Chapter 35: The Spire and the Song

The passage Vor-Kin leads me into is not a tunnel. It is a scar.

It is a narrow, vertical fissure in the rock behind the altar, barely wide enough for my shoulders. The air is immediately different. The faint, mossy, ozone-scented humidity of the Grak-ta city is gone, replaced by a tomb-like stillness. The air is cold, dry, and smells of ancient, powdered stone.

There is no light.

I mean, no light. The green glow from the Rekka-table, the Miasma-torches... it all vanishes as if a door has been slammed shut. I am plunged into an absolute, primordial darkness that is so complete, my eyes strain and water, trying to find a single photon to cling to.

There is nothing.

"Stay... close, 'Weapon'," Vor-Kin's dry rasp echoes too-loudly in the cramped space. "Do... not... touch... the walls."

I flinch, my hands instinctively pulling in. I had been about to place a palm on the rock to steady myself. "Why? What is on the walls?"

"Later," he rasps. "Now... we climb."

I hear him move. It is not a footstep. It is a dry, multi-limbed skittering. It is the sound of his Grak-ta physiology moving with an unsettling, insectile confidence. He is climbing, his four arms finding purchase in the rock where I can see nothing.

My heart hammers. I am the 'Weapon'. I am a fraud. And now I am a blind fraud.

"I... I cannot see," I hiss, my voice a pathetic whisper.

"You... are not... meant... to see," he replies, his voice already slightly above me. "You... are meant... to follow. Listen. Feel. Climb."

Gritting my teeth, I reach out. My fingers find the rock. It is not like the tunnel walls. It is not obsidian. It is... slick. Not wet, but polished, as if by millennia of some unholy, slow passage. And it is cold. A deep, penetrating cold that sinks past my skin and into my bones.

I find a handhold. A foothold. I pull myself up, my gear scraping against the narrow passage.

Thus begins the climb.

It is not a climb. It is an ordeal. It is a vertical crawl through endless, suffocating darkness. My only guide is the faint, dry skitter of the shaman above me. My world shrinks to the patch of slick, cold rock directly in front of my face. My fingers ache. My shoulders burn. My legs, still weak from my chi-overload, tremble with the strain.

Time ceases to exist. There is only the climb. There is only the scrape of my boots, the harsh sound of my own breathing, and the sound of Vor-Kin, moving like a spider in the dark.

And then... something else... begins.

It is not a sound.

It is a pressure.

It starts behind my eyes, a faint, high-frequency vibration that I mistake for fatigue. A psychic hum. But it grows. It builds, note by note, into a discordant, maddening pressure.

It is a song.

It is the most awful thing I have ever felt.

It is a song of hunger. It is a song of spite. It is a song of infinite, cold, patient... hatred. It claws at the edges of my mind, a thousand dissonant voices whispering of failure, of entropy, of the delicious, cold... end... of all things.

My dagger hilt feels impossibly heavy at my hip. My skin crawls. I want to scream. I want to rake my nails down the slick walls. I want to cry.

"The... song," I gasp, my voice choking. "I... I hear it... I... feel... it."

"Good," Vor-Kin's rasp floats down from the blackness. "You... are attuned. You... feel... the Herald. We... are close."

The Herald. The name feels... correct. This is not a creature. This is a proclamation... of an end.

The climb becomes harder. The "song" is a physical weight, pressing down on me. It seeks the cracks in my mind. It finds my fear... of Krell. It finds my despair... over my team. It finds my shame... at the 'Goddess' lie. It plucks at these threads, making them vibrate in time with its own awful melody.

Fraud. Failure. Useless. Food.

"No," I whisper, pressing my forehead against the cold, slick stone. "No. I... am Mizuki."

My hair. I feel it. The faint, phantom tickle... of gold... threading through the silver. The 'song' hates me. And my power... hates it... right back.

The anger... my anger... is a shield. It is a pure, hot, clean thing against the cold, complex... filth... of the Herald's... song.

I embrace the anger. I let the Phoenix... burn.

The golden threads in my hair flare, a phantom light that I can feel... rather than see. The 'song'... recoils. It shrieks... in my mind, a spike of pure, offended... malice.

