The obsidian gates of Dis didn't groan; they parted with a sound like a silk sheet tearing. As the bone-carriage skittered through the streets, Kiron didn't see a city of monsters. He saw a city of order.
The citizens—pale, elegant shades with violet light behind their eyes—moved with a quiet, terrifying efficiency. There was no crime, no shouting, only the steady hum of a machine that had been running for a thousand years.
"They look content," Kiron remarked, watching a group of shade-children playing with marbles made of ghost-light.
"Peace is a powerful drug," the Herald replied. "The Pale-Vane gave them a world without the Zen-Zun's interference. That is a hard thing to argue with."
The carriage stopped at the base of the Spire of Silence. Kiron stepped out, leaving Lament sheathed at his hip. He didn't strut; he walked with a slight limp, letting the "Decline" show on his face. He wanted them to see a broken boy.
He was led into the High Hall, where the ceiling was so high it disappeared into a swirl of violet clouds. At the far end, sitting on a throne of simple, unadorned stone, was the Pale-Vane.
He didn't look like a Usurper. He looked like a scholar. He wore simple white robes and had a face that was disturbingly kind—the kind of face that tells you everything will be alright just before the executioner's blade falls.
"Kiron of the Grave-Blood," the Pale-Vane said, standing up. He didn't wait for Kiron to bow; he walked down the steps to meet him. "You look exhausted, child. Please, sit. Eat. You have carried that heavy blade across half a world of rust."
A table appeared between them, laden with "Echo-Fruit"—clear, crystalline orbs that tasted like the user's happiest memory.
"I am a guest in your house," Kiron said, bowing his head just low enough to be respectful, but not so low that he lost sight of the man's hands. "I thank you for the escort. My friends... they are safe?"
"Your companions at the Gate are under my protection," the Pale-Vane lied—or perhaps he didn't. In the Underworld, 'protection' and 'custody' were the same word. "The Celestial scouts were... dealt with. You may rest here."
"I didn't come for a vacation," Kiron said, picking up a piece of fruit but not eating it. "I came for my home."
The Pale-Vane smiled, and for a second, the kindness in his eyes flickered, revealing the cold, ancient void beneath. "Home is a feeling, Kiron. Not a chair. This city is a delicate clock. If you sit on that throne, you wind the gears too tight. The Zen-Zun will notice. They will bring the 'Solar-Hammer' down on these people to finish what they started a millennium ago."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a fatherly whisper.
"The people don't want a King, Kiron. They want to be left alone. Give me the Lament. I will seal it in the Deep-Vault, and the Gods will lose your scent. You can go back to the surface. I'll even give you enough gold to buy a kingdom in the sun. No more blood. No more ash."
Kiron looked at the fruit in his hand. Through the "Void-Link," he could feel the Lament growling. The sword hated this man. It hated the smell of the room. It felt like a cage.
But Kiron noticed something. Around the edges of the hall, the Revenant Guards—his own guards—were standing perfectly still. They weren't looking at him. They were looking at the Pale-Vane with a terrifying, robotic devotion.
He didn't just take the throne, Kiron realized. He reprogrammed the dead.