Senya had heard stories about the surface world from Nyu, but she never actually bothered to imagine all the fantastical things her sister would describe.

Now, without ever asking for it, she could see the mental picture Nyu tried so hard to paint — and it was vivid and lively, unlike anything Senya had ever laid eyes on.

There was vegetation in the form of wooden stalks that reached three stories tall and were covered in mantles of green or frosty white dusting.

There were smaller plants, delicate and blessed with vibrant colors, and scratchy bushes with thorny branches that looked like sharp teeth.

There was a strange movement in the air, and it rustled in the undergrowth and tickled her skin until she was covered in goosebumps, carrying with it a flourish of intoxicating scents that filled her lungs every time she inhaled.

There was the sheer endless blue sky, and the soft light of a radiating yellow orb high above kissed her face with a warmth she'd never known, like someone was hugging her with invisible arms.

Everything was bright and glistening, so much so that most of the Fateless had to cover their faces as they stepped into the sprawling light, protecting their sensitive eyes from the sudden absence of darkness. But Senya didn't care — she had to see it, even if that meant her eyes were watering uncontrollably, with heavy tears rolling down her cheeks.

The ground felt soft and healthy, unlike the solid rock that paved every street in Morathen, and she even spotted some smaller wildlife. There were animals with bushy tails that climbed the wooden stalks like gravity meant nothing to them, and others that flew through the air, similar to bats, but covered in colorful feathers and with pointy beaks.

Everything was beautiful, just like Nyu always said — and that's when Senya understood that Malvorn had been right all along. Compared to what the surface world had to offer, Morathen was like a prison cell, or a tomb, buried deep below the ground. Where there was an abundance of life and light up here, there was only darkness and decay in their age-old hideout. The injustice of it all was so glaring that Senya subconsciously clenched her fists, and the serenity of her surroundings soon developed a bitter aftertaste.

#

The army of the Fateless had moved quickly and efficiently through the remote valley the tunnel exit spat them out in, led by Malvorn and his newly appointed military officers. Tall mountains flanked them on either side, with white hats and roaring streams at their feet, gurgling with water so cold it would've frozen had it not been for the rapid current. Despite the warm sunlight, the air was cool and crisp, and it made Senya's eyes and throat sting.

Malvorn was riding in front, on one of the few horses Morathen had ever seen, a black mare that was smuggled underground at their leader's request. He was wearing dark blue robes, just like the rest of his troops, but his were smooth and silky, and covered in gold embroidery and intricate ornaments. Senya knew that underneath the fabric, he was protected by the finest armor their smiths could craft, much superior to what his men were wearing under their simple robes. But while they were equipped with sturdy helmets of all shapes and shades, Malvorn's hair flew openly in the cool breeze, his expression stern and hardened by conviction. He wanted his men to see him, see that he felt no fear in the face of war. And indeed, Senya noticed the spark of inspiration in the eyes of the men and women trotting behind him, as they followed their leader in loose formation through the undergrowth of the forests that crept up the valleys.

After Malvorn's speech, it had been child's play to gather fresh recruits and bolster their ranks, until they were a few thousand arms strong, and the palace armory slowly ran out of gear to equip them all. Most of the new recruits were untrained, but that didn't matter — the enemy wouldn't know, and their sheer numbers would be enough to win most battles before they even started. Besides, they still had a few seasoned soldiers in their ranks, even after many of their finest troops met an untimely demise in the palace during the attempt on Malvorn's life.

Still, Senya wondered how well the newly trained men and women would do in a real battle, fully aware of the fact that she herself was no good with any weapon. But even so, she had killed before, and she still carried the blade that delivered the fatal blow. After executing Nerina, Malvorn had told her to keep the dagger despite its apparent value.

"A weapon is no antiquity to be put on display," he had said. "Use it to end our enemies. You don't have to be a great warrior, you just have to be smart."

It had taken her a surprising amount of time to wash Nerina's blood off the small knife, and worse yet, off of her hands. She scrubbed until she couldn't tell whether her skin was red from blood or a forming rash, and eventually she just gave up.

It was a good reminder of who she'd become, she realized.

#

When the first houses and farms came into view, Senya was surprised by how different they looked from what she was used to. Unlike in Morathen, where the houses were typically flat and gray, here they had pointy roofs made from reddish shingles shaped like fish scales, and their facades were painted in a wide variety of gentle colors, adorned with contrasting wooden panels around the many glass windows. Senya assumed that their purpose was to keep the sun out, which was a need no house in Morathen ever had. And besides, she wondered, why would you want to keep that beautiful yellow light out?

