The storm clouds of the Sunken Straits shredded away as Cinder followed the glowing wake of the liberated Sun Wyrm across the deep-sea shelf.
Beneath them, the ocean shifted from slate-gray into a terrifying, preternatural turquoise—waters so clear that the three-hundred-foot silhouette of the ancient sea-god was visible gliding through the abyss, its golden fins trailing ribbons of liquid sunlight that parted the treacherous reef beds.
And then, breaking the southern horizon through a haze of shimmering heat, rose The Gilded Archipelago.
It looked like an empire forged from a fallen star.
Twelve jagged volcanic islands encircled a central, circular lagoon six leagues wide. Rising directly out of the water like ivory and coral mountain ranges were towering terraced cities, their battlements sheathed in sheets of beaten gold that reflected the blinding equatorial sun like burning mirrors.
Spanning between the outer islands were colossal aqueducts carved from white volcanic basalt, pulsing with the harvested golden bloodline of the deep.
And at the center of the lagoon, perched atop a petrified volcanic plug that rose a thousand feet into the clear sky, stood theSolar Spire of Sol-Aurelia—the seat of Emperor Aurelius the Undying.
From the summit of the Spire, an enormous lens of faceted ruby-glass gathered the rays of the noon sun, channeling an uninterrupted, blinding beam of solar fire down into the heart of the imperial palace.
"Mother of Shadows," Talia muttered from her glider harness, shielding her pale eye behind a smoked-glass lens. "The entire city is an oven. If Cinder flies into that lagoon, the refraction off those golden roofs will blind the beast in three seconds."
"He won't fly into the lagoon," Lyra said, her voice quiet, cutting through the rush of warm tropical wind.
She sat tall in the saddle-brace before Gideon, her hands wrapped in clean linen strips that Varis had soaked in cooling winter mint balm. The pale-violet lightning scars along her forearms thrummed with a rhythmic, warning hum; her awakened senses were already parsing the heavy, suffocating scent of the archipelago.
It smelled of burning frankincense, crushed sandalwood, parched desert stones—and beneath the perfume, the rancid, sweet reek of calcified flesh.
The Solar Rot, Lyra thought. It's everywhere.
"Look at the harbor quays," Gideon rumbled, his deep bass vibrating against her back, his heavy calloused hands resting over hers on the reins. "Not a single warship at anchor."
Lyra peered down through the cloud fringe.
The great outer harbor was vast enough to moor two hundred imperial dreadnoughts, yet the docks were utterly deserted. The golden cranes stood idle; the loading slips were empty.
Instead, drawn up in a defensive half-moon around the base of the central Spire, were fifty massive, flat-bottomed iron barges. Each barge carried a colossal, circular vat of smoking green-gold alchemical liquid, attended by dozens of priests in weeping sun-masks.
"They aren't preparing to meet us with an armada," Varis observed, her metallic voice laced with suspicion. "They pulled their entire fleet back to the capital. They know the Gilded Eye was destroyed."
"They know who destroyed it," Lyra corrected.
Below them, the liberated Sun Wyrm slowed its momentum, circling the outer coral barrier of the archipelago. The colossal beast breached the surface once more, raising its massive, horned head toward Cinder, letting out a low, rolling war-horn blast that vibrated through the basalt foundations of the islands.
Then, with a thunderous splash that sent a twenty-foot wave crashing against the outer sea-walls, the sea-god submerged, diving beneath the reef toward the subterranean channels feeding the palace lagoons.
"He's heading into the waterworks," Lyra said, her violet eye flaring with sudden, tactical clarity. "The fresh seawater aqueducts flow beneath the royal gardens at the base of the Spire. That's our breach."
Gideon looked down at the sheer, vertical rock face of the central volcanic plug, calculating the drop.
"The wind currents around that spire are volatile, little bird," Gideon murmured against the crown of her head, his grip on her waist tightening with that fierce, protective instinct that never slept. "The heat venting from those ruby lenses will cook Cinder’s wing membranes if we linger. We have one pass. One drop."
Lyra turned her face up to meet his amber-gold gaze.
