Cracks riddled the walls of the pit. Droplets of condensation collected in these crevices. Horace wriggled his tongue inside those he could reach. It was maddeningly slow work drawing out the water drop by drop, but he didn't have much else to do.

Darkness defined his existence. He had spent a long time huddled on the floor of the pit, battered by thoughts of what would become of him. But after an hour, or five hours—time was impossible to track down here—he forced himself to move around. He avoided the center of the floor where the former occupant had tried to kill him, instead pacing around the circular wall on stiff legs, his right hand keeping contact with the rough brickwork.

The pit wasn't very large, perhaps twenty feet across. He didn't expect to find any handholds in the wall, but he couldn't resist searching for some anyway. He discovered a couple spots where the exterior brick had crumbled away to make rectangular holes, but they were down at knee-height. Reaching into one of them, he found a handful of spiky pebbles. He was putting them back when he realized he was handling teeth. Human teeth. He dropped them and wiped his hands on his shirt, and thereafter he avoided sticking his hands into the small holes. That is, until he found a crack running down the wall. It was too narrow to use for climbing, but his fingers felt the dampness within.

At times he slept and suffered dreams in which he was blind or crazed or both, dreams in which he was the last person in the world, alone in a vast nothingness. He woke from one of these dreams thinking he'd heard a familiar voice. The words were too soft to make out, but he thought it might have been Lord Mulcibar talking. Sitting in the dark, his arms wrapped around his knees, he wondered if Lord Mulcibar was languishing down in one of these abattoirs as well. The nobleman might even be nearby, separated by as little as a few yards of earth and stone, yet so unreachable he might as well have been on the far side of the world. Horace strained to hear the voice again, but the pit was silent except for the sound of his own breathing. He pushed his forehead against the brick wall.

God, why are you doing this to me? Wasn't taking my wife and my son enough? What else do you want? Will you make me suffer until I grovel like a worm? Is that what you need?

Horace shook his head back and forth as a wave of bile rose up inside him, driven by an anger so hot he couldn't contain it.

No! Fuck you and all your saints. I gave you my heart and my soul, and you've never given me back anything except pain. You took Sari and Josef from me, and then you cast me to my enemies.

The words echoed off the walls, and Horace realized he had been muttering out loud. He squinted, trying to see anything in the darkness, but everything was black. He might as well have been blind. The cold was beginning to sink into his bones, making his teeth chatter. The understanding that this was how he would spend the rest of his life, however long or short, motivated him to keep looking for a way out. He shook his wrists, making the shackles chatter. The first step was getting rid of these chains.

He searched for something to help him get the shackles off, but all he could find on the pit floor were slivers of broken brick that were too small and crumbly to be useful. In fact, the more he examined the cuffs, he more he came to realize that he would need a hammer and chisel to break them. The metal was strong, and the chain links joining the cuffs were too thick to break with anything less. He felt the keyholes that locked the cuffs. If only he had a key.

Horace lifted his shirt and felt for his waist. He was still wearing his belt, the length of supple leather joined with a bronze buckle. Taking it off, he sat on the floor and inserted the buckle's thin prong into the keyhole of his left cuff. He twisted it around for several minutes, trying to trip the lock, until his fingers and wrists were sore. Frustrated, he jimmied it harder and dug the prong deeper into the lock with each thrust, until a tiny sound made him freeze. He felt the buckle, and his heart sank into his stomach. The post had broken off.

Horace threw the belt down and covered his face with his hands. It was hopeless. He wasn't a burglar. He was just a—

A simple shipbuilder, right? You've been telling everyone that, but you know it's not the truth. Once, you were a husband and a father, but you let them go and now you're nothing but a failure. Death is all you deserve, so just lie down and close your eyes until it takes you. Or better yet, bash your head against these walls and end it.

He jumped to his feet, ready to give in to his conscience. He raised his head and froze. A light had appeared above him, a tiny circle of yellow. He held still, not even daring to breathe, as a distant sound reached his ears. The jangling of a chain.

A dozen scenarios played through his mind as he listened to the noises. Had Isiratu returned to torment him some more, or was this some new torture? The lowering of the chain seemed to take forever, and every second Horace feared the priests would stop and pull it back up. By the time he could see the links swinging above him, his hands were clenched into hard, shaking fists. Then the jangling stopped. The hook at the end was three feet above his head.

You rotten sons of—

“Grab onto it!” a voice cried from above.

Horace's breath exploded from his lungs as the woman's voice touched his ears. For a moment, he thought it was Sari calling for him, even though he knew that was impossible. Tears came to his eyes as his sorrow was swallowed by a burst of joy. “Alyra?”

“Horace! Grab the chain and we'll pull you up!”

“I can't! I can't reach it yet!”

Moments passed, and then the chain was lowered to within his grasp. He pulled himself up until he could put a foot in the hook. “Got it!”

A giddy sensation filled Horace as he was lifted up the dark shaft of the pit. His fears of spending an eternity in solitude evaporated, replaced by concerns for his immediate future. As soon as he reached the top, he clambered out and pulled Alyra into a tight embrace. She went rigid in his arms, but only for a moment, and then she melted against him. He was content to bury his face in her hair.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

He wasn't sure who he was thanking—God or the pagan idols that ruled this murky land, or some other power entirely—but he let his gratefulness fill him up. “How did you get down here?”