Most houses were surrounded by fields and pastures, with many acres in between, which was so different from the cramped alleys of Morathen, where you'd hit someone wherever you spat. Animal tracks lined the muddy ground and frosted grass, but no farm animals were out on this cold day — surely, they were hiding in the many wooden barns and stalls, which were enclosed by neatly carpentered fences with open gates and inviting signs.

Only, no one seemed inviting when they saw them approach. Most of the farmers dropped whatever they were doing and ran back into their homes, slamming doors and windows like they were preparing for a storm. Children screamed as they watched the stream of blue and silver figures emerge from the treeline, and dogs started barking and whimpering.

To Senya's surprise, Malvorn didn't order them to attack the farmers, not even the ones that scurried away along the muddy paths that led further inland, most likely to warn the nearest village or town.

"Leave them be," Malvorn shouted over his shoulder, his voice fighting against the clinking and clashing of metal plates and weapons. "After all, we are no savages," he added more quietly, then looked down at Senya and gave her a sly smile.

"Why not kill them?" she asked incredulously.

Malvorn's horse neighed, and he patted it on the side of its neck.

"If we start killing them now, their troops will have no choice but to meet us head-on to defend them."

Senya frowned. "Isn't that what we want?" she asked skeptically.

"What we want is revenge," Malvorn sneered, "and there are many ways of achieving it."

"Surely, once Cylion learns that we are approaching, they will fight us no matter what," Senya countered, trying to keep her voice down just enough so Malvorn could still hear but no one else.

He chuckled menacingly. "Don't be so sure about that."

They passed one of the colorful farmhouses, and Senya could see petrified faces behind the milky windows. When she looked over, they hastily dug out of sight.

"Pathetic, aren't they?" Malvorn scoffed after following her gaze. "They forgot what true fear even tastes like."

"I guess we are here to remind them," Senya said with relish, and the approving expression on Malvorn's face wasn't lost on her.

#

After a cruel march that lasted most of the day, they finally saw a sprawling city in the distance, nestled into a wide valley with rolling hills and a gentle stream along its sole. For a brief moment, Malvorn allowed them to rest and take in the commanding view that lay in front of them.

Cylion was larger than Senya had imagined, like so many things out here in the open world. Its towers and rooftops were like a woven tapestry of red and orange, the thousands of chimneys akin to smoke-topped stalagmites, and the wall that wrapped itself around the heart of the city as tall and unyielding as a cliff face. She could spot tiny figures in between the battlements, rushing from one guard tower to the next, maybe even pointing at the blue and black mass of enemies that had sprawled over the distant hilltops.

Malvorn had gotten off his horse and was standing on top of a small ridge, letting his scorching gaze drift over the scene before him like a conqueror of old. He carried no weapon other than his massive fists, which were wrapped in gloves of golden plates that glistened in the orange light of the low-hanging sun. He inhaled sharply, and Senya followed suit, taking in the faceted aroma of the city in front of them. Unlike its awe-inspiring appearance, the smell was revolting — the city stunk of sewage and animals, and fermented fruits. But there was also a more subtle note that Senya couldn't quite place, sharp and raw with a sting that made her nostrils flair up.

Malvorn exhaled and grinned at her.

"Death. You can smell it from here."

Senya sniffed again and frowned.

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"The battle hasn't even started," she said in disbelief.

"Oh, but it has," Malvorn snarled with a sinister voice, "and they already lost it long ago."

#

As the sun turned from orange to red, and their shadows grew long and dark, Malvorn ordered them to ready up. To Senya's surprise, there was no mention of fighting, only that they would march onto the city gate, and then further into the city proper. At first, it seemed like a plan akin to suicide, but she had wrongfully doubted Malvorn before, and she was starting to realize that he knew more than he let on.

"Do not attack the guards unless provoked," he bellowed over the crowd of gray helmets that lay in front of him. "They will grant us passage into the city."

A murmur of unease erupted from the troops, but Malvorn called a halt to it by raising one of his armored paws.

"The city of Cylion has already fallen — they just don't know it yet. With Montis dead, the new acclaimed ruler is willing to receive us and discuss terms."

Belligerent shouts of disapproval cut through the unrest that followed his words, only feeding into Malvorn's determination.

"You have trusted me this far," he boomed with the force of a small earthquake, "and I've led you out of the darkness and into the light. Trust me now, and you will have all you ever dreamed of. We will get our revenge — that, I promise you."

A few heads nodded, but not all of them were convinced.

