Satisfying its hunger would be a nice side effect, but it had willpower the likes of which mere humans could not comprehend. It could withstand its own urges forever without losing itself. It wasn’t a barbarian, like its siblings. It could endure.
But when the wave of hunger aura passed over it, the Silent King drank it in with absolute delight.
While it luxuriated in the sensation, it never stopped thinking. Who had killed the Wraith? Who could have breached that prison? The Silent King had tried personally, centuries ago, and failed.
Whoever it was, the Dreadgod owed them a debt. One day, if it was so inclined, it would repay that service. Perhaps this mysterious savior would enjoy a continent in thanks.
They had granted the Dreadgod’s greatest wish. Its will drew tight, more potent than ever, and the wills of everyone in its kingdom focused as well. Some died of exertion, blood running from their eyes, but most could handle this slight burden of will.
All that willpower focused on the tip of the King’s claw. And it slashed once through the air.
The roots wrapping around the kingdom were neatly sliced. The organic script-circle failed, and Emriss Silentborn’s madra drifted away like so much smoke.
Finally, the Silent King was free to rule.
24
Information restricted: Personal Record 5716.
Authorization required to access.
Authorization confirmed: 008 Ozriel.
Beginning record…
Ozriel reached out to a shard of his power, created long ago: a beacon left behind in Cradle. It contained a dare, a challenge, an invitation for anyone talented enough to join him.
He changed the message.
He shared the situation of the heavens with them and expanded their viewpoint beyond the world. He included his weariness and his vision for the future.
No longer did Ozriel want descendants who would prove worthy of him. Now, he just wanted help. Someone who could share his burden.
He layered more memories beneath his message. Personal records, to one day be accessed by his heir.
Even so, as the years stretched on, none of his descendants used the black marble. The Court of Seven, again and again, denied his request to recruit. He had started off pleading, then reasoning, and now his meetings with Makiel had become openly hostile.
When their conflict destabilized the surrounding Iterations, forcing the intervention of Suriel, she had made them swear to stay separated.
Ozriel felt somewhat guilty for that.
The longer the situation went on, the more worlds the Reaper was forced to take, and the greater his burden grew. Even so, he continued doing his duty.
Until one day, he realized he couldn’t take it anymore. If the Court wouldn’t act, he would do it himself.
They had gotten along without him before, and they could do it again.
He looked ahead into Fate and prepared. Ozriel spread false trails throughout existence, so that even the Hound couldn’t track him. He even left messages for Suriel, presuming that she would be the one to hunt him.
High-ranking Abidan could see through any disguise, so he would be found eventually, but he needed to make this chance last as long as possible.
The corruption of chaos would devour certain worlds while he was gone, so he set up shelters in the most vulnerable to preserve as much as he could. He would leave the Abidan, temporarily sealing off his powers, and raise up a team of ascendants loyal to him.
Then, when he was taken back by the Court, his team could save worlds.
It was while he was inside Iteration 216: Limit, arranging another of his shelters, that he discovered something odd. A subtle touch of chaos in the future that only he—or a Makiel sitting where he was—could have discovered.
His Presence dismissed it as a distant echo of the Void, but Ozriel took greater notice. If a Vroshir wanted to sneak into Abidan territory, Limit would be the perfect first step.
So Ozriel hid himself in Limit, lying in wait for his prey.
As he waited, he considered which world he should eventually hide in. He planned, he thought, he consulted his Presence. He ran simulations and predictions.
Ultimately, there was only one thing he was certain about: he was never going back to Cradle.
Not only would the other Judges check Cradle quickly, but there were too many bad memories. While it would always be his homeworld, a not-inconsiderable part of him hated Cradle.
He hated it for not being better.
While he crouched in Limit, calculating his hiding-place, his prediction paid off. A being of great power and destruction entered the world, so subtly that they had evaded the web of the Spider.
An old enemy, well-hidden.
Synchronization requested.
Synchronization set at 73%.
Synchronizing…
Ozriel waited in his shelter beneath the waves of Limit, Scythe in hand. He felt the Vroshir arrive, and was surprised not to recognize them. Judges recognized people by the origin of their existence, by the very essence that defined them, which was impossible to fake.
The world quaked beneath him, so this intruder’s power was incredible. How could this person be unknown? How could they have slipped past the Abidan web of detection?
Ozriel intended to find out.
He felt the moment when the Vroshir intruder detected him, sensing an Abidan in the world. The intruder instantly sealed off the world and pounced, a cat on a mouse, eager to find prey.
Ozriel smiled.
When the Mad King appeared before him, Ozriel splattered Daruman’s mortal body all over the opposite wall with one swing of his Scythe.
That had been nice and therapeutic, and a memory Ozriel would treasure, but he was still shocked. He hadn’t seen Daruman face-to-face in centuries, ever since the Mad King had broken out of the depths of Haven.
It had to be him. He was wearing one-of-a-kind armor, and he hadn’t changed his appearance at all.
But Ozriel still didn’t recognize him. His senses insisted that this couldn’t be Daruman. It simply wasn’t him.
The conclusion was as intriguing to Ozriel as it was impossible. He had found a way to disguise his own existence, even from Judges.
Ozriel stepped through space and into the upper atmosphere, where Daruman had created a new body for himself.
The Judge leaned his Scythe against his armored shoulder. “That’s a fine mask you have there. Where did you get it?”
Oth’kimeth, the Fiend sealed inside Daruman, snarled defiance. The red suns that were the Mad King’s eyes blazed, and he stabbed out with a bone sword.
Even as a mortal, Daruman had been powerful enough to challenge world-eaters. A blow from him should have blighted the planet.
But he was holding back. When his sword met the Scythe, space cracked and reality warped, but it didn’t break.
The Vroshir didn’t want to attract attention, which suited Ozriel just fine. He didn’t want the attention of the other Judges any more than the Mad King did.
The quiet battle between the two still obliterated stars and left holes in space.
With each exchange, Ozriel became more confident. This was certainly the Mad King. There was an extremely short list of individuals who could trade blows with Ozriel’s Scythe.
And if this was the Mad King, then he had created something that hid him from the Way. A veil on his existence itself.
Finally, as they drifted back down to the central planet of Limit, Daruman himself spoke. His voice was hollow, echoing with the emptiness of the Void.
“You hide as I do, Ozriel. Let us go our separate ways. Inquire no further into my purpose, and I will likewise respect yours.”
Ozriel gave him a mocking smile. “I can let you run…but I can’t let you keep that.”
He swung his Scythe through the veil that he’d finally isolated. A black cloth, like a delicate weave of smoke wrapped around Daruman’s soul.