Ceryneia wore his hood low enough to obscure his expression. He was too ashamed to show his face. One thousand years ago, the twelve primozlosta had set out to conquer Soleil, but Hiro had crushed their ambitions, taking them captive, torturing them, and tearing out their eyes and manastones. The scars remained to this day, proof of their defeat at the hands of a race they believed their inferiors. They feared nothing more than letting that history be known, and so they had cast aside the names of primozlosta and retreated to the shadows, donning the mask of Orcus.
“If I may, my Lord, was your rightful vessel not destroyed a thousand years ago? If the body of the first emperor cannot contain you, what alternatives are there in the modern age?”
“That will not be a concern. I know now why this body is so frail.”
The Demiurgos grasped his left wrist and pulled. His arm came loose like the limb of a doll, quite literally detached at the shoulder. A new arm sprouted from the stump within seconds. Nonetheless, its flesh drooped like misshapen clay under the pull of gravity.
“Is it as we thought?” Ceryneia asked. “Is this Surtr’s work?”
“No. We thought ourselves into needless knots. The true answer is far simpler.” The Demiurgos turned to the field, extending a hand as if to seize it in his grasp. “But all I require has converged in this place. I have no more need for trickery. The coming battle will ensure that only the strong survive.” His lips curled into a smile as he crushed the field in his fist. “Even the Spirit King shall take part. She can no longer afford to watch from afar.”
“How can you celebrate, my Lord?” The hitherto silent Khimaira stepped forward, his voice laden with misgivings and ragged with anger. His shoulders trembled as he tried to contain himself. “Our forces now equal those of the empire. We have no more reinforcements coming from the north. If the sixth princess is on the field, Nameless has surely failed, and Verona must have fallen too.”
The primozlosta bit his lip so hard that blood trickled down his chin. His grief at the loss of his comrade was audible, but it seemed to strike no chord with the Demiurgos.
“What of it? Would you have me weep for the weak? She has only herself to blame. If she was unable to overcome that battle, she would not have lasted long.”
The Lord’s voice was cold and curt, giving Khimaira no compassion to cling to. The primozlosta fell silent for a long moment. Eventually, he marshaled his courage, struck the ground, and forced himself to continue.
“That is not all, my Lord. Why did you let Surtr slip away? He is surely too dangerous to be allowed free rein. I confess, my Lord, your intentions elude me.”
“Oh, Khimaira. Do you not see?” The Demiurgos looked back with disappointment, his figure silhouetted against the setting sun. “Surtr is still well within my grasp.”
His widening smile was lost in shadow, but the scar encircling his arm shone bright in the sunset.
＊＊＊＊＊
All things had an end. That much was an irrefutable truth. Change came with each passing second, inching living beings closer to death, shifting the face of the sky. Even the land transformed with the passage of time, and the plain that had served as the battlefield was no exception. Once a verdant grassland, its reddening earth was now dotted with the corpses of humans and monsters alike.
As the setting sun assumed its brief place on the horizon, the two sides continued to clash. The humans had left more dead than the monsters, but there was no question which side now had the upper hand. Liz’s reinforcements had instilled the Crow Legion and the rest of the allied forces with a ferocity they had not possessed that morning. Now that they had reformed their broken front line and pushed the enemy back, morale was soaring. It seemed like only a matter of time before the monsters were wiped out entirely. Nonetheless, human bodies had physical limits, and if they overstretched themselves, their offensive would quickly crumble. It was vital to know when to stop, and the crimson-haired princess leading the imperial forces had fought enough battles to know when to cut her losses.
“I daresay we can call this a victory,” Meteia said.
A half-blood with both álfen and beastfolk heritage, she sported a pair of canine ears from her head of white hair. Dead monsters lay on the ground around her, each slain with a precise thrust to a vital point—a sight itself proof of her skill with a blade.
Hiro lay amid the bodies, gazing up at the sky. He looked across to her. “You won the moment you hit them in the flank. Monsters can’t coordinate well enough to recover from that. I’m surprised they held out this long.”
“Keeping an eye on the battle, were you? Then why didn’t you do the same? Those eyes of yours would have made it easy enough.” Meteia patted his cheek and sat down beside him with a heavy sigh.
“Would they? Just because I can see the answer doesn’t mean I can put it into practice.”
“You always did hide behind clever words. I suppose it’s nice to see you haven’t changed, in a way.”
“And what about you? Why didn’t you tell me you were Cerberus? I thought you were—”
Meteia laid a hand on his head, cutting him off. She smiled wryly. “I was. As far as I knew, anyway. Dead as dead could be. I certainly never thought I’d find myself serving my mistress again.” Her eyes narrowed fondly as she watched Liz fight in the distance. “She’s gotten strong, you know. Enough that you don’t have to worry about her anymore.”
“She has. But she’s still missing something.”
Meteia wilted like a schoolchild singled out by a tutor. “I...” Her voice died away, lost in the din of battle.
“I’m guessing you told her,” Hiro said.
“I did, but she didn’t want to hear it. She said she’d find another way.”
A shadow fell over Hiro’s face. “It’s like I thought, then.”
Meteia reached out, grasped his head, and yanked it so it lay against her thighs. “Now, don’t try anything funny,” she growled, “or I’ll break your neck.”