The day dawned gray over Arui.
The priest, with his graying beard and deep eyes, did not ask for names. He did not ask for explanations. He only lit more candles before the altar and prayed in silence, his lips moving without sound, his hands clasped over his chest. The smell of incense mixed with the smell of dried blood that came from outside, from the deserted streets, from the empty houses.
Zirinos did not pray. He sat on a wooden bench, his back against the stone wall, Enyo on his lap. The creature slept, her small, fragile body rising and falling with her breathing. The candlelight reflected off her black scales, a bluish glow that danced with the shadows.
Lindériu stood by the door, his arms crossed, his sword at his waist. The blue and gold armor, covered in dust and dried blood, shone faintly.
"The priest is afraid of you," said the saint, low.
"The priest is afraid of everything. That's why he prays."
"And you? Are you afraid?"
"I am. Of not arriving in time."
"In time for what?"
Zirinos did not answer. He only looked at Enyo.
"The king of the capital summoned the nobles," said Lindériu, after a long time. "The Pope will decide the succession. Lirius and Elisa dispute the throne."
"And the people?"
"The people are afraid. The second sun died. The cold came earlier. The harvests rot. The Aryster are being stoned in the streets."
"The Aryster?"
"Those who live in Endomyar. Those who couldn't flee."
"They blame them for the coming of the masked one."
"They blame them. And they are right."
Zirinos closed his eyes.
"The masked one didn't come from Aryster. He came from the first world. From far away."
"The people don't know that. The people see what the kings show."
"The kings show what suits them."
Lindériu did not answer.
The priest, meanwhile, had finished his prayer. He stood up, knelt, made the sign of the cross. His deep, tired eyes fixed on Zirinos.
"Lord," he said, his voice hoarse. "Your fame arrived before you."
"Good or bad?"
"Both. The peasants call you hero. The nobles call you liar. The priests... the priests don't know what to say."
"Then say nothing."
The priest nodded.
"A woman was here," he said, after a few seconds. "Three days ago. She came from the north. She said hell had opened."
Zirinos opened his eyes.
"Hell?"
"The first portal. They say the demons are coming out. They say the lords have awakened."
Lindériu tightened his hand on his sword.
"Which lords?" he asked.
"I don't know. The woman didn't know. She only said there was black smoke on the horizon and the ground was trembling."
Zirinos stood up. Enyo squeaked, woke up, clung to his tunic.
"Where is the portal?" he asked.
"To the north. On the borders of Lunos."
"To the north?" Lindériu frowned. "The first portal is north of Lunos. But it's been sealed for centuries."
"It was," replied Zirinos. "Now, it's no longer."
The priest crossed himself again.
"May the gods protect us."
"The gods protect no one," said Zirinos. "People protect people."
He left the church. The wind outside howled.
Enyo, on his shoulder, squeaked.
+++
The road south was deserted.
The villages, once full of life, were now skeletons of stone and burnt wood. The doors, broken. The windows, empty. The wells, dry. The smell of smoke and death hung in the air like a black cloud.
Zirinos and Lindériu walked in silence. Their boots sank into the mud and ash. The first sun, pale and sad, was barely visible behind the low clouds.
"What are you going to do?" asked Lindériu.
"Go to meet my people."
"Your people?"
"Mira. Luna. Ethan. Those who are still alive."
"And the portal?"
"The portal won't run away. Neither will the demons."
"And if they destroy everything?"
"Then I'll rebuild."
Lindériu almost smiled.
"You're not a god yet."
"Not yet."
+++
At dusk, they saw the first refugees.
They came from the north, in small groups, dragging children and belongings in wooden carts. Their clothes, torn. Their faces, pale. Their eyes, empty.
"What happened?" Lindériu asked a woman carrying a baby in her arms.
"Hell," she replied, her voice trembling. "Hell opened. The demons came out. They killed the men. They took the children."
"How many?"
"Many. Hundreds. Thousands. I don't know."
Lindériu clenched his fists.
"Where are the soldiers?"
"The soldiers died. The knights too. Only we remain."
The woman continued walking. The baby cried.
Zirinos looked north. The dark horizon seemed heavier than the day before.
"Let's go," he said to Lindériu.
"Let's go."
They quickened their pace.
+++
In the capital, King Zayan received the envoys of Lunos in the palace of white columns.
The dark sky did not frighten the Ban – they were used to the heat, not the light. But the cold that now came from the north worried them.
"The Krakeriares have been reborn," said the envoy, a thin, gray-bearded man. "Marchioness Linda asks for help."
"What help?" asked Zayan, seated on the throne of dark wood.
"Ships. Soldiers. Weapons. Whatever you can give."
"Ban is not a kingdom of warriors. Ban is a kingdom of merchants."
"Merchants also know how to fight. When profit is at stake."
Zayan looked at Magnus Troydís, who was leaning against a column, his arms crossed.
"What do you say, duke?"
Magnus took his time to answer.
"I say the Krakeriares are a threat to everyone. If Lunos falls, the monsters will come south."
"And you want to avoid that?"
"I want to protect my people."
Zayan scratched his beard.
"Then we will send a fleet. One hundred ships. One thousand soldiers."
"And the knights?" asked Magnus.
"The knights stay. We need them here."
Magnus did not insist. He only nodded.
Zayan stood up.
"Zirinos asked for help. We refused. Now, Linda's daughter asks. We accept."
"Linda's daughter is in a coma," said Magnus.
"Exactly. The living pay the debts of the dead."
The envoy bowed and left. Zayan was left alone with Magnus.
"Do you trust the Lunos?" asked the duke.
"I trust that they need us. It's different."
"It is."
Silence settled. The first sun, pale and sad, illuminated the palace of white columns.
+++
In the City of the End, the Pope received the envoys of Lirius and Elisa in the throne room.
The two siblings did not look at each other. Lirius, with dark hair and cold eyes, kept his habitual expression of contempt. Elisa, with black hair and green eyes, maintained her calm, her rationality, the mask of one who has already seen the worst and does not fear what comes next.
"The throne is not inherited," said the Pope. "It is conquered."
"I will conquer it," replied Lirius.
"I will too," replied Elisa.
The Pope looked at both.
"The tournament decides the succession. The winners of each house will fight each other. The last one standing will be crowned king."
"And if neither of us fights?" asked Lirius.
"Then there will be no king."
"And who will govern?"
"No one. Chaos. Death. Famine. It's the same thing."
Lirius fell silent. Elisa as well.
The Pope sat down.
"The tournament begins in one month. Until then, pray."
"Pray to what?" asked Lirius.
"To what remains."
The envoys left. The Pope was left alone.
+++
In the north, near the first portal, the ground trembled.
The cracks in the earth, which had been small, were now large enough to swallow horses and carts. Black smoke rose in thick columns, and the smell of sulfur, of blood, of death, burned in the lungs.
The demons came out by the hundreds.
Small, large, formless. Some with claws, others with wings, others with mouths in their chests. They screamed in an ancient language, but the fear they caused needed no translation.
Trussum, reborn in hell, watched from the entrance of the portal.
His mutilated body, his living flesh, his blue eyes scattered across his skin. His torn mouth showed yellow teeth.
"The hero has returned," he said, his voice sweet. "The liar. The rapist. The murderer."
"The survivor," replied a voice behind him.
Trussum turned. Treiza, the lust, leaned against a rock, her arms crossed, her golden hair shining in the firelight.
"Are you going to kill him?" she asked.
"I will."
"Alone?"
"With my puppet."
Treiza laughed.
"Your ventriloquists never work."
"This time they will."
"You always say that."
Trussum did not answer. He only looked at the horizon.
Zirinos was on his way.