I step through the portal.

  Reality warps. My stomach lurches as dimensions fold around me, the sensation familiar yet alien, like being turned inside out while remaining perfectly still. Colors blur and stretch. The temple's polished floors melt into streaks of light spiraling through impossible geometries. For a heartbeat, I exist everywhere and nowhere, consciousness scattered across infinite spaces.

  The world snaps back into focus. Frozen air burns my lungs as my feet touch the ceremonial platform high above New Larin's frost-covered ground. The wind whips around us, carrying the scent of pine and snow from distant forests.

  Uncle Titus's summons overrode Grandmother's banishment. Of course it did. Power always overrides power. She forbade me from attending. He commanded my presence. I am the ball in their game, bouncing between their wills. But I am here. That is what matters.

  In the distance, Malkiel rises like a dream made manifest. Its spires pierce the darkening sky, their crystalline surfaces refracting the last rays of sunlight in prismatic cascades. The city's geometry is stable upon the surface of New Larin, its tesseract nature hidden behind a mundane facade. Beautiful. Deceptive. Like everything else in my life.

  A dark speck mars the purple-tinged clouds. Too large for a bird, too deliberate for debris. I squint, but it vanishes behind a bank of clouds. My pulse quickens. Something is wrong.

  Below, multitudes fill the gathering grounds. Among them, the Eidolon Grandmasters of the Conclaves stand in their designated circle, their gold torqs gleaming with earned power. The Heart Guard and Temple Guards of the Thousand Assembles form the inner ring, their black-silver and white-silver armor gleaming like liquid metal. Beyond them stand the Void Sentinels, the Blue Dularch's personal enforcers, perfectly still in their voidweave uniforms that seem to devour the dying light, their mere presence causing the crowds to shift uneasily away.

  So many eyes. So many thoughts of demon and hunger and vessel. I can feel their judgment like a physical weight pressing against my skin.

  High-Exarch Oshen stands at the platform's edge, his Mask of the Autarch reflecting the dying rays of the sun. The hollow eyes of his mask reveal nothing, but his stillness speaks volumes. He wanted me to break in the Veilstone chamber. Wanted me to confess whatever darkness he thinks lives inside me. I gave him nothing. He will not forget that.

  More figures emerge from the portal behind me. The children of House Azure stream through, taking their positions with practiced precision. Helena Urisius and her entourage from House Vermilion arrange themselves on the opposite side of the platform, maintaining the delicate balance of power.

  The dark shape reappears, larger now. Its movement speaks of purpose rather than nature, descending on an angle that cannot be coincidence. My throat tightens. I reach for the future, trying to grasp what comes next, but the knowledge slips away like water through clenched fists. Only dread remains.

  "Remember to breathe," Cyra whispers beside me. Her hand brushes mine, a ghost of contact. "Your face is doing that thing again."

  I release the tension in my jaw, conscious now of how tightly I had been clenching it. "What thing?"

  "That murder-the-world thing." Her fingers squeeze mine briefly, warm and solid and real, before she pulls away. "We are here to observe, nothing more."

  Nothing more. As if observation were simple. As if I could watch without cataloguing every weakness, every threat, every potential ally or enemy. Observation is survival. It is the only weapon they cannot take from me.

  Movement catches my eye. Penelope's gaze meets mine for a moment, beguiling and remote. Her lips curve into a sad smile. Does she pity me? Does she ponder what Helena called me? Git. The word still burns. I look away before she can read anything in my expression.

  Uncle Titus emerges last, the portal sealing behind him like a wound healing in reverse. His Codicil still glows faintly on his forehead, a reminder of the power he used to bring us here. He moves to stand beside the High-Exarch, and the air itself seems to hold its breath, waiting for what comes next.

  He saved me from Oshen's grip in the Veilstone chamber. Asserted his authority over me. Not kindness. Ownership. The moment I cease being useful, he will step aside and let the questions fall like hammers.

  The shape in the sky has doubled in size, its silhouette becoming clearer against the darkening heavens. My heart quickens as I recognize the angular design of a military vimana. A Vritraha. War fortress. Siege engine. Why is it here? Why is it descending toward the Festival?

  I am standing here. I was standing here. I will stand here and watch something terrible unfold. The moment repeats like a prayer I cannot stop saying.

