirties, you’ll be able to see it for what it is. But even though it isn’t real, the things in here can be deadly so treat it with caution. Revenant Mortka are typically half as strong as their living counterparts, but in some cases that may still be strong enough to kill you if you are unwise.”

“In case you find yourself in such a predicament,” Kerra said, “there is a cutoff switch on the summoning console.” She cranked on a bright red level sticking out of the machine and the whole image guttered and died. “Just pull that to deactivate the unit and dispel anything conjured by the Soul Plate.”

“And I can train down here whenever I want?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said with a nod. “Now that I feel reasonably certain you won’t kill yourself by accident, you may use Fury Hall whenever you would like. I’m going to give you the rest of the day off to explore the facility and prepare for our trip.” She paused and gave me a long, hard stare. “Don’t be late in the morning and please don’t do anything I wouldn’t. Remember, all I’m asking for is one week.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said. I promised her a week and she was going to get it.

***

I spent the next six or seven hours screwing around in Fury Hall. I sparred with the training dummies, tried my hand at the archery range—impressing a handful of other Vigils with my automatic shottie—and messed around inside the Angwin Nexus. I still wasn’t sure how all the controls worked, but I knew enough to summon a random location, load a Transformation Token into the Soul Plate, and watch a Mortka pop out on the other side. So far, I’d battled my way through a Crave Ghoul, a Hollow Maw, and a pair of Boneshrieks—apparently, you could shove more than one Transformation Token into the machine at a time, which was good to know.

I was exhausted to the core when I finally left the training hall with my new Raven’s Beak Ax in hand and made for the nearest Chapel, which happened to be dedicated to the Aspect of Wrath. There was a service in session, presided over by a somber-looking Arbitrator with a lean face and salt and pepper hair. A handful of visitors were milling around in respectful silence as he read a short passage from a huge leather-bound book, plated with gold and studded with gemstones, then launched into a droning homily. The Arbitrator had all the personality of an old tree stump and absolutely none of Arturo’s panache or flair for the dramatic.

Still, I found myself listening intently to his message. Both because I didn’t want to be an enormous dick by interrupting a religious service—my mama had taught me better than that—and because the content of the message perked my interest even if the method of delivery left something to be desired.

“Wildespell is on the precipice of Raguel’s Wrathful judgment,” he said. “Is it a coincidence that a creature of Oblivion haunts our streets?”

He let the question hang in the air, the tension building like a storm cloud.

“No. I think not,” he finished sharply. “Who’s to say that Raguel has not allowed this beast to descend upon us as a judgment for the wayward disobedience of the Heir Apparent, hmm? The king is on his death bed and instead of seeking the wise consul of the Custodians, the Prince has surrounded himself with murmuring fools who speak against our righteous Vigil Bound. They say we should pay more taxes. That our glorious Vigils are not doing enough for this city. That the church takes more than it gives, even though we cleanse the world of the countless unspeakable evils, which bubble forth from primordial places.”

There was a chorus of angry grumbles from the assembled congregants.

“Prince Andreas, in his shortsighted arrogance,” the Arbitrator continued, his tone building to a fever pitch, “says that the Custodians should heel before his royal advisors like leashed hounds. That we should beg and grovel for scraps at the edge of his table. That we should serve the throne and secure it against Virtarun hostility like common street thugs. Disgraceful.” The disgust in his voice was plain. “And what is the result I ask you, hmm? His right-hand advisor, the source of so many of these hideous blasphemies, now lies dead in a shallow grave and a creature of Chaos hunts the streets.

“Raguel is patient. He seeks justice, embodies the most noble traits of valor, and loves truth above all else. But balance… Well, balance only stretches so far. When corruption feasters at the highest levels of power and the throne issues heavy-fisted threats and spreads insidious lies of the vilest sort, the only thing that remains is wrath.” Spittle flew from his mouth and his eyes bulged slightly as he said the last word.

I’d seen more than a few religious zealots before—both fighting against the Insurgents in Iraq and because I’d grown up in the south. This guy qualified in spades.

I cleared my throat and stepped forward from a pool of dim shadow, catching the Arbitrator’s gaze for the first time. He fell silent and immediately dropped to a knee, head deeply bowed. A ripple of shock worked through the crowd as they spotted me and followed the Arbitrator’s lead, kneeling in reverence. Seeing them prostrated before me made my goddamned skin crawl. I was a brawler and a trigger puller, not a god.

“Vigilant One,” the Arbitrator said, raising his head just enough to look at me, “you bless us mightily with your presence. And surely you are more blessed than all others. You are the Inkarnate, hand chosen by Raguel. Have you come to share your wisdom with us?”

I cleared my throat and shifted uncomfortably under the hot, fervent gazes of the people assembled before me. I had zero desire to get embroiled in local politics, no matter how fucked they were. That was one of the first rules I’d learned while fighting overseas. It was impossible to save everyone, especially not the locals. The world was a broken place and if I let myself get too invested, it could break me too. The best thing was to show up, do the job, finish the mission, and let the higher ups worry about hearts and minds, nation building, and all that happy horseshit they liked to show on the news.

Except, now I was the higher up, I reminded myself. I was a Vigil and, apparently, I was one of the very few Vigils who had direct access to Raguel. So even though it felt like I was wholly unqualified and walking through a potential minefield, I couldn’t, in good conscience, keep my mouth shut.

“There’s a lot I don’t know,” I said slowly, “but I’m one of the few people in this world who has ever met Raguel face-to-face, and I can tell you this—he isn’t a dickhead who would kill innocent kids just to send a message. I don’t know what is at the heart of these killings, but I do know for a fact that it ain’t Raguel.”

Something dark and angry flickered across the priest’s face. This was not the message he’d been expecting to hear. Well fuck him. This was the truth.

“The other thing I know,” I said after a pause, “is that I’m gonna plant a boot firmly in this monster’s ass before this is all through. You can take that to the bank. Now I think it’s best if you all clear out of here. This service is over. I need the chapel for Raguel’s business.”

The congregants murmured soft acknowledgments as they stood and shuffled out. The priest wasn’t quite so fast to jump. The flash of anger I’d seen before had transformed into something ugly that crawled just behind his, bright, fervent eyes. This guy was as dangerous as a Cottonmouth.

Finally, he offered me a tight-lipped smile, bobbed his head just a fraction of an inch, and departed, the hem of his black cassock swishing around his ankles as he walked. He faltered and glanced back at me over one shoulder. The thin smile was gone and he didn’t even try to hide his sneer. I gave him a little one finger wave, fuck you too, then slapped my hand against the floating orb above the altar. Power rushed through me, and the chapel vanished, replaced by my Soul Vault.