Derek limped down the Citadel’s corridor toward the lab, each step slow and deliberate. Pain gnawed at his leg, sharp and relentless, promising a long road before it healed.

  Light poured through the narrow windows, striping the stone walls and floor in bands of gold. The air was cooler than outside yet carried the same heavy dampness.

  From deeper within came the clatter of tools and the clang of metal, echoes of Ithara hammering away at the NOVA. The sound rolled down the corridor as if the Citadel itself had been built to carry every strike of her work.

  The hallway bent into an L. A tall, thin man in ceremonial robes stitched with gold appeared, an ancient tome tucked beneath one arm.

  He stopped at the sight of Derek and dipped into a short bow. “You’ve returned, Cashnar.”

  Derek forced a smile. Just about the last person he wanted to run into. Well, maybe tied with Uriela. “Erasmus Morchant.” Pretty sure that was his name. Derek had always been lousy with names, especially when they belonged to people he’d rather avoid. “What’s the matter, run out of ways to annoy Ithara so you’ve come to bother me instead?”

  A wrinkle creased Erasmus’s forehead before his syrupy smile slithered back into place. “It’s my duty, as you know, to keep an eye on the scholars’ activities here in the Citadel.”

  Derek nodded. “And to run tattletale reports to the Council. Got it. Tell me, Morchant, you got any hobbies that don’t involve spying, or is that the whole résumé?”

  The smile faltered, but to his credit, the man nailed it back into place. When it came to brownnosing, Erasmus had grit.

  Derek could respect that. Also, it made the game more fun.

  Erasmus lifted the book under his arm. “I’m the Grand Archivist of the Citadel. My primary duty is to guard and preserve the knowledge of both past and present.”

  Interesting. Derek scratched at his black beard, now looking more like the jungle they’d hacked through. “Uh-huh. And do you actually read those things, or just parade them around for the aesthetic?”

  Erasmus puffed out his chest and straightened his back. “I’m the foremost expert on the oldest sacred texts in the Citadel. As for more recent tomes—say, Ithara’s research into your armor—I leave the pleasure of studying those to others.”

  Derek nodded slowly. Unfortunately, this bookworm, loyal to Uriela and grating to Derek on a cellular level, was exactly the man he needed. Damn universe. “Well, lucky you, Erasmus. I’ve got a job for you.”

  The man blinked as if Derek had just told him a goblin was dancing on his head. “For… me?” His hand went to his chest.

  Derek smiled. “Oh, yeah. And I think you’ll find it right up your alley.”

  A crease carved deep into the archivist’s brow and stayed there. “What sort of job? I’ve no interest in whatever Ithara is doing with your armor.”

  Derek clapped him on the bony shoulder. “Relax. I wouldn’t let you near NOVA if my life depended on it. This is something else. And no, you don’t get to say no.”

  The archivist’s eyes widened, and he swallowed hard.

  Derek’s grin widened. “See, Erasmus, ever since I got here people keep calling me Cashnar or Messiah. At first I figured it was just harmless crazy talk. Then came those prophecies…” He scratched at his beard. “And they weren’t vague fortune-cookie scraps either. Someone had the highlights of my to-do list before I even wrote it.”

  Erasmus cleared his throat, still on the defensive. “That’s generally how prophecies work.”

  Derek sighed. “Yeah, thanks, Professor Obvious. Then came that little surprise in the town square: a statue. Perfect replica of NOVA. Down to the rivets. A vague prophecy I can shrug off. But that statue? That’s a whole new level of creepy.”

  Erasmus nodded. “That statue is the very heart of the Cashnar Prophecy. The Messiah of Steel.”

  “Right. Only problem is, I’m allergic to blind faith. My system rejects it.”

  Erasmus shifted. “Strange words from the Cashnar himself.”

  Derek shrugged. “Yeah, everyone says that. Doesn’t make it less true. I’ve got this annoying habit of needing actual facts before I buy into something. And that’s where you come in, Erasmus.”

  The man pointed at himself. “Me?”

  Derek nodded. “Exactly. I want to trace this whole Messiah-of-Steel thing back to the source. Who wrote it, where they heard it, and most importantly… that damn statue.”

  Erasmus swallowed. “The… statue?”

  “Yeah, the statue. Not the one standing in the square now—the first one. Who made it, and where the hell they got the idea.”

  “You want the oldest origins of the Messiah of Steel prophecy?”

  Derek grinned. “Bingo. I told you it was a job you’d like. It’s basically a nerd treasure hunt.”

  The archivist’s eyes glimmered. “Well… I admit the task is intriguing. But we’re speaking of tracing back to the very roots of our faith. I must remind you, the oldest tomes are forbidden to the general public.”