"In the past, we were defeated because we were foolish and arrogant. I don't intend on making the same mistakes." He clenched his fists and let his gaze wander over the crowd.

"We are fools no more. We are exiles no more," he declared with a triumphant voice, and was joined by roaring cheers.

"Let us use our enemy's weakness to our advantage. Let us be the dagger in their backs, and shower in their wretched blood as a testimony to our incarnation."

And with that, he had the full support of his troops, as they raised their weapons and shields in a fierce battle cry that surely could be heard in all of Cylion.

#

Just as Malvorn predicted, the city guard made no move to stop them once they neared the main gate, but Senya could see the pent-up anger in their faces and their tight grips around their weapons. They wanted to attack them, but they had been told not to. And even though it seemed to take all the restraint they could muster, they stood down, and Malvorn rode into the city atop his mare like a returning emperor, his head high and mighty.

Past the enormous gate that rivaled some of the largest cave entrances of Morathen, they emerged in a dense network of plastered streets lined on both sides with neat, skinny houses. While the tightness of this urban maze reminded her of their underground city, its appearance was entirely different. The facades were colorful and supported by wooden beams, their upper floors often protruding over the alleys like the ledge of a cliff. Most entrances had small staircases leading up to them, flanked by pots of flowers or tiny bushes, and ornate oil lamps were dangling above many doors.

Unlike their pretty houses, the few inhabitants they saw looked deeply distressed — and not just at their sight, Senya thought. Apparently, the new leadership of Cylion had done a number on their once-happy lives. When she looked closer, she could see remnants of fighting on the otherwise so tidy streets, and every now and then, they walked by doors that had been bashed in, exposing dark and roughened interiors to the Fateless' curious eyes and the cold air alike.

Guards would appear in side streets as they marched on, watching them with biting suspicion, hands on their sword hilts. They all wore the same red and yellow gowns, with crests that matched the standards flapping in the wind above the walls. Their armor was polished and shiny, their robes clean and without stains, like they had only recently gotten into quarrels with their usually so peaceful population.

To Senya's surprise, Malvorn seemed to know exactly where he was going, as he rode purposefully in front of the long stream of Fateless soldiers that bent through the streets like a river of black and blue.

The light of day soon faded, and only the lanterns lining the streets illuminated their path. Not that it was necessary, Senya thought — if they had one clear advantage over the inhabitants of the surface world, it was that their eyes were more than used to the dark, and didn't need much to work with.

Eventually, the narrow streets opened up, and they reached a pompous avenue with tall hedges and fences on both sides, and decorative trees interspersed with marble benches along the sidewalks. Senya could spot the outlines of ostentatious city villas as they passed by, most likely home to the fortunate elite of Cylion. They had large premises with impressive entry gates, and displayed their power and influence as best they could.

When they turned around a gentle bend, a massive palace complex came into view, dark and ominous against the night sky. As they walked directly towards its impressive front, Senya couldn't help but notice the parallels to Morathen's layout, with its outer rings of increasingly poor housing wrapping around a bubble of wealth near the palace. While the scales were much larger here, it almost seemed like the palace of Cylion resembled Malvorn's own residence, as if he'd been inspired by it — or sought to copy it to bolster his fantasy of one day ruling this place.

As they got closer to the monumental complex that housed the rulers of Cylion, Senya had to fight the urge to stop and stare at the towering building with her mouth wide open. Not even the center of the main cave could've fit a palace of these impressive dimensions, and she reckoned the people living and working inside it could've filled an entire city on their own.

Behind her, some of the soldiers started bumping into each other as they craned their heads to take in the sight that lay in front of them.

The palace entrance was swarming with guards, and at least five rows of them were blocking the passage atop a small staircase, holding spitting torches and sharp weapons in their clenched fists. They were flanked on both sides by large standards showing a wild boar with long tusks on a red and yellow background.

"Halt!" their commander shouted, his voice dripping with contempt. "You scum stay right where you are."

He was a hunky man with blonde hair and a crooked nose, and his face bore many scars and blemishes.

At the edge of her vision, Senya could see Malvorn's hand form a fist. A moment later, he yanked it up into the air, and within seconds, the troops behind him came to a halt. Suddenly, there was an eerie silence, only disturbed by the crackling torches that lit up their faces.

Malvorn and the commander stared at each other for a long moment before the other man said, "I don't know what evil scheme this is, but on my watch, vermin like you will not enter these sacred —"

He was interrupted by the sound of huge portal doors opening behind him, filling the night air with a low grumble like a distant rock slide. Senya tried to peek through the ranks of soldiers blocking her vision until she spotted a slender figure emerge from the palace, clad in black and gold robes worthy of a king, with a pointy crown on his head that carried yellow and red gems.

