Most important, Rexol was teaching her how to draw on the Crown. The Talisman had seemingly limitless reserves of power she could tap into, as long as she was careful.
Your caution is a by-product of what you learned in the Monastery, Rexol told her. It is holding you back.
Cassandra knew there was no point in arguing with him. The wizard was far too rash; even the destruction of his physical form hadn’t quelled his recklessness. And for all the wisdom he had shared with her, his imprisonment inside the Crown had clearly driven him insane.
Each time she drew from the Crown, she felt Rexol lurking. Watching and waiting for her to drop her guard so he could swoop in and seize control of her body, as he’d done when she placed the Talisman atop her head during the battle with the Crawling Twins. But Cassandra wasn’t about to let the mad wizard escape again. Instead of wearing the Crown, she would only reach out to it with her mind, barely brushing up against the edges of its power.
Even that was enough for her. The injuries to her legs were almost completely healed; she was able to stand and walk without pain. In another day or two her limbs would be fully restored.
Why wait another day? Do it now! You know you can if you just dare to wear the Crown!
She was grateful to Methodis for all he had done for her, but soon she would be ready to leave his care. The army of Inquisitors outside Callastan only added to her urgency to leave, but she had to be careful. Methodis had warned her there were rumors that the Pontiff had agents inside the city looking for her. But that wasn’t the only problem she faced. Even if she could slip past the Order and leave Callastan, she still had no idea where to go.
—
Daemron feels it in the back of his horned skull—a faint but relentless thrumming, like the waves beating endlessly against the shore. At first he tries to ignore it; he has other troubles on his mind. His armies grow restless, impatiently waiting for the Legacy to fall. Centuries of pent-up anger and frustration simmer and bubble, and his generals are not strong enough to keep it from boiling over in skirmishes among the troops.
Sometimes his soldiers argue over who must take next watch. Other times, one is caught stealing rations from another. The fights typically end in bloodshed. The losers that survive these confrontations are immediately culled: crucified to serve as an example for the rest. Supplies are scarce, and weakness will not be tolerated.
Daemron does nothing to quell the sporadic outbursts of violence. It means the troops are primed for battle. The war they are about to fight will not be won with discipline and tactics; fury and rage are the hallmarks of his forces. Yet he also understands the precariousness of his position. If the Legacy does not fall soon, his troops will tear each other apart.
Or finally turn against me.
If the generals feel he is waiting too long—if they start to believe his promises that the Legacy will fall are nothing but a trick to hold on to power—they will betray him. He is still far stronger than they can imagine, but together they have the numbers to overwhelm him.
For now, they are scattered—each leading a portion of his forces deployed in search of locations where the Legacy is most fragile. When the barrier finally collapses, it will not come down all at once. Chunks will crumble and fall away, exposing portals that connect to the mortal world. He can use these portals to send his army through and begin the invasion…but first they must be found.
A dozen military camps dot the barren landscape of his kingdom, separated by many leagues. He visits each one every two or three days, soaring above the troops so they see him, watching from above—a constant reminder of who they serve.
But today he must cut his rounds short. The pounding in the back of his head has become too insistent to ignore. At first he dismissed it as the distant rumblings of Chaos, seeping through the fraying Legacy. Now, however, he recognizes it for what it truly is: a call from his Minions in the mortal world.
He is loath to abandon his army, even for a day—their leash must be kept taut. But he must heed the call, and so he returns from the camps to his now-abandoned capital city. With powerful beats, his wings take him high above the spires of his castle, to the dome above his inner sanctum. Then he folds his wings and drops like a stone, plummeting through the hole in the roof and hurtling headfirst toward the floor.
At the last second he unfurls his wings and flips around, landing on his feet hard enough to send a reverberating crash echoing off the walls of his sanctum. The stone floor beneath his hooves cracks from the force of the impact, sending up a small cloud of dust, but he cares nothing for the damage. He has turned his focus back to the mortal world, and now he realizes everything here—the city, the castle, even his inner sanctum—is worthless and wretched.