  Cyra leaves my side, joins the Chatelaines circling Uncle Titus. Their movements are precise, ritualistic. Each piece of armor they remove carries weight beyond its metal. Symbols of power stripped away to reveal vulnerability beneath. Or the illusion of vulnerability. Nothing about this ceremony is real. It is theater. Performance. The Dularch humbles himself so the people will love him, and loving him, obey him.

  The clasps click open one by one. Pauldrons first, then vambraces, each piece handed off with reverence to waiting attendants. The chest plate comes last, its removal exposing Titus's flawless torso.

  Incense smoke coils around us as the Exarchs pace in measured steps. Their cylinders swing in perfect rhythm, releasing ash-colored plumes. The scent is sharp and sacred, ancient resins that spark memories of the Dularch-Temple. Of Oshen's grip on my arm. Of the Veilstone's cold whisper. Eater.

  I push the memory down into the Inner Hell.

  The first notes of the Exarchs' dirge rise above the wind. Their voices blend in haunting harmony, each word carrying the weight of ages:

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  "In the tapestry of time, threads intertwine,

  The legacy of the Autarch, in every star does shine..."

  The melody wraps around us like a physical thing. It speaks of loss and perseverance, of shattered worlds and enduring hope. The song pulls at something deep inside me, an ache I cannot name. Beautiful words about sacrifice. About duty. About bowing before something greater than yourself.

  They should have written a verse about being called demon by your own blood.

  Above, the vimana emerges fully from the clouds in my vision. A Vritraha war fortress, its obsidian hull drinking in what remains of the sunlight. Massive beyond comprehension, it descends with the inexorable patience of an approaching storm.

  Bare-chested, Titus drops to his knees, his face lifted to the darkening sky. The wind whips his platinum hair. Ice crystals form along the strands. Has he locked the cold away, like he taught me to lock away pain? Does his inner space look like my Hell?

  The High-Exarch's voice carries across the platform, resonating through his mask. "We gather here, as our ancestors did, to remember that even the mightiest must bow before truth." His Staff of the Eternal Watch strikes the ground with each emphasis. "The Festival of Retrospection binds us to our past and guides our future."

  Truth. What truth? That power kneels only when it chooses to? That this entire ceremony is designed to make the powerless feel seen while changing nothing?

  Wind snaps at his white robe as he paces behind Titus. "In these moments, we witness power laid bare, stripped of pretense. Strength without wisdom is hollow. Authority without accountability is tyranny."

  The mask turns toward the assembled crowd. "Look upon your Blue Dularch. See how he kneels, not in weakness, but in recognition of a power greater than himself."

  My uncle remains motionless, his breathing steady despite the bitter cold against his exposed skin. Does he feel anything? Perhaps feeling is a weakness he discarded long ago.

  An Exarch approaches Oshen, hands him a whip. Metal gleams along its length. Cruel barbs designed to tear flesh. The weapon seems to drink in the shadows, its edges hungry. My stomach tightens. I have seen pain before. Have felt it. But watching it inflicted on another is different. Worse, somehow. Or perhaps worse because part of me wants to see Uncle Titus bleed. Wants to see the man who uses me as a Karesh game piece brought low.

  The thought shames me. I lock it away with the others.

  The Vritraha fills half the sky in my vision now. Massive and terrible. Death suspended above us on invisible wings. Yet around me, the ceremony continues. Oshen raises the whip. The crowd watches, rapt.

  I glance sideways at the Void Sentinels. They stand motionless in their positions, eyes forward, focused on the ritual. The Heart Guard maintains formation below. No one shifts their stance. No alarm sounds.

  How can they not see it?

  It should be impossible. A threat this size, approaching this brazenly, and no one reacts. Unless it is hidden. Cloaked. Such semblances exist. I have heard whispers of it in the archives. Dimensional bending. Light refraction.

  But I see it. Through time or through some fracture in the cloak, I see it coming.

  And I am alone with this knowledge.

  I should warn them.

  The thought freezes me. Warn them how? That I see a ship no one else can? That I perceive threats through time or through veils others cannot penetrate? Grandmother's words echo: demon, Balah-born, hunger from outside.

  If I speak, I prove I am what they fear.

  If I stay silent, they die.