“I had to bring someone.”

Dread washed over Horace as a tall man in black robes stepped out of the shadows by the door. “There are many secrets under Erugash,” a deep voice intoned. “And the adherents of the Sun God do not know them all.”

Horace forced himself to meet his savior's gaze. “Lord Astaptah. You might be the last person I expected to see here.”

“He was the only one I could find who was willing to help,” Alyra said.

Horace held out his hand. “You have my thanks, my lord. But I must ask why you would put yourself at such risk for someone you barely know.”

Lord Astaptah glanced at the proffered hand but did not move to take it. Although they were almost the same height, the vizier seemed to loom taller. His eyes gleamed like discs of electrum in their deep-set sockets. “Today the queen is to wed and lose her status as ruler of this city,” the vizier said. “A circumstance I much desire to prevent. This one convinced me that you would assist my efforts to prevent that from happening.”

Horace looked to Alyra, who was biting her bottom lip. “I see. You were informed correctly. I would help the queen if I can. What do you propose?”

Astaptah reached out and seized Horace's hands. With quick movements, he opened the shackles with a brass key and tossed them into the pit. Horace rubbed his wrists. The skin was broken and raw, but as soon as the cuffs were removed he felt his power return in a surge that made him light-headed.

“The ceremony has already begun,” Lord Astaptah said. “And the priests will not willingly allow it to be stopped. Therefore, force is in order.”

“You mean fighting them. The priests.”

Lord Astaptah drew his hands up into the long sleeves of his robe. “If you would save the queen, yes.”

Horace resisted the urge to look down into the pit. Unless they did something, he would be sent back down there and Byleth would die at the hands of her husband, the new king of Erugash. He looked to Alyra. “Is this what you would have me do?”

“I don't know,” she answered. “The queen has shown little love for the common people of her realm, but the Sun Cult won't stop here. With Ceasa and Nisus and now Erugash under their control, their power throughout the empire will become absolute. I fear what that may mean for all our futures.”

Horace considered it. Arnos and the other western nations had enough trouble fighting a divided Akeshia. How would they fare against an empire united under the banner of a pagan religion? He thought back to the destruction of Omikur. “Fine. I'll do it, but first we must find Lord Mulcibar. I think he's being kept in one of these pits.”

Astaptah's dark brows came together in a fierce line, making him look even more menacing in the dim light. “That was not the bargain. The lady insisted that, once liberated, you would assist me in disrupting the nuptials. To do that, we must go now. Once the vows are spoken, nothing we do will change the fate of this city.”

Astaptah strode out of the chamber before he could answer. Horace ground his teeth together. He had just been saved from a fate possibly worse than death, and now he was being asked to let a friend suffer that same doom without doing anything to help him. But what choice did he have? If Byleth married and control of Erugash passed to her cult-puppet husband, everything was over.

Telling himself that it was what Mulcibar would have wanted, Horace started to follow the vizier out, but Alyra grabbed his arm. “Wait. I need to tell you something. I'm sorry for lying to you. It hasn't been easy these past few years. I didn't know if I could trust you. And I didn't want to put you at risk.”

Horace placed his hand over hers. “You did what you thought was right, and I don't blame you. When I was down in that hole, the thing I regretted most was that I wouldn't see you again. This feels like a second chance at life. A chance to do things better.”

“Horace, I—”

He cut her off. “That's why I need you to do something for me. I want you to get out of here and find a place to hide. Just lay low until this is over, and it wouldn't hurt to be ready to flee the city if things go badly.”

“No, I'm not leaving without you.”

He wanted to shake her but instead placed his hands lightly on her shoulders. “I can't do this—go up there and fight—unless I know you're safe. Please, do it for me.”

“This was my fight before you set foot on Akeshian soil, Horace. I won't leave now.”

Seeing the intensity in her eyes, he relented. “All right. But you'll stay close to me, right?”

“There's one more thing. Your friend Jirom. I met him.”

“You did? Where is he? Is he all right?”

“He's a soldier in the queen's legions. The last I heard, he was marching northwest.”

“Omikur,” Horace whispered to himself. Then, louder, “All right. We'll worry about that later. Right now, we need to help the queen, or all this is for nothing.”

They left the chamber together, out the door and down a dark corridor. Alyra had brought a small lantern. She clutched his arm with her other hand as they walked together, and he was grateful for the contact.

They arrived at a flight of steps. Alyra started up, but Horace hesitated, suddenly not feeling well. He put a hand on his chest. His heart was pounding. He looked to Alyra, so beautiful in the ethereal light. Now he had something to lose again, and it scared him to death.

“Horace?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” He cleared his throat. “I'm fine. Let's go.”

They caught up with Lord Astaptah at the top of the stairs. The vizier stood at the entry to a broad hallway with his head cocked slightly to one side, as if he were listening intently. Horace and Alyra stepped up beside him without saying anything. Horace looked about, trying to determine their position inside the temple. Colorful frescoes decorated the walls and arched ceiling, illuminated by glowing orbs on bronze sconces. They were probably on the ground floor of the main temple structure, but the place was huge. Then he heard something. The distant beat of a drum. He held his breath and strained to hear more. High-pitched notes danced in the air. Pipes, perhaps, but it was definitely music.