The pounding in his head continues, like an angry, urgent fist hammering on a door. He takes a deep breath, forcing a calm to fall over him. He closes his eyes and pushes away thoughts of the approaching invasion and his fears of betrayal, leaving only a vast emptiness inside his mind.
Instantly images from the mortal world rush in to fill it: the fall of the Monastery at his Minion’s hands; the splintering of his followers; a dragon, slaughtered by the power of his Ring; the rise of the ogre; armies marching into battle; the return of the Guardian; and, finally, Chaos unleashed by the Crown and a city under siege.
His eyes snap open as the scattered images assemble into a message from Orath—a warning and a cry for help. The Children of Fire—the four mortals touched by his spell from long ago—are far stronger than even he imagined. They haven’t just found his Talismans—they are actually learning to control them. Of the Minions, only Orath still lives; one lone survivor from seven of his most powerful followers. And despite the destruction of the Monastery, the Order still survives…and they are close to recovering the Crown.
Daemron tilts his head back and bellows his rage to the sky. Orath has failed. His mission was to find the Talismans and bring down the Legacy. Instead, the mortals now have the weapons they need to stand against his army. Perhaps they even have the power to kill an Immortal.
He takes deep, angry breaths, snorting like a bull until he regains his composure.
All is not lost. The Children of Fire are using the Talismans, but they still do not understand their true nature. And they have not all joined forces yet. There is still hope.
A plan begins to form in his mind, a way to hasten the fall of the Legacy. He recalls his recent dream: the Old Gods, gathered at the Keystone to enact the ritual that banished him. He didn’t understand at the time, but now he knows the purpose of the vision. He realizes there is a way to make sure he knows exactly where the first breach will happen.
Sending a reply to Orath will be difficult, but he has reached across the Burning Sea to touch the mortal world before. This time will be easier than the last; the Legacy is fading, and instead of having to navigate the vastness of the Burning Sea he can simply retrace the path of Orath’s message back to the source.
For a few days he will be drained: exhausted and vulnerable. But the generals will be too busy to plot against him during that time. He will send out orders that the scattered camps must be struck; the generals must rally his entire army at a single location. The Legacy is still strong at the Keystone, but that is where the invasion will begin. And, if his plan works, the Children of Fire will be the ones who open the way.
—
Orath hadn’t left the cellar since performing the ritual that sent the call out to his master. For three days he’d waited patiently for the inevitable response, so when it finally came he was eager to receive it.
Like his own message, it arrived in the form of disconnected images, one rolling into another in a rapid-fire stream. But Daemron’s call was far more powerful than the one Orath had sent out. When the Minion opened his mind, it was nearly overwhelmed by the raw power of an Immortal’s will flooding in.
His head snapped back and he hissed in pain, the images searing his thoughts as they burned them
selves indelibly into his consciousness. But with the suffering came knowledge, and as the pain slowly faded away Orath understood the trap his master had set.
He was not the only one who would be affected by Daemron’s call. There were some among the mortals—prophets and Seers with Chaos in their blood—who would pick up echoes and reflections of what Orath had seen. But they would only see what Daemron wanted them to see: carefully crafted visions to lure them into the trap.
Orath still had to play his part, of course. So far he had failed in his mission; Daemron was clearly displeased. Yet there was still a chance to redeem himself. The growing army of monks and soldiers just outside the city walls was not part of his master’s plan; he could not allow the Crown to fall back into the Order’s hands.
The Crown must be brought to the Keystone.
The Children of Fire had found the Talismans. They had called upon their ancient power and unleashed Chaos into the mortal world. But now that power was about to be turned against them.
—
Cassandra stands on a beach of white sand, the waves of the Western Sea lapping against the shore at her back. A massive obelisk of black obsidian stands before her, reaching up fifty feet into the sky.