"So... the 'First Flame'... does... burn... in you," Vor-Kin's voice is close. I did not even realize I had caught up to him. "The song... hates... fire. It... hates... life. Good. You... will need... that hate."

He has stopped. I can feel him just above me. "We... are here."

Here... is not... a place.

He skitters to the side, and a new... light... appears.

It is not the green light of the city.

It is a void.

I pull myself up one last ledge and find myself on a narrow, crumbling shelf of rock. The passage... is gone.

Before me... is nothing.

A... cavern.

No. That word... is insulting. It is pathetic.

This is a world. This... is the Hollow-God.

We are standing on a tiny, precarious ledge, impossibly high up on the wall... of an abyss. The scale... is wrong. It is unholy. My mind cannot... process... the emptiness.

The "ceiling" is not a ceiling. It is shadow. It is an absence... of up.

The "floor" is thousands of feet below. Thousands. And it... is not... rock.

It... is an ocean.

A slow, churning, pitch-black... ocean... of pure, liquid... Miasma. This... this is the source. This is the well... from which all... the poison... bleeds. It... is the wound... that infects... the world.

And in the center... of this endless... night... is the Heart.

I see it now. The Rekka-Heart. The 'Hollow-God's... Heart'.

It is not a life-giving... stone.

It... is a wound.

Suspended in the exact... center... of the abyss... held by hundreds... of massive, vein-like... tendrils... of black... Miasma... that stretch... from every... direction... is a dying... star.

It... is massive. The size... of a mountain. A crystalline, glowing, green... mountain. And it is shattered. It is cracked. The light... the Grak-ta... live by... is not... a flame. It... is a hemorrhage.

It is bleeding... green... light... into the darkness. Its pulse... is weak. Erratic. A dying... heartbeat... that illuminates... its own... prison.

This... is the truth. The 'Goddess'... is dead. The 'Heart'... is a corpse. The Grak-ta... are living... in... its... tomb.

The... "song"... is deafening here. It is a roar of triumph, a chorus of schadenfreude. It is... laughing... at the dying... god.

"The... Heart..." I whisper, my voice stolen by the sheer, crushing... scale... of the despair.

"Is dying," Vor-Kin rasps, his voice flat. He is... used... to this. This... is his... truth.

"But... that..." he says, and he raises... one trembling... arm. He points. Not... at the Heart.

He points... across... the abyss.

"That... is your... target."

I follow his finger.

And... I... see... it.

At first, I think it is part of the cavern wall. A trick... of the dying, green... light.

It... is not.

Clinging... to the far... wall... like a spider... on a mountain... is something... else.

It... is massive. It... makes... the Black... Fog... General... look like dust. It... is miles... away... and still... it blots... out... the shadows.

It... is the Herald.

It is a mass... of crystalline... limbs. Black, jagged... spines... that shift... and move. It is a network... of shadow... and malice. And... in the center... of the shifting... mass... is one... cluster... of eyes.

Not two. Not four. Hundreds.

Hundreds... of cold, pale, luminous... eyes. All... staring.

Not... at us.

They... are all... staring... at the dying... Heart.

It is not... attacking... the Heart. It is not... touching... it.

It... is watching.

It... is waiting.

It... is savoring... the death. It is feeding... on the despair. The song... is its... voice. It is... relishing... the end.

This... is Krell's... fear. This... is not... a beast. This... is not... a demon.

This... is an Ancient. An Elite... of an order... I cannot... comprehend.

This... is my... target.

"It... is the Watcher... at the End," Vor-Kin whispers, his antennae twitching, feeling... my terror. "The Herald... of the Spinner... King. It... sings... the dirge... of your world... and ours. It... waits... for the Heart... to beat... its last. And... when... it does... it... and its Hunters... will descend. And... all... this... will be theirs."

He turns his blind, milky eyes to me.

"You... asked... for your... enemy, 'Weapon'. There... it... is. Now... tell me... Goddess... what do... you... do?"

I stand on the crumbling ledge, the abyss below me, the dying god in front of me, and the Herald... across from me.

The "song" slams into my mind, a wave of pure, triumphant hate.

I... am Mizuki. I... am sixteen... years... old.

And I... am utterly... terrifyingly... outmatched.

My hand grips the hilt of my dagger. The steel is cold. It feels... small.