The avenue leading to the ziggurat was paved with hexagonal slabs of polished white quartz, set so closely together that not a single blade of grass dared breach the seams.
On either side of the wide causeway, silent crowds of immortals gathered. They stood motionless beneath the copper-leafed willows, their silver and jet-black hair bound in silver wire, their eyes devoid of pupils, fixed entirely upon Aurelia’s chest. The air smelled of burning frankincense, crushed mint, and the cold, metallic sweetness of raw starlight.
The Vanguard shock-marines kept close ranks, twenty paces behind their sovereign. Their heavy iron greaves clattered with harsh, rhythmic defiance against the smooth stones, a jagged, mortal pulse cutting through the sterile silence of Shen-Zhul.
Malakor walked half a pace to Aurelia’s right, his great sword drawn and resting resting casually across his shoulder.
He didn't look at the crowds; he looked at the rooftops. His scarred jaw was tight, his nostrils flaring as he scented the dry, mountain breeze for traps or hidden archers. Every few paces, his elbow brushed against Aurelia’s arm—a subtle, heavy assurance of his presence.
At the foot of the black star metal ziggurat, the causeway terminated before an enormous, open pavilion.
Suspended in the center of the pavilion was a circular loom of spun gold, sixty paces wide, tilted toward the pale sky like an astronomical lens. Seated at the hub of the machine was an ancient figure, so thin his robes of bleached lotus-silk hung from his shoulders like shrouds upon dry branches.
His skin was translucent as onion paper, webbed with faint lines of pulsing golden light that mirrored the column of flame rising from the apex of the pyramid above.
"Patriarch Vaelen," Saphira announced, dropping to both knees at the base of the pavilion steps. "The sovereign of the western waters has arrived. She carries the Seven Shards within mortal flesh."
The ancient man did not turn his head immediately. His long, skeletal fingers continued to pluck at the golden threads of the loom, setting off soft, crystalline chimes that shivered across the plaza.
"I felt the dragon’s death," Vaelen’s voice was dry and hollow, like the rustle of autumn leaves blowing through an empty tomb. "When Typhon fell, the thread of his arrogance snapped in my hands. I thought the western lands were consumed by the void. Yet here stands the daughter of the Ashen Wastes, wearing the crown of our creators."
The patriarch slowly rotated the gold-framed seat, turning his face toward Aurelia.
His eyes were not silver; they were two empty sockets burning with small, flickering sparks of white starlight. When his gaze fell upon Aurelia, the seven glyphs beneath her collarbone flared in sudden, violent agitation. A sharp, stinging heat spread through her chest, forcing a sudden, ragged breath from her lungs.
Instantly, Malakor stepped forward.
The dark-steel tip of his great sword slammed into the quartz paving with a sharp crack that splintered the stone beneath his boot. The black shadow-flame on the fuller erupted into a three-foot column of snarling darkness, banishing the sweet smell of the incense with the raw stench of ash and scorched iron.
"Lower whatever spell you just touched her with, old man," Malakor snarled, his amber eyes pinned to the patriarch’s skull with unvarnished promise. "Before I turn that golden harp into your burial cage."
A faint, dry chuckle rattled in the patriarch’s chest.
"A butcher from the outer dark," Vaelen whispered, unperturbed by the naked steel ten paces away. "Fierce. Loyal. Bound by a soul-tether so dense it rivals the bedrock of the world. You think I attack her, mortal? It is not my power that burns her."
Vaelen raised a trembling, pale hand, pointing a bony finger at Aurelia’s breastplate.
"It is the alloy," the patriarch explained, his voice softening into an ancient lament. "The Seven Shards were never meant to dwell inside a single mortal heart. They are seven distinct notes of the first creation. Without the Ring of the Primordial Vessel—the eighth relic, lost in the cataclysm—her body is merely a furnace burning its own fuel."
He looked directly into Aurelia’s eyes.
"Three full moons, Empress," Vaelen said softly. "That is all the time your mortal marrow has before the seven fires consume your blood and leave you a statue of pure, frozen starlight."
Aurelia held her ground, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, but beneath her leather doublet, she felt the truth of his words.
The heat was not fading; it was building, a slow, inevitable blaze that was slowly turning her flesh to ash from within.
Beside her, Malakor’s hand came down upon her shoulder. His fingers dug into her flesh with terrifying, bruising strength, his amber eyes burning with an unholy, desperate fury.
"Where is the eighth relic?" Malakor rasped, his voice vibrating through the pavilion like thunder before a storm. "Tell me where to find it. And I will tear it from whatever god holds it."