The man moved with a natural elegance, and the lines of soldiers hastily parted to make way for their new king — except for the commander, who stood frozen in place with an expression of heartfelt disgust.

"Now, now," the slender man said as he approached, "that's no way to treat our guests, is it?"

His voice was sly and full of deceit, coming from an arrogant mouth amidst bony cheeks. Silky black hair ran down the sides of his head, almost as shiny as the crown he was wearing, and a neatly trimmed mustache sat atop his upper lip.

The commander stared at him for a moment, then turned to Malvorn and spat at his horse's feet, before stepping off to the side with a smug expression on his face. The new king examined him for a long moment, seemingly deciding whether to flail him right here and then for his insubordinate behavior, or do it later and in private.

"You've done well for yourself, Vaelorian," Malvorn exclaimed into the silence, letting this glaring show of disrespect slide — at least for now. "Or should I say, King Vaelorian Dor?"

The tall man raised his chin and entered a fierce staring contest with Malvorn, like two predators eyeing each other in anticipation of a fight.

"So have you, I see," Vaelorian finally said and let his gaze drift over the troops that were lining the long avenue in front of the palace.

Malvorn grimaced and showed his sharp teeth.

"I see you have taken a liking to the throne of Cylion."

Vaelorian's expression hardened, and the sly smile left his face. "As was our deal," he rasped, and Malvorn nodded with an amused smile tugging at his lips.

"That it was," he confirmed, but with a hint of mockery.

"I will say," Vaelorian continued as if he hadn't noticed. "I wasn't expecting you to fulfill your end of the deal so … efficiently."

Malvorn extended his long arms in a gesture of generosity.

"When have I not held up my end of a bargain? I promised you the crown of Cylion, and here you stand."

Vaelorian smirked. "I more meant your methods."

"I'm afraid subterfuge is more your area of expertise. I prefer a more … direct approach. With permanent solutions."

Vaelorian nodded stiffly, while Senya started to piece together the bits of information they were dropping. The man with the crown was a member of the Dor family — the same family that had produced the two Fateweavers that Nyu had been traveling with. She knew they were rich beyond belief, and by the sound of it, this one was in league with Malvorn, and had been for some time. From what she understood, they had struck a deal long ago, with Malvorn's end of the bargain being the ascent of Vaelorian Dor onto the throne of Cylion — which had come to pass very recently when the old king of Cylion got assassinated. Malvorn had indicated that he'd been involved in the murder, but now she knew for sure.

The two men had not mentioned what Vaelorian's contribution to their deal was, but Senya didn't even have to ask. All these years, people had been wondering where Malvorn got his abundant wealth from, all the treasures and fineries that piled up in his ostentatious palace — now she knew. How ironic to think that the conquest of the Fateless had been funded by the very people they vowed to destroy. It was hypocritical, but also ingenious. She couldn't fault Malvorn for playing his cards well, and most of his people would never find out anyway, nor would they care.

Who did seem to care, however, were the soldiers in King Vaelorian's service. Listening in on their leader's conversation with Malvorn, they started whispering in disbelief, and their faces soon showed the concern of someone realizing they had been deceived. She wondered how much loyalty money could really buy — and she figured that Vaelorian was about to find out.

"Our deal has been completed," the king of Cylion declared. "I take it you are going to march onto the Great Library now? To destroy these wretched Fateweavers once and for all?"

Malvorn smiled cynically.

"Soon," he said with a menacing voice, "but no yet. I still have business to conduct here."

Vaelorian's eyes narrowed. "What business could that possibly be?" he asked skeptically.

Malvorn let his gaze drift, his dark eyes taking in the neatly trimmed trees and beautiful villas around them.

"See, I promised my people revenge." He smacked his lips. "I don't think this will do," he added, gesturing at Vaelorian.

"You promised me I would rule Cylion. We had a deal!"

Vaelorian clenched his fists, and his soldiers started to raise their weapons, despite their newfound distrust for their ruler.

"I told you would get your crown," Malvorn hissed with venom, "I never said you would keep it."

Senya could see the king's neck muscles tense, and his skin color was shifting from pale gray to a vibrant red.

"That wasn't his plan!" Vaelorian barked defiantly, taking a step forward. "Besides, you always told me you would not even want the crown for yourself!"

Malvorn scoffed. "And I don't," he said, and a cruel smile split his lips.

"After all, what good is a crown that rules over ash?"

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