The first sun had not yet set when the first village fell.
Andy Decatry received the news in his office, standing by the window, his hands behind his back, his silver-blue hair shining in the pale, sickly light that remained in the sky. The sea outside was black and agitated, and the seagulls that once filled the air with their cries had disappeared. Delluzio entered without knocking.
"Duke," said the knight, his voice grave. "The peasants of Mercius have revolted. They refuse to hand over the grain. They say the count is robbing them."
"The count has been robbing them for years," Andy replied without turning around. "The difference is that now the sun has died and fear has awakened."
"And the harvests? With the second sun gone, the fields will suffer. The cold has already come earlier."
"Let the harvests rot. The living are what matter the most. The harvests can come later."
Delluzio hesitated.
"And the academy?"
"The academy can protect itself. I can't be everywhere, Dellu'."
The knight left. Andy stood alone, staring at the void where the second sun had once burned.
---
In Mercius, Count Mercudoth's castle buzzed with activity.
Servants ran from side to side, carrying silver chests and scrolls. The guards, in dented armor, watched the doors with tired eyes. The count, seated at the long table in the dining hall, his ringed fingers drumming on the wood, listened to the report of his councilor.
"The peasants of Asphodel refuse to work," said the thin, gray-bearded man. "They say the second sun died because of us."
"Because of us?" Mercudoth laughed. "The sun died because a madman in a beige mask closed his fist. I'm not to blame."
"The people don't know that. The people see their lords eating roast meat while they go hungry, my lord."
"The lords work to eat. Don't they?"
"The lords inherit. It's different, my lord. Please, don't take me wrong, but they need to eat in order to work."
Mercudoth banged his fist on the table. The rings clinked.
"Then fuck them. If they don't want to work, let them die. I have grain stored for the winter. Who cares about these peasants!"
"Winter has already come, my lord. And without the second sun, it will be longer than usual."
Silence settled. Marco, the heir, who was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, took advantage of the pause.
"Father," he said, his voice calm. "Let me go to Asphodel. I'll deal with the peasants."
"Deal with them how?"
"With iron or fire. Whatever is faster."
Mercudoth looked at his son. His narrow, evaluating eyes.
"Don't kill them all. We need arms for the harvests, my son."
"I won't kill them all," Marco replied, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Only the those who tries something."
The count nodded. Marco left. Márcia, who had been silent, touched her father's arm.
"Marco is going to kill innocent people," she said, her voice low. "And you know it, my father.
"Innocent people are the ones to revolt faster than others.."
"Yes, it might be tru, my father, but... they're hungry and hunger isn't revolt: it's desperation."
Mercudoth didn't answer. He only drank his wine.
---
In the Graylor islands, Morgana received the news of the sun's explosion with a smile.
The castle, once proud, was now decaying – the stone walls covered in moss, the carpets worn, the servants few. The countess, with her dark blue hair and cold eyes, sat on the throne of dark wood and called her captains.
"The second sun has died," she announced loudly. "The world is in chaos. Our enemies are distracted."
"And our allies?" asked a captain.
"We have no allies. We have prey, captain."
Morgana unrolled a map on the table. She pointed to the coast of Eladir.
"Send ships. Attack the fishing villages. Steal the fish, burn the houses, kill those who resist."
"And the survivors?"
"Enslave them. We need arms for the mines and I need a litle boy by my side."
Kamia, her sister, who was sitting in a corner, her face pale, intervened.
"Morgana," she said, her voice low. "This is madness. Eladir hasn't attacked us." She did not talk about the "I need a litle boy by my side"; if she ever said anything about it, she would probably get hit with a piece of wood.
"Not yet."
"They are dying of hunger. Like us."
"That's why we're going to rob them."
Kamia didn't answer. She just left the room.
Morgana was left alone, her eyes fixed on the map.
The second sun died, she thought. But I will rise from the ashes.
---
In Eladir, Count Nuno received the envoys of Graylor with a dry handshake and a look that did not hide his distrust. Morgana's men, dressed in dark clothes, proposed an alliance: fish for grain, protection for trade.
"Your countess wants our hunger," said Nuno, his voice calm. "Not our friendship."
"The countess wants to survive," replied the envoy. "Like everyone else."
"Surviving at the expense of others is not surviving. It's just killing."
The envoy didn't answer. He just took his leave and left.
Joanne, Nuno's wife, approached.
"They're going to attack us," she said. "Morgana won't give up."
"I know."
"And you? What are you going to do?"
"Defend my people, of course.."
Nuno called the captains. The orders were given in low, quick, efficient voices. The fishing villages were evacuated. The soldiers positioned themselves on the cliffs. The fishing boats, transformed into warships, set out to sea.
Sofia, the saint, who had been staying at the castle since fleeing Aryster, appeared in the meeting room.
"Count," she said, her voice trembling. "I can help."
"Help how?"
"I have divine power. And my spells... mana still works."
Nuno looked at her. Her pale face, her red eyes from crying, her shaking hands.
"You're still scared," he said.
"I am. But fear won't stop me."
"Then stay. And fight."
Sofia nodded.
---
To the south, in no-man's-land between Mercius and Graylor, Treiza and Trainur walked side by side.
The dark sky, without a second sun, did not bother them. Neither did the cold. They were demons. Discomfort was for mortals.
"Your plan failed," said Trainur, his voice deep. "The saint didn't die. Zirinos is in hell."
"My plan wasn't to kill the saint," Treiza replied, her voice sweet. "It was to sow discord. And I succeeded, didn't I?"
"Discord doesn't win wars."
"Discord weakens armies. And then we attack. it's by attacking that we win wars, Trainur."
Trainur didn't answer. He just continued walking.
Treiza looked at the horizon. The lights of the villages, in the distance, shone faintly.
"Zirinos will return," she said after a long time. "And when he returns, he'll be worse."
"Worse for whom?"
"For everyone."
---
In the City of the End, the Pope received the envoys of Lirius and Elisa on the same day, at different hours.
The throne room was immense, of white stone, with marble columns and stained glass windows telling the story of the world. The Pope, an old man with a long beard and deep eyes, sat on the ivory throne and listened.
Lirius's envoys offered gold, lands, titles. Elisa's envoys offered justice, peace, reason.
"The king is dead," said the Pope, when both had gone. "The sun as well. And now they want me to choose a successor."
The councilor, a thin man in black robes, inclined his head.
"Your Holiness will choose whom?"
"What is best for the kingdom."
"And if both are bad?"
"Then I choose the least bad. Or let them kill each other. It's the same thing."
The Pope stood up. He looked out the window. The sky was dark. The first sun, pale and sad, illuminated the land as it had never illuminated before – alone, fragile, doomed.
"The cycle begins again," he murmured. "And I am tired, really tired."
The councilor did not answer.
---
In hell, Zirinos dragged himself across the ash plain.
His hands, still bleeding, left a dark trail in the dust. His legs, broken, hung behind him like two useless burdens. The backpack, pressed against his chest, pulsed. The egg had not yet hatched.
The void remained. The hole where Mira, Zerane, his father had once been. But now, at the bottom of the hole, there was a dull pain – a pain that wasn't physical, but that tightened his chest as if someone were squeezing his heart.
He dragged himself forward.