“Before the reign of the Emperor-Tyrant, it was common for magic to be practiced in Arial, but the rule of immortals and magicians was about to end. A traitor from the magicians’ camp who became immortal was the first to make it possible to halt the magicians’ advance. […] And that act, in a way, led to the closing of the Source of Mount Eremian.”

  Excerpt from History of Arial: Between Immortality and Magic, by Y.K. of Miragilde, called the Benefactor, agent of His Majesty the Emperor of Santis Celestia.

  It was now time to take stock of my previous action.

  Rhodo was not ignorant of the secret entrance. Bernos knew it too. But to them, no one else was supposed to know it.

  The ideal culprit was, of course, Athanasius.

  Yet Athanasius had not been present all night, and he had many witnesses who could attest to his departure the previous evening after seeing Soulless. And why would he have come snooping in the middle of the night? It made absolutely no sense. No one here could have wanted to harm the dead girl unless it was in order to strike at the mortal afterward.

  If the mortal had managed to break free, he would have hidden, or attempted to flee. Rhodo, after pricking him again, had made sure of his restraints. He had not moved.

  It was not rare for bodies to get stuck. Stupefied and without real awareness of their surroundings, it happened that they missed a step, fell, became trapped in a room, or even tore off a limb in such cases while trying to escape a dead end. After passing on, the undead only lasted a week or two at best without magic.

  They were mainly intended for surveillance and as a way to signal the necromancer’s presence in specific places—more a clear and effective deterrent than anything else. And that, in every respect, was a success.

  Even the Bad Tooth did not dare approach them, though they would have been completely harmless to him.

  The Tower was an old prison, and people often still thought they could hear strange voices—ancient presences.

  But to lose a head and end up decapitated?

  Someone must have fallen into a criminal, unrestrained mood.

  “Someone entered here. The question is who, and why,” Athanasius had stammered.

  He loved scandals, and he loved seeing people embarrassed—especially if it was an adversary.

  But he quickly found himself in first place among the suspects, and, very embarrassingly, he had to admit he had no idea who it could be.

  Athanasius, who did not know about the secret entrance, argued that Rhodo had badly shut the Tower’s main door.

  When that door opened or closed, it made a tremendous racket across the area.

  However, Rhodo had closed it himself and, this time, placed someone living in front of it.

  Juno had seen nothing and heard nothing strange. The servant was not inattentive, but he had noticed nothing unusual or extraordinary.

  It had not rained. It had been a little cold. And no one had approached the Tower.

  The body and head of the unfortunate girl were removed, and the traces of the deed were wiped away quickly. Sometimes, it was better to move on.

  The ends of a story always ended up being revealed...or not.

  In short: after the discovery of the body, Athanasius was informed, and he hurried home, overwhelmed by events.

  He cursed himself for having trusted the other man.

  I should have placed one of mine in front of the mortal’s door, he told himself.

  But it would have changed nothing, because I did not enter through the main entrance.

  As soon as he returned home, he called for Myosotis. But his brother had already vanished.

  Misery upon misery—where has he gone again?

  Calice told him he had likely gone to see the concubines as usual, or had simply gone to pray in the chapel since Athanasius had not come back earlier…

  Calice would not go into the Tower. It was not a place fit for a young lady. She stayed in the park of their residence, busying herself with her cats, when she saw Myosotis heading toward her and signaling for her to go to the gynaeceum using their private code. He would explain later why.

  She did not like Argon, who followed him, because he did not speak. And she was afraid of him, without being able to confess why, deep down.

  The sun had been up for a good four hours when everyone gathered in front of the victim’s intended chamber, on the first floor.

  It was nearly noon.

  The novice sacrificers were ready, as were their elders: two greying priests under the Patriarch’s direction—presumed immortal until the latest news, yet possessing, by that same latest news, no divine power at all. Still, according to genealogy, he was a descendant of Amaranth.

  The ritual had been organized in haste, and the members of the High Temple had only been notified the day before, in the afternoon.

  The unconscious boy was bathed. He was anointed with jujube and olive oils on the extremities of his body: the soles of his feet, the palms of his hands, and his forehead.They made him bleed at the knuckles behind the knees and at the inside of the elbows. They finished by applying camphor to his chest.

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  Athanasius arrived almost only at the end. And he found his brother sitting downstairs on a bench, with Argon to the right of the entrance door, facing the broad spiral staircase. He called out to him and demanded to know why he was not with the others, as a sacrificer. Myosotis told him he did not wish to take part in this farce. Athanasius scowled and continued upward, muttering into his beard.

  That filthy brat. He always does whatever he wants, he could not help thinking.

  He entered the upstairs room under everyone’s gaze and greeted each of them, thanking them warmly.

  One of the priests whispered a word in his ear about payment, and Athanasius told him it would come in due time, once the act was done.

  There was a man among them who was not part of the congregation.

  He was an apprentice, part of the ACCOSM (Autonomous Civil Company of Student Magicians), originally from outside Arial.

  Magicians traveled very often and shared very little of their esoteric knowledge and lore. Aspirants were not meant to remain in the City; they left after some time, while others entered…

  They sold their skills to the highest bidder, yet remained independent in every respect. Though they were not immortal, their magic allowed them to stand on the level of certain immortals. And it was obvious they were still far from truly powerful, unlike their elders. Normally, curious outsiders were not allowed to enter or participate in religious rituals and sacrifices.

  The clerics shot hostile looks at the intruder, but no one said anything. Their companion had been accepted one way or another, apparently.

  The magician seemed only mildly interested in the unfolding of events and remained mostly in the background.

  The ritual took shape again. After a final prayer to the Weave, the victim’s face was covered with a black cloth.