She takes a slow step forward, inexorably drawn to the smooth, dark stone. As she draws closer she sees runes carved into the sides, and she can sense something moving beneath the surface of the rock.
It reminds her of the Monastery. The spirits of devoted monks who passed from the mortal realm lived on inside the stone walls, watching over their brethren in the Order. Like the True Gods, they sacrificed themselves so that their essence could help protect the Monastery and keep its enemies at bay.
“But the Monastery has fallen,” Rexol reminded her.
In her vision, the wizard wasn’t speaking from inside her head; he was standing beside her, his body whole once more.
Ignoring him, Cassandra reaches out and lays her left palm against the obelisk. The stone surface is warm from the sun, and she can feel it tingling beneath her touch.
The sky above them explodes in a panoply of colors—millions of bright beams of red, blue, yellow, and green shoot back and forth, interweaving to form a massive dome of brilliant white light.
“The Legacy!” Cassandra gasps, awestruck at the beauty of the final gift the True Gods bestowed upon the mortal world.
She had never heard of the Keystone before—if the Pontiff or any in the Order knew of its existence, they had never shared their knowledge with her. Yet as she stared up in amazement at the brightness in the sky, she instinctively knew what the obelisk was and what it was called. This was where the True Gods had sacrificed themselves to banish the Slayer. This was where the Legacy had been born.
“It’s fading,” Rexol notes.
To her dismay, Cassandra sees that he speaks the truth. Now that her initial wonder has passed, she notices that the glowing magnificence of the Legacy is marred by small, scattered patches where it has turned dull and gray.
As she watches, the gray patches begin to multiply. They begin to grow and spread, joining together to swallow up the pristine whiteness. And as the Legacy fades, Cassandra is able to sense what waits on the other side: Daemron the Slayer and his monstrous hordes.
“There isn’t much time,” Rexol warns her. “You must use the Crown to defeat Daemron when he returns!”
For the first time in the vision, Cassandra realizes she has been clutching the Talisman in her right hand. She knows that the wizard is right; Daemron has to be stopped.
She brings the Crown up and places it on her head…
Cassandra’s mind snapped her back to consciousness. Even in a dream, she wasn’t ready to wear the Talisman again. Not yet.
With her Sight, she could see it was dark outside; night had fallen over Callastan. A full moon hung above the city—but instead of its normal color, it was dark red.
Cassandra knew the Blood Moon as a portent of impending disaster, an ill omen that hadn’t been seen in nearly twenty years.
You were born under the Blood Moon, Rexol reminded her. It means Chaos has been unleashed upon the mortal world.
The crimson orb in the sky only confirmed what her vision had already shown her. The Legacy was about to fall. Daemron was about to return.
Despite what Rexol had said in her dream, however, she knew she didn’t have to fight Daemron. A battle with the Slayer and his army would not save the mortal world—it would only bring death and destruction.
The Legacy must be restored. If I go to the Keystone, I can use the Crown to repair it!
She expected Rexol to make some snide comment, but the wizard only asked, How are you going to get there?
“My vision will guide me,” Cassandra said aloud. “The island sits at the farthest edge of the Western Sea. All I need is a captain and a ship willing to take me.”
Outside her room, Methodis was puttering around his apothecary. The kindly doctor had already done so much for her she hated to ask anything else of him. But she was a stranger in Callastan, and he knew the city and its people.
You’re a fool, Rexol declared. The only sailors he knows will be pirates! You can’t trust them!
“You don’t trust anybody,” she muttered.
Rolling from her bed, she took a few seconds to test her legs. The muscles felt strong, her balance was good, and she felt no pain of any kind.
Every day that she stayed hidden in the back room put Methodis at greater risk. Eventually, the Pontiff’s army outside Callastan’s walls would attack. A number of Inquisitors had probably already infiltrated the city, searching for her and gathering information in preparation for the inevitable assault.
