Arrin clung onto Ambrose’s memory for he knew the latter torment of his own mind being rent apart was what he would feel as soon as the minister was done with him.

Several days had passed until Ambrose heard it. It was a woman’s voice, clear and everywhere.

“To all who hear this, you have been chosen. The Great Enlightening has begun. It is your choice should you accept it.”

It was Imani, except there was something different in her tone.

He walked off the road to slump against a tree, looking to the white sky.

“Go with those who have swallowed the seeds of ken. Go to the Sundering. Cross it, for you will not be harmed, and you shall be free. You shall know Enlightenment.”

The voice fell silent. The chirruping of birds continued, and he rose to renew his journey.

He avoided the winding routes they had taken before, traveling instead in a straight path through town after town. He slept in modest inns for modest sums, not too high yet not too low to avoid the possibility of waking up naked and coinless. He never took off his grey cloak save for when he was alone in his quarters. The Faith was feared where its reach was strong, where it was weak the people’s fear had festered to hate. There were stories of traveling monks with their priests never returning from their journeys.

One thing Ambrose knew was that the towns were the only routes to the capital, the fallen cities where the Faith’s influence twisted round, and he was headed for its very heart.

One night he felt the scryer in his pouch begin to tremble. He took out the silver locket, and the magister blinked into existence, cowled as ever.

“Prelate Ambrose. It has been some time.”

“I thought you would never reach me.”

“Yet here we are. You have traveled with the Umbrans then. Tell me what you have seen.”

And Ambrose did. He told him of their routes, their magic, their seeds of ken, their Great Enlightening, and its meaning.

The man smiled. “You have fulfilled your end of our bargain.”

“What of my daughter?”

“She is kept in the Circle, blessed each day.”

“You have not cured her, however. Can you even cure her?”

“Do you question the monarchy's power, Prelate Ambrose?”

“I—no. I do not. I just wish to understand—”

“It is not your place to understand,” the man said sharply. “Return to the capital. Go to where we last met. You shall be with your family soon enough.”

His image guttered out before Ambrose could utter another word.

***

The capital of Delphi was a city of two parts. Within was the Circle, home to the monarchy and most esteemed of the Faith. The rest circled round in sweltering heat not cooled by Mythic architecture, an ever growing mass of stone houses decaying to timbered hovels crammed with people, an area known as ‘the Moat.’

Ambrose’s father had told him the easiest ride into the capital was atop a merchant’s wagon. Any tradesfolk entered through a separate gate from the others, wagons headed directly to the city market. There in an area known as the Tent Market the wares of many realms had once been traded until the Haolan Invasion.

Ambrose’s gut clenched, nearly gagging as they passed through the capital’s gates. In his months travelling he had breathed fresh air, not the musty staleness that stuck to his skin, crawling into his nose and mouth. It was of grease, oil, aromas of cooked food, the stench of ripe food, and the people… they smelled of cloying perfume, sour sweat, sickly incense, fragrant mintjog.

The wagon stopped, the farmer getting off with the helping hand of his fledgling son.

“This is as far as we go,” he grunted. “Faith keep you.”

Ambrose nodded. “Faith stay with you.”

He walked into the crowd. The road was long but not longer than the ones he had traveled. Somewhere along his path a youth attempted to brush against him, only to be batted aside by his staff, the failed pickpocket darting past the swarm of people. No one would hinder him from his destination.

The Circle was not yet fully grown, no fallen city to Ambrose’s knowledge ever had. The arch queen had somehow paid a dwarven stoneshaper with whatever they valued to build the encircling wall, smooth at one point in time, now crumbling and weathered. There was only one gate and Ambrose had never seen it open, nor did he need to.

How the Circle’s residents left their lofty spired towers was through the air or beneath the ground – a tunnel network leading out from various points in the city, one of which Ambrose had used throughout his life in the Faith.

He strode down an alleyway in Stone Town, buildings of grey shale roofed with brownish red tiles surrounding him. At its end was a door not made of wood, but thick steel. He rapped his knuckles lightly on it.

The slot slid open by a fraction.

A man grunted. “Name?”

“Wise is the one who looks ahead,” Ambrose replied.

“What is one without the other?”

“Wise is the one who keeps their faith.”

The door slot shut. After several moments of jangling chains and low cursing the door squealed open.

“Have to oil the hinges,” the watchman muttered. “Blasted thing hasn’t opened in months.”

Ambrose entered the dimly lit room. There were three doors in front of him and three on and each side.

The man grunted, gesturing to the doors. One door led to the garrison’s quarters. The others led to the buildings in between, each a small keep of a seeming ordinary nature. Each door, if opened, would lead to his death by the sword sheathed at the man’s hip.