  Athanasius had, in his youth, both beaten and been beaten. He had witnessed summary executions, the killing of criminals, and brutal, serious assaults. But he had never killed anyone himself in cold blood. Not even directly with his own hands.

  When the oldest priest opened one of the small chests they had brought, he revealed a small forged steel dagger with a flaming sheen.

  On the guard, painted black, one could see on each side a wing of white feathers meant to represent the Archangel’s.

  It was very fine work.

  Athanasius took the weapon in his hand. It was heavier than he had imagined, and he forced himself not to use both hands. He was already almost exhausted, and the day was far from over. He stepped toward the unconscious man with the hidden face, stroking the blade with his thumb.

  Everyone watched from the corner of their eyes.

  He did not know what to do. Should he say something, or prepare to strike immediately?

  He searched for Myosotis with his gaze and remembered then that the latter was downstairs, waiting.

  He was about to send someone to fetch him when the bedroom door suddenly flew open with a violent crash.

  Rhodo entered, followed by a horde of dead at his heels.

  In truth, there were only four, freshly arrived by cart the day before.

  The novices did not seem to understand what was happening. Some wore expressions of disgust at the carrion stench rising from one of the walking corpses, but most were simply terrified. They instinctively backed away from the threat before them.

  An old man claimed the front position to face them.

  The magician suddenly recognized Bernos and seemed to understand at once.

  It was planned. All of this is nothing but a masquerade, he realized.

  The old man recognized him too and widened his eyes in shock, but there were more urgent matters.

  Bernos spoke:

  “Get out.”

  He had arrived from behind, slipping in with a handkerchief over the lower half of his face, covering his nose.

  “Do not stay here.”

  The dead stepped aside somewhat to let people pass, but no man moved.

  “No. Don’t move at all,” Athanasius snarled in response. “Do we get to know what the hell you’re doing here?”

  “You know very well what you did.”

  Rhodo threw a bundle at his face, but the other barely dodged.

  Athanasius motioned for one of the nearest novices to open the bundle on the floor.

  Almost backing away, the novice obeyed anyway, dropping to his knees.

  He screamed as he touched what was inside, and sprang to his feet.

  A bolder man took his place and tore the bundle open.

  What was inside was revealed:

  A snake.

  The same bold man grabbed it by the neck. It was about fifty centimeters long, slick, and dark-colored. It writhed like a fish out of water…

  “Sea snake,” the magician murmured to himself. “So Athanasius really did send a snake… but why today?”

  It was a juvenile snake, no more than one or two years old, and the species swarmed everywhere.

  Their natural habitat was the seas and oceans, as well as all saltwater rivers. The poorest of Arial often fed on their flesh, though it was seen as infected and low quality. Their venom was sought after and used as a drug, while, once older, that venom transformed into an acid capable of burning skin. But the snakes older still—then called dragons—were beyond the reach of common mortals, and they were rarely, if ever, seen near the beaches.

  This time, Athanasius was truly furious—not so much at the scandal, as at the delay the ritual was taking.

  He met the face of his immortal counterpart, who still waited for an answer.

  Misery. As if this day couldn’t get any worse, he raged inwardly.

  The magician stepped toward Athanasius.

  “My uncle, I can probably handle this problem for you.”

  Athanasius did not even have time to turn toward the man who addressed him with such familiarity—so he could beat him properly—when Rhodo cut the intruder off in a dry, final tone:

  “This matter does not concern you.”

  Then he turned to Athanasius.

  “The fact that you tried to poison people under my protection doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. But I’d like to know who gave you the idea.”

  Athanasius frowned, understanding nothing.

  This time, he had done nothing.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but it wasn’t me.”

  He wanted to add this time, but he bit his tongue.

  “I should have killed you the first time, but it doesn’t matter anymore now. Get out of here.”

  Athanasius had gone pale, but he still held the dagger in his hand.

  He pointed its tip toward the necromancer.

  “The only one dying here is you, you bastard.”

  He seized the head of a still well-preserved undead, slit its throat, drove the dagger into its skull, and pulled it back out.

  The corpse collapsed to the floor, neutralized. The assembly no longer dared breathe. They remained stunned.

  “You coward. Without your toys, you can’t do anything!”

  Then Athanasius left the room and announced, without turning back, that he would return immediately. It was obvious to everyone now that he would not return alive—or at least not unharmed.

  The two remaining dead approached the clerics and shoved them toward the exit. Bernos gestured for them to leave the Tower.

  “Don’t stay here. Down. Go on—get out…”

  They had no choice but to comply.

  They left the chamber, then the Tower, with almost no composure or proper posture left.

  The first man to throw himself into the staircase was so panicked he fell face-first and sprained his ankle.

  Another slammed into the doorframe.

  The others pressed forward, stepping on one another.

  None of them dared look back.

  It was complete chaos.

  Bernos followed close behind.

  The magician stayed behind. He pulled the black cloth from the boy’s face. The dead did not approach him, as if a barrier had formed between the two sides.

  “Poor boy. You’re choking.”

  He wore a pretentious smile and a tone almost mocking.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll see each other again soon. Your savior is here—I can hear him coming. There are two of them, actually.”

  The magician almost laughed.

  Soulless saw the man who leaned in very quickly.

  He had brown hair cut very short, and heterochromia: one eye blue, the other black. His teeth were perfectly white, bright. But deep down, his face was utterly ordinary, almost pale. He looked on the verge of fainting—or of being sick.

  Soulless stared at him timidly.

  He was cold and terrified.

  He thought he was going mad, or hallucinating once again. He could not speak.

  At last, the magician left the room, followed by the dead bodies.

  And it was almost at the same moment that Myosotis entered through the secret entrance I myself had used the day before.