  Derek frowned. “Do I look like the general public to you? I’m the goddamn Messiah, remember?”

  Erasmus dipped into a deep bow at once. “Of course not, my Cashnar. I’ll begin the search immediately.”

  That was easier than expected. “Good. Bring me something useful and I’ll even say thank you.”

  “Certainly.” He gave a short bow and started down the hall.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Derek caught him by the arm.

  The archivist froze, brows lifting. “Something else, Cashnar?”

  “Yeah, Erasmus. Let’s keep this between us. You don’t need to run crying to Uriela every time I sneeze. It’s just historical research. We can handle that without the High Priestess’s blessing, can’t we?”

  Erasmus stared for a moment, then nodded. “Of course. No reason to trouble the High Priestess over this.”

  Derek smiled. “See? We’re already bonding.”

  Erasmus gave another half-bow so clumsy he nearly tripped, then hurried down the corridor.

  Derek watched him go. Trusting the man wasn’t an option, but if he wanted answers, he had no choice. Spending years buried in dust and parchment wasn’t in the cards.

  He turned and limped toward Ithara Myreth’s lab, dragging out his steps to catch whatever was happening inside.

  When he’d first brought NOVA to her after returning from Ebonshade, her face had been a jumble of horror and shock. For a heartbeat, he thought he might have to catch her before she fainted.

  Then shock gave way to something else. An edge of panic wrapped in nerves. Even though it was the middle of the night, she’d thrown herself straight into work. He’d tried to tell her he was wiped out and they could deal with it in the morning.

  She hadn’t even looked up. Too tired to argue, he’d shrugged it off and crashed into the bad.

  From the sounds, Ithara was still going full tilt.

  This was supposed to be a collaboration on integrating, for lack of a better word, “magical” systems into NOVA. She wasn’t supposed to be pulling all-nighters just to do basic repairs.

  He stopped in the lab’s doorway and leaned in cautiously.

  The place had always been messy. He’d known from day one that Ithara thrived on chaos. But now it looked like an arcane storm had torn through.

  Man-tall machines etched with runes lay toppled, crystals embedded in their frames still pulsing and throwing shifting colors across the walls. Chunks of raw mineral shot through with glowing veins littered the floor, and a couple of Orbisar spheres rolled loose among them like a child’s forgotten marbles.

  Derek just hoped they weren’t Death spheres.

  On the circular platform in the center sat NOVA… or what was left of it. The front plating had been stripped away, exposing a tangle of power crystals, plasma conduits, and circuit boards. Some panels had been stacked neatly on the floor, others scattered like she’d tossed them aside mid-thought.

  A pile of crystals shifted, spilling a rainbow cascade at Derek’s feet.

  From behind the wreckage, a head of curly copper-brown hair popped up, grin triumphant. “Found it!”

  She raised it in her scarred hand like a trophy, a green crystal glowing brighter than the rest.

  “Well done, Ithara,” Vanda said through NOVA’s speakers. “Now install it near the right shoulder’s power conduit.”

  Ithara beamed. “Of course, dear. I’ll do that right away.”

  Dear?

  “Do what?” Derek asked, aiming for commanding officer but probably landing closer to grumpy guy with a limp.

  Ithara turned, her smile fading. “Oh. Good morning. How are you?”

  He sighed. “My leg’s on fire, my head’s pounding, and I’m starting to think the medical staff here is imaginary. Don’t you also run the infirmary?”

  She blinked. “Oh, right. I meant to check on you last night, but… I got caught up working and forgot.”

  “Wow. Top-tier patient care. And you, Vanda, what’s your excuse, or do I get the ‘forgot-the-pilot’ package from both of you?”

  “The same, Derek.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You do realize if I’m not functional, NOVA’s just an expensive paperweight, right? Fixing her up includes fixing me.”

  Something bright flew at his face, and he caught it on instinct. A pale green cube, its glow so faint it was hard to say if it was real at all.

  He looked up. Ithara gave him a nod.

  “Why’d you throw me a rock?”

  “It’s a Life-infused stone. Or I think it still holds a little. Keep it near where it hurts, and if the pain doesn’t fade, come back to me.”

  “Wonderful. Fantasy painkillers, now in cube form.”

  She turned back to NOVA.

  Derek studied the stone, drew a breath, and pressed the crystal to his thigh.

  He hobbled closer to NOVA. “Mind explaining what the hell you’re doing? Or is this one of those surprise-upgrade situations I don’t get to approve?”

  “Derek,” Vanda said, “this stopped being solely your project the moment the Repair Bots installed the first crystals.”

  “Uh-huh. And that was me being polite. Here comes the repeat version: what are you doing to NOVA?”

  Ithara glanced up. “Sorry, what was the question?”