Ambrose knelt to the wooden floor and moved aside a rug, revealing a trapdoor which he raised. A stone staircase descended into darkness.

The watchman nodded and Ambrose stepped down, a cool breeze wafting towards him, his way lit with a soft blue light. At the bottom of the stairs, he reached a tunnel. His boots tapped on the smooth stone alongside his staff, his footfalls echoing in the darkness. Soon the tunnel ended in another staircase. He ascended to veiled sunlight, the open passageway curtained by the foliage of the Outer Gardens. He passed through the curtain of greenery and entered the small woods that ringed the city. Stone villas roofed with ruddy tiles stood between the various plants taken from throughout the realms.

A thicket of Arcadian arbors mixed with more slender trees that Ambrose now recognized as originating from Haol. Blue, pink, and yellow leaves fell with the golden sun.

He recognized the Stoned Quarter of the Faith, its glittering pale spires only shadowed by the tallest tower at the city’s center – the Citadel, home to the arch queen herself. Scarlet banners fell from its tiered levels, archways as large as the gates beyond, the white robes of the mageborn visible moving amongst the levels.

He strode to the Stoned Quarter, leaving behind Imani’s cloak just outside the hidden entrance. People glanced at him when he entered the Quarter; a man with his robe worn and weathered, bearded and matted of hair, holding a gnarled staff. He strode on, undeterred. He knocked upon the wooden door with its brass ringed knocker. Carius, his keeper, gawked back at him.

“Master Quilling,” he whispered. “Please, come inside. Quickly.”

He ushered him past the door.

“Carius, what is the matter?”

“Milord, you were declared a heretic. You must leave this place.”

“Carius, you’re not making any sense. Where is Loralei? Where is Gilda?”

The old man’s stare was hollow and disturbing. “Matron Loralei was taken for questioning. Your daughter is gone. She… passed a few days ago, in her sleep.”

“No.” He howled, “No! No!” He smashed his staff against the marble floor, the walls, and screaming, “Why? Why?!”

Carius flinched and stepped back with sudden fear.

When the staff had been reduced to little more than splinters, Ambrose held the keeper’s shoulders. “Who came here when they declared me to me a heretic?”

The old man quailed in his grip. “It was a Mage. He was hooded in a black robe with a red sash.”

Ambrose nodded. “Thank you, Carius. You have been a faithful friend throughout these years.”

He embraced him, reaching within his cloak to withdraw a hidden dagger.

“What will you do, milord?” Carius asked, voice trembling.

“What I must,” Ambrose whispered back. He drove the dirk into the keeper. He pulled it free, the man collapsing to the white floor, leaving before he could see the pooling blood.

It had to be done. He could trust no one and now knew what he must do. Carius would have died either way. One thing he knew was that Gilda had not died a painless death. She had died, cold and alone, a senseless death.

Ambrose thoughts whirled through his mind as he made his way to the Sanctum. Loralei was no doubt already dead. Whatever trap awaited him in the Librarium would end with his death as well.

He noticed several red hooded figures a dozen paces away, closing in at each flank. The Faith’s guard, unofficially known as ‘Redcloaks’. He broke into a mad dash, the red cloaks running after him.

He entered the Sanctum, a tower higher than the ones that surrounded it, smashing open the wooden door with one shoulder, only to fall through as it was not even barred. Two red guards looked down at Ambrose with mute surprise as he scrambled up, drawing out his dirk to stab at one man’s neck, wrenching away his sword. The other Redcloak unsheathed his sword in time to swing it down. Ambrose dodged the blow and plunged his dagger into the guard, bringing him to the floor.

Ambrose took the heavy wooden bar and secured the door. He tore off one of the red guard’s cloaks, changing hastily into it. The door banged with the clamor of hands and grunts, but it would hold, at least for now.

Despite his racing heart, he walked with a casual step. Up the winding spiral stairs he ascended, passing tier after tier. He heard shouting down below, and so quickened his pace.

As Prelate he had intoned verse after verse of the sacred texts in the Rite of Ascension, the Faith’s duty to maintain and guard the gates leading from their Illuminated Plane to the Eldritch Plane. There each mage would enter and pass their trial… or never return, as was more common.

He knew now that the texts were useless, perhaps the fundamental truths had become muddled after the Age of the Mythic. The Faith knew enough to open the gates, yet no one dared to question what lay beyond. The key was the mage at the focus of the rite. Ambrose had always noticed their black crystal amulets, moving with shadows and whispering with voices, as if they held the darkness prisoner. He knew he had to find one. His only escape now was to enter the world beyond.