They passed a side corridor, down which Horace saw a high oriel window. By the hazy orange cast of the light coming in, it was almost sunset. Astaptah stopped on the threshold of a large chamber. They had reached the temple's grand atrium. A cluster of temple guards stood beside a gushing marble fountain in the center of the chamber, with two red-robed priests in their midst.

Astaptah held up a black cube about the size of a chicken egg. Its sides gleamed with a mirror finish. Horace felt something emanating from it, like a front of cold air, but for some reason it made him sweat. He wanted to ask what it was, but Astaptah threw the black cube into the chamber before he got the chance. It landed at the feet of the soldiers and exploded in a cloud of inky smoke. Tendrils of black shadow slithered out of the cloud to wrap around the legs of the temple guards. Their yells of surprise echoed off the high ceiling as they were pulled into the smoke, where much thrashing and an eerie, sibilant hissing was heard.

Horace started to take a step inside the chamber, but he froze when the nearest Order sorcerer launched twin orbs of orange flame toward him. At the same time, the other sorcerer jabbed the air with a finger, and a line of pure white frost shot across the chamber. Acting out of instinct, Horace summoned his power and formed the emptiness of the Shinar into a hasty barrier in front of them. The fires and the icy ray struck at the same time, battering against the invisible bulwark. Smoke seeped around the edges, and spots of frost formed on the outer shell, but the barrier held.

“Push through!” Astaptah shouted. He held something else in his fist, but Horace couldn't see what it was.

Not sure what the vizier meant, Horace thrust out with both hands. To his surprise, the barrier scuttled a few inches farther into the room. The black smoke remained, cloaking the majority of the atrium.

Alyra reached around his shoulder to point out one of the Red Robes sprinting toward the eastern end of the atrium. “Over there!”

Horace ground his teeth together and attempted to separate the power maintaining his shield into two flows. It was something he had practiced with Mulcibar, though not with much success. Expecting another failure, he was amazed when the zoana divided into two channels. The barrier shook but held together while Horace shaped the second flow into the first thing he thought of—a rope. A lasso of flames lashed across the chamber from his open hand like a striking serpent. The sorcerer, now almost to the wide doorway leading to the sanctum, turned and put up both hands, palms facing outward. Horace saw the counterspell before it landed and turned his left hand in a small circle. The fiery rope slipped past the sorcerer's outstretched hands and wrapped around his neck.

How did I do that?

He was amazed that he was performing miracles that had been impossible for him just weeks ago. On the other hand, a growing unease lodged in his chest every time he tapped into these strange powers. His father had drummed into him from birth the concept that nothing was free, that a man could only truly rely upon those things he sweated and bled over. The sense that there was a terrible doom poised over his head was stronger than ever.

Just let me get Alyra and the queen to safety. Then I'll accept whatever I have coming without complaint.

Working by instinct, Horace tugged on the blazing cord. The sorcerer stumbled forward, smoke rising from around his neck and both hands as he tried to pull the magical rope away. Horace jerked again, and the sorcerer fell on his face hard enough to knock himself out.

Horace let the fiery cord evaporate with a sigh, and panic seized him when the barrier fell as well. But Astaptah pushed past him into the chamber, waving away the lingering smoke. Some of the soldiers were groaning and shaking their heads where they lay; a couple weren't moving at all. The other sorcerer knelt on the floor, groaning as his hands hovered over something small protruding from his stomach. Alyra ran up and kicked him in the head, and the sorcerer slumped over.

Horace hurried over. “You promised you would stay behind—”

He paused when she plucked the small object from the fallen magician and held it up. It was a long dart of silver metal. “It's zoahadin,” she said. “I had some friends make me a few of these.”

Horace kept his distance from the potent throwing dart as he looked around the chamber. Four large doorways exited the atrium in the cardinal directions.

“The ceremony will be on the west terrace,” Astaptah said.

Alyra looked to the ceiling. “That's three stories above us.”

“Yes. And every approach will be guarded by members of the Order. The ceremony has begun. Do what needs to be done.”

“What about you?” Horace asked.

“I will stop anyone else from interfering. Go now if you wish to save the queen.”

The vizier left them, heading across the atrium with long strides. Horace rubbed his hands on his tunic. His palms were tacky with sweat. He had assumed they would be confronting the priests together. The thought of going alone was much less palatable.

I could walk out of here, maybe even escape the city and have a chance at getting my life back. Or I can roll the bones.

He looked to the soldiers scattered across the marble floor. More would die because of him, because of his decision. Their blood would be on his hands, and in the end it might all turn out to be meaningless anyway.

Alyra asked, “Are you ready?”

He knew the answer as he faced the massive doorway to the west. He'd spent the last couple years running away—from his pain, his responsibilities, his future. If he was going to die today, he wanted it to be while he was running toward something. He clasped Alyra's hand, a little harder than he intended, but she squeezed back. They left the chamber together.