Page 149

From his robe, Atticus withdrew a knife. A silvery blade set into an obsidian hilt, it was obviously Myrkur made—like Fenrir’s sword—the enchantment an inscription Orpheus couldn’t fully read. Atticus turned it over several times before pocketing it again.

“Daedra was quite shocked something like this was left behind in Sanctuary’s halls, and I was quite reluctant to use it at first. Sanctuary has experienced so few instances where it might have been needed. Daedra wouldn’t even speak of the atrocity Duluth committed, but I find it heartening that the Myrkur don’t sentence each other to death, no matter how grisly the crime. We humans know better than most how precious life is. I think it’s a fitting punishment for the new world Sanctuary will build, wouldn’t you agree? Kinder than you deserve, for what you tried to do to Gwen.”

Orpheus looked to where Gwen stood and confronted a set of downcast eyes that wouldn’t meet his.

“And also, perhaps, the key to saving her life,” Atticus said this even more softly. “Your blood is weak, but perhaps we can make up the difference over time. Then we won’t need nearly as much from her.”

Make him numb, then drain him dry, over and over, for as long as Atticus could keep him alive, and Sanctuary could recover and claim what they so falsely believed was theirs.

Through his wavering vision, Orpheus looked up at Atticus and saw the man for the first time. Not the fatherly figure he presented to Gwen, or the courageous leader who had led his white cloaks through the Deadlands, not even the Architect his robes declared him to be. No. Atticus was something else entirely.

“Monster,” Orpheus hissed, baring his teeth. “You’re a monster.”

“Oh no, my unfortunate mage, that would be you.” Atticus gently patted his cheek, then stood and raised his hand to the crowd.

Sanctuary roared.

“My people, it’s an honor to stand before you today, at the apex of what will become the next great era of humankind. Sanctuary. It’s what our forefathers named this place. A haven within a world brutalized by the powers who came before us, powers they sought to purge from our world so that it may be born anew. From that womb, we were born, and within that cradle, we were raised. Tasked with the burden every survivor must carry—live on while others cannot—and that is what each of us have done. In the face of unspeakable odds and the miracle of our existence, we have not just lived. We have thrived.

“Sanctuary,” Atticus repeated, cadence lower. Harsher. Iron-laced and fire-forged, “Is not just our home. It is not just our inheritance. It is a legacy built on the foundation the original Architect designed for us and handed down to each generation, the responsibility we possess not to this city or each other, but the greater world at large. Survive, so we might spread the values of a better world for the future, Sanctuary our safe harbor until the time came to spread our wings like any young fledgling inevitably does.

“And my wife, oh how she soared!”

A rush quietly swept the crowd. Fingers touched lips, then brows, that symbol again, catching like a wildfire with Atticus at its center stoking the flame.

“We have long been aware that where the Deadlands become the Rim there have been others, but like any wild beast, these strangers fought and killed and savaged their way through existence. They did not understand community. They could not conceptualize peace. They played at war, conquering each other as any savage might. But my wife saw in them an opportunity. Not the chance for Sanctuary to spread its teachings into a world that clearly needed them, but the obligation. This is our birthright, she argued, and who was she, let alone all of us, to deny what the Architect had demanded in exchange for the blessing of this place?

“Fulfill our purpose. Live up to our ideals. That’s what she said. And my wife, she was right, in so many ways. After all, she is the one who found Gwen.”

Under a limelight she had no interest in, Gwen went green. Orpheus tried to meet her eyes, but she wasn’t looking at him. She wasn’t looking anywhere. She was a thousand miles away, lost to a place more inaccessible than Sanctuary had been to the Empire, and Orpheus desperately wished he could join her, then grew sick when he realized he soon would.

“My wife was a brave woman,” Atticus continued. “More so, she was a good woman. She believed that no matter how savage the beast, it could be tamed. But…in this she was wrong.”

Silence punched through the murmurs, truth leveling the square as well as any bomb, and Atticus walked among the wreckage like a god.

“So, we return to our original lessons. The teachings the Architect gave us that warned those outside Sanctuary’s walls are not yet ready for what we have to offer, except now we know that they are not worthy. They have not earned what we have so preciously protected all these years, because what we are meant to share is what we cannot risk to lose: Safety. Community. Peace. And…each other.

“Today we will restart from the beginning. We will man our walls and close our gates, and after restoring our city we will follow once again in our forefathers’ footsteps and purge this world of the savagery which shapes it. And only then will Sanctuary open its doors again, once every human soul outside those gathered here has returned to the dirt which birthed them. And we will do all that, through him.”

With the rush of a thousand whispered prayers, Atticus turned to him.

“By the blood of the heretic’s false prophet, Orpheus Zon Ziffler, dark mage of chaos’ throne, Sanctuary will live again!”

Voices rose, some joyful, some sobbing, a crushing weight of hope so disastrously placed Orpheus didn’t know how he remained kneeling, their thousands of starving stares pinning him in place.

“My child, if you would?”

Orpheus turned in time to see Gwen shake herself from that vacant place. Holding her robes close she padded over to stand at Atticus’ side, and from his bag he drew not a collar or cuffs or even a vial of blood, but a simple blade forged with a singular, grievous spell.

She took it, and one spark of her flame was all it took to turn the blade violet.

Atticus held his hand out, but Gwen turned away.

“I want to do it,” she said, and something in Atticus’ face softened.

“Of course, my dear.”

From across the sigil, Gwen finally met his eyes, and all Orpheus could do was shake.