The Scythe tore it to pieces, and it faded into visibility, drifting down toward the planet as scraps of cloth. They warped and twisted the world as they fell, each scrap more powerful and significant than this entire Iteration. If he left them alone, they would ascend to a higher world just by virtue of their existence.
He wouldn’t leave them alone, of course.
The Mad King took advantage of the strike on the shroud to flee, and Ozriel knew the man well enough to know that this defeat would burn his pride. Well, good. He deserved it.
Just in case, he looked into Fate to make sure that this wouldn’t prompt the Mad King to ruin his plans. He was certain that it wouldn’t. The Vroshir wouldn’t discover Ozriel’s absence before decades had passed, and the other Judges should keep them locked down.
Ozriel wasn’t leaving existence undefended, after all. Makiel and Razael were both able to match Ozriel in battle, at least when it came to open combat.
Only if the Mad King managed to find or create a truly devastating weapon could he be a threat while Ozriel was gone, and that possibility was vanishingly remote. It was only slightly more likely than Makiel disbanding the entire Court of Seven and joining the Vroshir.
So Ozriel put that prospect out of his mind and gathered up the pieces of the fallen veil.
This Origin Shroud would change everything. With that bound to him, he could hide under the noses of the other Judges themselves.
He would need to repair it, so it was a good thing he was the greatest craftsman Cradle had ever produced.
But now, his criteria for a hiding place had changed. He had presumed that he would be discovered in only a few years, but if not…if he could go without discovery indefinitely…
Then this was a chance to start over.
To make a new home.
Record complete.
Lindon desperately wanted to leave the labyrinth, but he held himself back.
He could leave. This place was only ever intended as a prison for one being: Subject One. With the Dreadgod’s borrowed authority, he could eject himself to the upper layers, and then leave on his own. Just as he had done to Reigan Shen.
But with his senses hooked up to the labyrinth, he could also vaguely sense what was happening above him.
Reigan Shen and his Sages had their spirits unveiled. Northstrider and Malice were there too, and Lindon couldn’t sense his friends.
He gritted his teeth and stopped himself from leaving. If he ejected himself from the labyrinth right into Shen’s control, he would have accomplished nothing.
[We are perched on the precipice of greatness,] Dross whispered. [Plunge over the edge, and see what you may become.]
Lindon hefted Subject One’s arm in his own. “Can the labyrinth get rid of Reigan Shen?”
[It is connected only to itself, but the limbs of the labyrinth are long.] The darker Dross stretched out his own tentacles in illustration. [With no suppression field and no prisoner, it may draw your enemies deep and cast them to the ends of the earth!]
Lindon took that as a “yes.”
Subject One’s body was still slumped in the throne, which was covered by gray-white growths of flesh. Lindon held a hand over it and reached out his senses.
The humanoid Dreadgod had held dominion over this entire labyrinth…but not totally. It was older than he was, and deeper, made by those with greater knowledge and power.
Lindon had briefly borrowed Subject One’s control over the labyrinth. He needed to make it truly his own.
[It’s yours for the taking! As long as you can remain you.]
Lindon wrenched the body away, tearing it away from the chair. Flesh flaked away, as Subject One had literally grown into the throne over the centuries.
Holding the Slumbering Wraith’s severed arm, Lindon fell into its seat.
The accumulated force of the labyrinth challenged his authority. It wasn’t conscious—just the pressure of a force so ancient he could scarcely comprehend it.
The source of all hunger, the network of hunger madra that had woven itself through the labyrinth, had developed an identity of its own inextricably tied to the maze. It demanded an answer of him: Who are you?
As he had done while challenging Reigan Shen, Lindon gave it an answer, but not in words. In images, impressions, and memories. He was the Void Sage, connected to the endlessly hungry Icon. Hunger madra was a fundamental part of his spirit, and had formed the basis of his power. And he was the one who sat on the throne of the Slumbering Wraith.
The hunger madra reluctantly accepted him. It wanted to devour him, but it would instead allow him to lead it to new feasts in the future.
But the hunger madra was only one aspect of the labyrinth. It was the latest, and perhaps the least.
Before Subject One, a team of Soulsmiths had owned the labyrinth. They sought deep truths here, and meant to create wonders. Their intentions, their wills, had seeped into these walls.
Who are you? The labyrinth asked a second time.
He was a Soulsmith. He was a Sage. He had gained his Iron body in the entrance to their labyrinth, and his hunger arm was a creation of his based on an original weapon of theirs. He showed them Dross, a living construct of his own making who now roamed their own control scripts.
And he was born in Sacred Valley. Some of them had been his ancestors.
Lindon had a right to inherit their authority, and he asserted as much. This aspect of the labyrinth, too, finally bowed to his claim.
But they had not been the original owners of the labyrinth either. Before them had come Ozmanthus Arelius.
Lindon focused his battered consciousness, wrestling against the weight of Ozmanthus’ remaining authority. I’m an adopted member of the Arelius family, Lindon sent. I am the apprentice of Eithan Arelius.
He hoped this would be enough, and strongly wished that he had made it to Ozriel’s Soulsmith inheritance. If he’d taken that, he could surely be considered an heir to Ozmanthus. Without it, he was worried.
But this aspect of the labyrinth accepted him easily. He supposed being one of the few remaining heirs to the Arelius name helped him.
That left only one remaining aspect of the labyrinth. The oldest and most powerful layer, one that he had only briefly sensed in his journey here. The original creators of the labyrinth.
There were seven of them.
He could scarcely comprehend their power, but they felt like seven pillars of order and structure, intrinsic and real on a level that he associated with sensing an Icon.
When these demanded to know who he was, he had no answer.
Who was he, compared to them? Compared to people who represented basic aspects of reality?
Their authority threatened to crush him, and they brought back every scratch and bruise on his body. His consciousness fuzzed.
To steel himself, he grabbed Suriel’s marble.
And the labyrinth quieted. In shock, he opened his eyes and brought the marble up to look at it. Only then did he notice that one of the seven founders of the labyrinth felt similar—though subtly different—to the marble. Like pure, unending restoration. Healing that could stitch together the universe.
That presence felt him, felt his connection to this marble, and approved of him. Just like that.
And that simply, the labyrinth was his.
It snapped into place around him, and he could sense every room. He stretched his perception through it, finding corridors snaking throughout the earth for…
His mind boggled at the scope.
Dross giggled softly in his mind. [You see? You see how it stretches to distant corners unknown?]
Spatial transportation was a significant part of the labyrinth’s function; he had obviously known that throughout their entire journey. What he hadn’t known was that only certain pieces of the labyrinth were actually in Sacred Valley itself.