  "Dularch Titus Ragnos," Oshen's voice cuts through the wind. "Are you prepared to acknowledge your failures before the people of Malkiel?"

  The whip uncoils like a serpent awakening. I force myself to watch. This is what power looks like when it chooses to kneel.

  "I, Titus Ragnos, kneel before the eternal Autarch, humbled by my transgressions," Uncle Titus intones, his voice steady despite the biting cold. "I confess that pride blinded my duty to the sacred trust of the Archives. In seeking glory through expansion, I forsook preservation. For this, I seek the Autarch's infinite mercy."

  The whip cracks, a sound sharp as splitting ice. Blood sprays onto the pristine platform, bright and steaming. I flinch despite myself. Cannot help it. But Uncle Titus does not stir. His flesh knits together instantly, reality shimmering along his spine. For a heartbeat, I glimpse ghostly overlays; scars that exist and don't exist, skin both torn and whole. The sight makes my head ache.

  Power. Real power. The kind that lets you kneel and bleed and rise again. The kind I need.

  "I confess my failure to uphold the honor of Malkiel in diplomacy with the Yeshong emissaries." Another confession. Another crack. The bloodstain deepens, but Titus's posture remains unyielding. Does he truly regret these failures? Or is he simply naming acceptable sins while keeping the real ones locked away?

  Like I do.

  The High-Exarch moves with precision, his mask a void that reflects nothing of his intent. Yet his posture betrays a dark fervor. His shoulders are taut, his grip firm, the whip striking with an eagerness that borders on zeal. He is enjoying this. Not the ceremony. Not the symbolism. The pain itself. I see it in the way he positions himself, in the slight pause before each strike, savoring the moment.

  I recall his fury at the Veilstone and the interruption Titus forced upon him. This is payback. This is revenge dressed in religious cloth.

  "I confess to letting my vendettas poison the affairs of state." Titus's words falter under the weight of the next blow. The whip carves deep, tearing flesh, though the wounds vanish in shimmers of distorted light. Ghostly scars surface only to disappear, images layered over images like reflections in broken glass. I wonder if the pain vanishes too, or if it lingers somewhere I cannot see.

  The High-Exarch's whip falls faster now, its cracks echoing like thunder over the gathered crowd. "The Autarch demands unflinching truth, Dularch," Oshen declares, his voice sharp as a blade. "Surely there are graver sins shadowing your soul?"

  Graver sins. My skin prickles. What is Oshen fishing for? What does he think Titus is hiding?

  Titus breathes deeply, his exhalations forming clouds in the frozen air. When he speaks again, his voice is softer but carries the weight of centuries. "I confess to failing those who looked to me for protection. To letting fear grip my hand when wisdom should have guided it. For this, too, I beg absolution."

  Vague. Careful. Revealing nothing while seeming to reveal everything. I recognize the technique. Have used it myself when Grandmother demands explanations.

  The whip descends with a force that shakes the air, and this time I swear I hear the faintest hint of a laugh beneath Oshen's mask. It is not joy, but a chilling satisfaction. A predator savoring its quarry. My hands curl into fists. The Inner Hell roars, feeding on my anger. Let it eat. Let it gorge. I will need that fury later.

  The Vritraha's shadow falls across the platform in my vision. The hull blocks out half the dying sun. With a deep mechanical groan that only I can hear, weapon ports begin to slide open. Energy cannons along its flanks pulse with gathering power, violet light building in their depths.

  My mouth opens. "There's—"

  My voice cracks. The word disappears into the chanting crowd, the howling wind, the crack of the whip.

  Oshen's arm rises. Falls. Blood sprays.

  The moment passes.

  I said nothing. I saved no one.

  A surge of violet energy cascades over the Vritraha's hull, streaking toward us like a vengeful storm. The cloak shatters. The fortress materializes in the sky above us, suddenly visible to all, massive and terrible and real.

  The air vibrates, heavy and sharp, as if the entire world braces for impact. The ground beneath the platform trembles. The scent of ozone thickens, mingling with the tang of incense.

  For a fleeting moment, everything stands still. The whip freezes mid-swing. The Exarchs halt their chant. The crowd holds its collective breath, eyes fixed upward at the descending wrath of the sky.

  I am standing here. I was standing here. I will stand here and watch the world break apart. The moment repeats and repeats and repeats.

  And then—