  He rolled his eyes. “The only one that matters. What. Are. You. Doing. To. My. Armor?”

  “Oh, your armor, right, sorry. As you can see, we’re building a containment field for the Death energy flowing into her arm.”

  He froze. “A containment field for… what now?”

  “For the Death energy, obviously,” Ithara said, all sunshine.

  “Obviously,” he echoed, with far less enthusiasm. “And why would I need that? NOVA’s never needed a force field—especially inside the hull.”

  She gave him a look as if he’d just asked whether water was wet. “Because if we don’t, you’ll die.”

  “Yes, Derek,” Vanda added. “Ithara explained that prolonged exposure to that type of energy, even without channeling it directly, can damage more than your body. It could alter you mentally. Your perception of death itself would change.”

  Derek frowned. “Perception of death? Vanda, I’m not following. How do you even perceive death?”

  “According to Ithara, you would lose the normal emotions tied to it. Fear of dying. Grief for others. You might even begin to feel pleasure in killing.”

  He blinked. “So… basically it’d turn me into some kind of psychopath.”

  Ithara smiled. “That’s why we’re building the containment system.”

  He scratched his head. “Containment system, huh? Sounds almost like real tech. We’re still talking about magic nonsense though, right?”

  “That’s the proper term,” Ithara replied. “You should start using the technical vocabulary.”

  “Vanda, how about you put it in actual science-speak? ‘Death energy’ is about as specific as ‘bad vibes.’ Have we figured out what it really is yet?”

  “Yes, Derek,” Vanda said, still upbeat. “That radiation induces an entropic increase, triggering rapid and irreversible cellular decay. It affects all living tissue.”

  Derek swallowed and tugged up his sleeve, flexing his fingers. Nothing looked wrong. “So… am I already rotting?”

  “Only superficially,” Vanda replied. “You may notice some skin cracking, like a mild sunburn. Nothing serious. For now. NOVA absorbed 99.65% of the radiation.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, because if 0.35% is enough to give me a sunburn, I can only imagine how fun the full dose would be. No wonder this sphere type is banned anywhere that isn’t suicidal. And… what about my mind?”

  A shiver ran through him. “Am I about to turn into some kind of serial killer?”

  Ithara stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Isabelle is dead.”

  Derek’s heart skipped a beat. “W-what?”

  The scholar smiled. “Just kidding. Quick test. If you felt sorry, your mind’s still working fine.”

  Derek stayed silent. What he felt for Isabelle after what she’d done to Alyra was a tangle. He didn’t want her dead, not really. But how sorry had he been in that split second when he thought she might be?

  Ithara turned away and grabbed some absurd wheel-shaped device that glowed as it spun. She held it near NOVA’s arm, then pulled it back. Each time it drew close, the glow flared and the spin quickened.

  Then she froze, blue-gray eyes locking on him as if she’d just seen a ghost.

  Derek shifted. “What? Do I have spinach in my teeth or something?”

  “When you used the Death sphere’s power at Ebonshade… what did it look like?”

  He raised his arm. “Like a giant blade had replaced NOVA’s arm.”

  “What kind of blade?” Her pupils were blown wide.

  He frowned. “Curved, like a—”

  “A scythe?” she cut in.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Yeah. Weird, but not even top ten weird since I got here.”

  Ithara bit her knuckle and lowered her gaze.

  “What now? Don’t tell me there’s a horror story attached.”

  She looked up. “Reaper’s Curse.”

  “Try that again, but less creepy and more understandable.”

  “Reaper’s Curse. It’s the malediction tied to this power, the Blade of Death. Many cultures have names for it. The jungle tribes call it the Drinking Scythe.”

  “Yeah, none of those names are screaming ‘safe to use.’ Skip the ominous branding and tell me the actual problem.”

  She shook her head. “It’s a blade cursed by Orbisar himself. Its power grows with every life it takes, and it feeds the wielder’s desire to kill.”

  “I didn’t feel anything like that when I used it. My desire to kill was… y’know, factory standard.”

  “You haven’t used it on the living yet. Against the undead, it’s effective because it cancels the Life power animating them.”

  She gripped his arm. “But be very careful if you ever use it on the living. You could lose control. There are tales of soldiers who turned it on their own comrades.”

  Her hand slipped away as she stepped back, face pale. “Once that power starts flooding into you, you’re no longer the one wielding the weapon. Death magic wields you. It makes you Death itself.”

  Derek ran a hand down his face. “Great. So if I’m lucky, I just die. If I’m not, I get cast as the World-Destroying Demon. Perfect.”

  Suddenly, Tunga’s words about him bringing ruin to the world didn’t sound so ridiculous.

  “Ithara, make sure that containment system works.” He swallowed hard. “Otherwise, I’m probably going kill you.”