The tides of fate ebbed. They beat against the shores of Orlen’s mind, their rhythm as unreadable as the stars in the night sky. There was knowledge in the lapping of the waves. Whispers of the future and glimpses of what was to come were swallowed somewhere deep within the ocean of what was to come.

  Orlen couldn’t have cared less.

  The desires of the universe were worth less than the shit of a fly. Natural law, the commandments of man, the rules of reality… all vile. Limitations and bindings on the true freedom that every being should have possessed. They were the bindings of an uncaring reality.

  Order was a lie. It was nothing but the whims of those who were too scared to face their lives under their own power. But that vile lie permeated through every aspect of existence like an infectious rot. It had taken such a firm root in everything that it had managed to class itself as an absolute.

  Nearly everything had been convinced of Order’s omnipotence. Reality had been turned to a stringed doll that danced to the movement of a terrified puppeteer’s hand. This life was a cursed one. To live under the whims of another was not to live at all.

  Even Orlen’s own followers lacked true understanding. Their desires were in the right place, but they sought the same thing that every single mortal did. Conformity. Safety. Leadership. They were all so eager to throw away everything that made them alive.

  It disgusted him. But he did not blame them. One could not blame the wax for burning when all it had ever known was the candle flame. The poor, misguided souls could never understand just how wrong their path was until they had been stripped bare of the bindings that Order had placed on them all.

  But he persisted.

  Orlen existed in spite of his existence.

  And yet, in spite of all that, there was very occasionally something interesting enough to draw even his attention. There was a flicker of something new. Something different. A trace of existence that hadn’t fallen in line with the other marching soldiers.

  It was usually faint. Distant. Little more than the vaguest of reminders that Orlen was not alone. Somewhere out there, there were more like him. More than had seen the truth.

  He’d sent every fragment of his soul outward in search for them. There were pieces of his mind that had gone to never return. There were pieces that weren’t his at all, but they’d made their way back to him nonetheless.

  For more time than Orlen could recall, he’d searched. Enlightenment could not be achieved in complete isolation. Order would never permit him to achieve what he sought. Not on his own.

  There had to be another. Only in the inevitability of death did life hold value. True innovation could only be found in conflict. And for hundreds of years, there had been no living being on this planet that could give him the challenge he sought.

  That was not to say there were none more powerful than him. Orlen knew his limits better than most knew their own face. A number of mages in this world held more raw strength than he did.

  But they could not defeat him. There was more to power than runes. Magic was only an aspect of the soul. A proper fight, a war that was truly worth waging, was a battle of wills. It could force both combatants to evolve. They would strip each other bare, carving the weakness from their souls until nothing but their ideals remained.

  That was the only way to become greater than they had been.

  It had been so long since Orlen had faced such a challenge. All those who had been able to pose such a thing were long gone. They were complacent. Satisfied with ideals that were worth nothing more than a pile of sand at a beach. Such mages could not do anything but fight. Defeating them would be a hollow, worthless victory.

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  So he had slept. He had waited. He had known that, one day, reality would shift.

  It was inevitable.

  Order had one fatal flaw. Just as life and death could not exist without each other, Order could not preside over anything at all if there was no concept of its absence. The existence of Order commanded that Chaos must also exist.

  Any perfectly organized system would eventually find Chaos winding through its roots, rearing up to consume that horrible perfection with complete and utter freedom.

  And after all these years of waiting, it had arrived.

  Orlen had finally returned to find it winding through the roots of this world. It was there in the Damned Plains, where an old fossil who had long since given up any passion had suddenly woken once more.

  It had reared its head in Arbalest, before the Long Night had consumed everything.

  And now it was here.

  Orlen could taste it. The Apostles of Decras stirred. The Church of Repose murmured. Ancient powers stirred. He was not the only one that had awoken. There was excitement in the air, as if the world itself knew what was coming.

  But, for some reason, Order had not reared its ugly head. It seemed blind to this world. That was a rare occurrence. But it was not one that Orlen would allow himself to pass up. He did not have long.

  Even now, his lucidity waned. He could feel the fragments of his mind starting to drift once again. It would not be long before he fell asleep once more. Any actions he took would have to be fast.

  Though the one he sought had arrived, they were not yet strong enough.

  That would have to be changed.

  Orlen’s eyes focused. He pulled his attention back to the room his mortal body stood in. It was empty save for one soul, a large, broad-shouldered demon. The corner of Orlen’s lips twitched.

  “Og,” Orlen said.

  “Herald,” Og replied, lowering to one knee and bowing his head. “We await your command. Long have we waited for your return.”

  “And longer you will wait,” Orlen replied. “My grasp is tenuous. Though the roots of Chaos spread, the tree has not yet sprouted.”

  “We are cultivating multiple options,” Og said. “The Truthseekers are prepared. The False Heralds have started to arise. Many have already fallen. I must admit that I had held out hope for one. I had thought him to be the one — but he perished. Despite that, the ones that persist… they are powerful. The time has never been closer.”

  “A statement that is more true every time you say it regardless of what may have occurred. Such is the passing of time. It never flows backward,” Orlen said dryly. “I am mad, Og. Not a fool. There is a difference. But you are correct. The tides of chaos are louder now than they have been in a very long time. And do not put hope in anything but what has already happened. To hope is to expect. You may only hope when you posess the power to take what you desire from the grip of the universe itself.”

  “I will not forget,” Og promised. “Then, is it time to—”

  “No,” Orlen said. “Who do you think would possibly be worthy? Certainly not you. Certainly not the Apostles, nor the followers of Renewal, nor any of the factions who scheme to rule over dirt.”

  “Then what would you have us do?” Og asked. “We have waited for long, Herald.”

  “And I have waited for longer,” Orlen replied. “The dawn of a new age is upon us. There will be more than enough to do in very short order. But you may continue the preparations. Hone the False Heralds. Sharpen the ones that can be sharpened. Shatter the ones that cannot.”

  “We will do as you command.” Og bowed his head. “Do you have any other commands? If your time is waning, what should I do until you return? Will it be another hundred years? More?”

  “Less,” Orlen said. He tilted his head to the side. A minute passed in complete silence before his head returned to its former position. The dissonance ringing in his skull was getting louder and louder. He had been aware for too long. “Far less. It will not be long at all. And you will do as you have done… with one change. I feel movement. Toward the Coral Empire.”

  “The Tournament of Heaven’s Path,” Og said. “Warriors from all over Obsidia are all going to it to prove themselves and seek recognition from the gods. At least one of the False Heralds will be present.”

  “Dogs begging for scraps,” Orlen said. “But pay that tournament attention. I feel Chaos stirring. Something comes, Og. Something that we have not seen in centuries. It began with the fall of Arbalest… or perhaps even before that. Do not allow this to slip between your fingers.”

  “I will not,” Og swore. “We have been preparing for a long time. None of the factions have the faintest idea as to how far our reach stretches.”

  “Then go,” Orlen said. A faint smile pulled across his lips. “Do whatever must be done to create my whetstone, Og. Forge a warrior strong enough to kill a god. Forge a warrior strong enough to kill me.”

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