Even if they find you, Rexol reassured her, you can use the Crown to defeat them and get away!
The wizard was probably right but Cassandra would only use the Talisman as a last resort. She had accepted the need subtly to draw on it to heal herself, but she still wasn’t willing to take the risk of unleashing its full power by actually placing it atop her head.
More importantly, if the Inquisitors found her, Methodis would be the one to suffer if she escaped. If the venerable healer somehow survived the Pontiff’s brutal methods of interrogation, he would still end up being burned as a heretic for daring to help her.
She had stayed hidden long enough. She was healthy and strong again. It was time to ask her host to help plan her escape from Callastan.
THE CLOUDS ABOVE their makeshift camp were too thick to see the night sky, but Jerrod’s Sight—weakened as it was—allowed him to pierce the veil and sense the Blood Moon hovering above them. He didn’t know what it meant, not exactly, but its presence filled him with dread.
The last Blood Moon heralded the birth of the Children of Fire. Does this one foretell the final fulfillment of the prophecy of the Burning Savior, or does it warn of their death and defeat?
Scythe and Keegan were sleeping, wrapped up in blankets against the dampness of the grassy hollow where the three of them had bedded down. They were only a few days away from Callastan now. A few days away from reaching Cassandra and the Crown…assuming they could find a way to get past the Order’s siege.
And then what happens? Jerrod wondered. Will she believe me if I say she has to join us? What if she refuses?
The Blood Moon didn’t augur well for how such a confrontation might end.
Jerrod pulled his focus away from the sky and down to his two young traveling companions. Scythe’s eyes were closed and her breathing was slow and rhythmic, but he didn’t actually know if she was asleep. Now that she carried Daemron’s Sword, she only needed one or two hours of rest each night. And even when she drifted off, part of her senses were always on high alert, ready to spring into action.
Keegan, on the other hand, was in a deep slumber. His soft snores were interrupted by quiet moans and momentary shudders as his mind wrestled with its nightmares, a common occurrence ever since he’d first used Daemron’s Ring.
Three children born under the Blood Moon, each carrying one of Daemron’s Talismans, on the verge of meeting beneath another Blood Moon. Jerrod knew it had to be more than coincidence.
Cassandra has to join us. I have to make her understand that she is part of the prophecy of the Burning Savior!
And yet, a small part of Jerrod’s mind couldn’t help but wonder if his interpretation of the prophecy was wrong.
He wasn’t a Seer. As a young child, he’d seen visions in his dreams—frequent enough that his devout parents had willingly given him to the Monastery when he was only five. But after joining the Order, his visions had faded. He was trained to be an Inquisitor, and as a young man he’d served zealously in his role.
Like most Inquisitors, he rarely had dreams of any real significance. But one night, almost twenty-five years ago, he’d had a vision that changed his life forever. He could still remember the dream: a figure bathed in fire; a champion taking up the ancient Talismans created by the True Gods to stand against Daemron the Slayer and thwart his return. For three straight nights the dream had come to him: an image so vivid, so intense, that even while awake he had thought of nothing else.
When he spoke of it to Nazir—Yasmin’s predecessor—the Pontiff had confirmed that others had recently shared a similar dream. He also told Jerrod that the figure bathed in flames wasn’t actually a champion or savior. The Seers, the Pontiff explained, had already interpreted the true meaning of the vision, cobbling together all the details from several different accounts.
“The Legacy is crumbling, Jerrod. Daemron is dying; our ancient enemy grows desperate to escape his prison. But the burning figure you see is actually symbolic of Chaos itself; it represents all the torment and suffering it will cause if allowed to run free in the mortal world.
“The vision is a warning that we must be ever vigilant in our duty. As the Legacy grows weaker, the influence of Chaos on our world grows stronger. Now more than ever, we must seek out those touched by Chaos—the Children of Fire—and bring them into the fold of the Order before they unleash terrible destruction upon the world.”
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