He reached the top floor and saw the circle of priests that were reciting their pointless scripture, surrounding the young mage of eighteen years old. The gate roared with its eldritch power, shadow coalescing and fading, contained in its frame.

Ambrose crossed to one of the white columns, the people too enraptured in their futile ceremony to notice him. He took out the orb that Imani had given him, twisting it between his hands and rolling it slowly towards them before facing back against the pillar.

A piercing hum and whine echoed with the bright light that ruptured out from the center of the chamber, followed by the startled cries of the blinded.

Ambrose dashed out and weaved through the stumbling and mumbling priests, tackling the youth down to the hard marble, stabbing him repeatedly though his gut. The boy convulsed and wheezed as his breath was filled with blood. He was no boy however. He had chosen his fate with the rest of them.

Breathless, Ambrose pulled off the young man’s necklace and placed it around his own neck. Ambrose strode into the gate, dagger at the ready.

Arrin gasped. The minister stood from his chair with a weary sigh. A washbasin stood on the table beside them. Ambrose splashed his face with water.

Ropes chafed Arrin’s chest, arms and legs, blisters peeling his skin raw. He realized he had been struggling violently throughout the visions, throughout whatever craft Ambrose had imposed upon him. They were alone now. Ambrose stepped to the hearth, tending its fire with a black iron poker.

“Do you realize what you are?” the man said, his back to Arrin. “What the truth of your line means? The Empire would collapse in on itself should they know your real birthright. It would be a rallying cry for the rebellion. Mage kings and queens will join the fray of this war you do not even understand. That the monarchy does not even understand.” He sat back down. “Come now, don’t fail me yet. This is a war for humanity’s fate, Arrin, and we have only just begun.”

Arrin only whimpered in reply.

The gate. Ambrose had entered it. Passed through to the plane beyond, to a world of… white light. Bright and pulsing, darkness taking up the air, light taking up matter. It was the same room. He looked down at the blood glistening upon his hands, the scarlet trail leading to… the boy. The mage whose life had shuddered and ended at his blade. Except the boy was now a glowing specter of blue light, radiant.

The boy looked to him, but Ambrose was first to strike, his dagger passing through his body. He paused, the boy gazing down at his own hands. The slain mage—his spirit faded away, the boy staring back at him with startled fear.

Ambrose snarled, waving his hands through the spirit’s form, grasping at emptiness. The crystal, what if he removed it? He drew it from his neck, noticing it was the only thing that had remained in its original form. As soon as it was no longer in contact with his person, the world changed. There was no longer any light, just darkness… and the spirit of the mage he had killed was trapped now in his arms. The specter struggled, screaming out in silence for release. Ambrose would not let, both of them falling through the void together.

They fell for an eternity, until they descended to a sea of flickering blue light. Ambrose was reminded of the Oceanum his father had traveled. He crushed the spirit into himself, containing it, possessing it. He felt the boy’s fleeting life through his consciousness, a life of training and hardship. Pain, disappointment, fear, and in one quiet moment, passion.

He was a servant, growing up alongside him throughout their years, and thus their relationship was spent behind closed doors and in secret meetings. They could only whisper of running away together, far from the capital, far from the boy’s family. Yet here they were, his life gone, taken away so easily. Would they have lived out their lives together had he taken the rite a different day? Ambrose felt the boy’s sorrow, his loss.

The shimmering blue faded, darkness brimming to white light once more. The boy’s body was gone, his pooling blood vanished, except for the speckled crimson still shining upon his hands. The gate, a torrent of light, still open after all this immeasurable time.

Ambrose stepped through it once more.

The chamber was dark. There were no bodies, no blood, no guard waiting for him. Ambrose looked up to the sky, moonlight falling softly down from the skylight. An old man, the Watcher, had risen from his bed, gaunt eyes wide open from his eternal vigil. Ambrose walked over to him.

“The Gate…” the Watcher breathed. “It has opened for you. Yet you wear no crystal. How are you… how can this be?” The man noticed his bloodied hands then. “Who are you?” he whispered.

“Who I am…” Ambrose wondered. He opened his hands, staring at the blood staining them. They closed into fists. “It makes no difference. What year is this?”

“The Age of Arch King Krystos, his fifteenth year of reign,” the old man rasped. “At what year did you enter the gate?”

“Long enough it seems,” Ambrose replied, drawing out his dagger in a smooth motion to thrust into the man’s heart. He pulled the blade free as the Watcher toppled forward, wiping it over one scarlet sleeve. Noone could know of his return back into the world. Noone was left to remember him, nor know what he would do. What must be done. He padded down the steps, certain of his fate, and that of the monarchy. It would all fall down. They would all fall down.