Only now did he feel like he had finally come home.
Outpost 01: Oversight
In the back of his mind, Makiel observed the engagement between the Mad King and the two Judges as best he could. There was little enough to see, with the general chaos of the Way and the lockdown that Daruman had put on the Sector.
Even with the observational authority of the Hound, the most Makiel could catch were a few glimpses and half-accurate predictions. It was like trying to watch an entire battlefield through a keyhole and a haze of smoke.
But that wasn’t his primary focus. Most of his powers were bent toward scouring the stretches of the Way over which he still ruled. He drifted inside his own headquarters, within the arctic air of the world he’d created.
This place enhanced his sight. A mortal watching would see purple screens flickering in and out of existence around him, each a glimpse of the past, present, or future of a thousand different worlds.
The reality behind that sight was even more complex, and Makiel found his mind and authority stretched to their limits.
Where was the Reaper’s Scythe?
He had spent years combing the worlds for the weapon, to no avail. But now was his chance. When faced with destruction, Ozriel had reached out for his Scythe. As Makiel had known he would.
That cry hadn’t reached the weapon, but echoes of it had still escaped the Sector. Makiel could use those echoes to find the Scythe himself, while Ozriel was tied up in battle.
At least, in theory.
Every lead he’d chased down had turned cold. Intuitively, he felt that he was close, but he still turned up short.
If Makiel found the Scythe in time, he could achieve every objective perfectly. Daruman dead, Ozriel dead, and the Scythe in the hands of the Court.
Though he had ruled over the greatest losses since the founding of the Abidan, Makiel would be satisfied if he accomplished those three things. He would, at least, leave behind a foundation from which the Court of Seven could rebuild. Greater than ever.
Assuming he could find the Scythe.
His Presence, the eye floating over his shoulder, shouted a warning into his mind. A bright blue light had emerged from the murky darkness of the Mad King’s battlefield. A burning fire of restoration.
Suriel had made it free.
Many of the screens around Makiel winked out as he abandoned most of the lower-priority lines of inquiry in order to focus on those with higher potential. His time was limited.
He had to finish before Suriel arrived.
But no matter how he searched, Makiel found nothing.
Suriel rushed for him, inevitable as a blazing meteor. Hounds formed up around Oversight, sensing an incoming power and activating their defenses, and he felt their confusion when they realized the approaching threat was another Judge.
Makiel willed them to stand down. In the end, he hadn’t made it in time. His sight did not reach far enough.
He would have to settle for an imperfect victory.
Makiel summoned his armor, sheathing himself in its white protection. The Sword of Makiel appeared in his hands, its point digging into the ground beneath him, power pulsing through its blade in veins of purple energy.
Then he awaited the arrival of the Phoenix.
She did not request entry, instead crashing through the ice overhead, shattering it like a true meteorite. Though Makiel had foreseen this, it still hurt to see his sanctum violated.
Suriel hovered over him, Razor in one hand and Mantle streaming in white flame behind her. Her own power stretched out like blue, fiery wings, and her purple eyes were alight with rage.
She pointed the Razor at him. “On the authority of the Sixth Judge, Suriel, I accuse you of conspiring against a fellow Judge of the Court.”
“By the authority of Makiel, I agree.”
He found a small amount of satisfaction in the moment of silence that followed, broken only by the hiss of falling snow and ice.
“I accept my punishment,” Makiel continued, “and I go now to make amends.” He began to rise into the air. “Contact the others. There will be much healing to do when I’m gone.”
The sigils in her eyes spun as she scanned the future, looking for the possibility that he was lying or luring her into a trap.
She was right to check, and he didn’t bother to hide himself. He was telling the truth.
“Explain yourself,” she demanded.
“I allowed Daruman’s continued existence,” Makiel said. “I continued to rely on Ozriel for centuries when I should have stripped him of his authority. I created the Scythes that were stolen. I am responsible for much, and I will make amends if it costs me my life.”
Suriel’s runic eyes finally caught sight of the Fate he was weaving, and he could feel her horror deepen. She did not agree with his designs. Then again, he hadn’t expected she would.
“If I survive, I will give up the Mantle of the Hound,” he went on. “But I am willing to die as long as I take my mistakes with me.”
Suriel looked into the future and saw his plan.
He watched alongside her.
There were only two possible outcomes of Ozriel’s battle with Daruman. They saw Daruman emerging from Vesper victorious. Or, with a much lower probability, perhaps Ozriel would be the one to survive. Neither would let the other live. And neither would achieve victory unscathed.
In either scenario, Makiel would be there waiting for them. With sword drawn.
The victor would be executed by the First Judge. Even if doing so crippled or killed Makiel, he would serve justice.
Makiel lifted his sword. “This will be my last act as a Judge. I regret that I could not leave the Scythe behind, but whoever takes my Mantle after me must be the one to find it.”
“I will not allow this,” Suriel said quietly.
“Why not? Odds are, the one I go to execute will be the Mad King.”
“There is nothing just about this. This is…sickness.”
Makiel was starting to get irritated. Suriel had made such decisions herself. “When I’m done, the sources of infection will be gone. All three of us.”
Suriel’s brow furrowed as she scanned Fate, searching for something. “Why did you wait for me?”
“In every scenario, you came here looking for me.”
She made an expression that, even with all his advantages, he couldn’t read. “Looking for you?”
“Sometimes you stand aside, and sometimes I must go through you. Either way, let us be done with it here.” If she couldn’t see that much, she wasn’t as skilled of a Hound as Makiel had thought.
This time, Makiel could read her face. Suriel radiated pity.
“You still have the same blind spot. I’m not here for you.” Suriel held out a hand. “Come to me,” she whispered.
And the ice beneath Makiel’s feet began to crack.
Darkness spilled up from the ground, and sick anger twisted Makiel’s gut. Now that she’d broken the veil, he could feel the weapon beneath him. The one that Ozriel had buried here, in the center of the Hound’s power, so long ago.
At Suriel’s call, the Scythe of Ozriel rose from the ice and drifted into her hand.
It looked the same as his imitation Scythes had: like a slice of darkness itself forged into metal. But even in the Mad King’s hands, the fake weapon had never had the same weight to it. This one was aware of Makiel’s presence and its disdain radiated like heat.
Though the Scythe drifted past him, Makiel didn’t dare reach out to touch it. The weapon was looking for an excuse to kill him.
With Ozriel’s veil gone, Makiel could now see the threads of Fate that had been hidden before. Suriel intended to return to Vesper with the Scythe, with or without Makiel. If she made it back in time, they could turn the tables on the Mad King.
She held the Scythe in one hand, though its authority clashed with hers. Ozriel may have lent it to her, which was why the Scythe tolerated her touch, but she was still no Reaper. She couldn’t unleash the full force of Ozriel’s weapon.