"One pass is all we need, warlord," she whispered.
Gideon’s jaw hardened, but a slow, savage grin curved the scarred line of his lips. He leaned down, pressing a hard, bruising kiss against her mouth that tasted of salt, iron, and the eternal, unbreakable oath between their souls.
"Ember guard!" Gideon’s voice cracked like thunder across the harness. "Release the gliders! Target the western terrace above the royal gardens! We hit the stones hard, we form a circle around the Queen, and we execute any gold-collared dog who tries to draw steel!"
"By the blood!" Varis and the six Void-dancers answered in unison, their hands snapping to their release pins.
"Take us down, beast," Gideon commanded.
Cinder tucked his wings, diving through the heat-shimmering air toward the thousand-foot precipice of the Solar Spire.
The air rushed past in a deafening, scorching roar. The temperature skyrocketed as they breached the upper atmosphere of the lagoon; the glare off the gilded roofs below was blinding, but Lyra kept her gaze locked onto the wide, lush marble terrace jutting out from the side of the palace cliff.
At two hundred feet, the imperial sentries along the upper parapets finally spotted the shadow of the dragon.
Horns blew—frantic, shrieking alarms that echoed off the ivory stone. A dozen snipers on the high walkways raised heavy, long-barreled sun-rifles, aiming their glowing ruby sights at Cinder’s chest.
"NOW!" Lyra shouted.
Varis, Talia, and the six Void-dancers pulled their release pins, detaching from Cinder’s flanks in a shower of black silk gliders, banking sharply toward the lower gardens like silent birds of prey.
High above the terrace, Cinder flared his wings with concussive force, dropping Gideon and Lyra onto the polished white marble before banking hard into the upper clouds to escape the ruby-lens heat.
They hit the terrace at a dead sprint.
Gideon’s star-iron claymores cleared their scabbards with a double roar of whistling steel, deflecting the first volley of sun-rifle bolts in a blinding spray of red sparks. He closed the distance to the guard-post in four massive strides, his blades shearing through three golden halberds and their wielders before the imperial sentries could clear their scabbards.
Lyra drew her antler-handled skinning knife, her violet eye blazing with incandescent fury as she vaulted over a low marble balustrade, planting her boot into the chest of a rifleman, driving her iron blade straight through his gilded neck-gorget.
The sniper collapsed into the ornamental lotus pools, his golden blood clouding the crystal water.
Silence slammed back down over the terrace, broken only by the panting breaths of the eight warriors and the distant, rhythmic hum of the great ruby lens above.
"Terrace secured," Talia breathed, wiping her rapier clean on a silk curtain. "No alarms from the lower city yet. They thought we were an aerial scout."
Ahead of them, double doors of solid, translucent honey-amber—each twenty feet high and banded with carved gold serpents—stood closed against the cool interior of the palace.
Lyra walked slowly toward the amber doors, her bare boots leaving wet, salt-stained footprints on the pristine white stone.
As she drew within three paces, she stopped.
The scent leaking through the seam of the doors was overwhelming.
It was not the smell of an emperor.
It was the smell of a tomb.
Rotten meat, burnt gold, melted glass, and the thick, suffocating stench of an ancient, dying beast that had been strapped to an altar for four centuries.
And through the amber panels, Lyra’s ability saw it.
Sitting inside the cavernous, vaulted throne room, upon a seat carved from solid volcanic obsidian, was a single, massive silhouette.
Connecting the silhouette to twelve massive alchemical tubes hanging from the ceiling were twelve thick, glowing golden cords—cords that were fraying, snapping, and leaking dark, necrotic fire with every ragged breath the figure drew.
The heavy amber doors groaned.
Slowly, without a single hand touching them, they began to swing inward.
From the darkness of the vaulted throne room, a voice drifted out onto the terrace.
It was not the honeyed arrogance of Malakor, nor the cold cruelty of Conlan.
It was a voice that sounded like grinding millstones, dry sand dragging over broken glass, and the terrible, ancient agony of a dying sun.
"Enter, little Ashhound," the voice wheezed, vibrating with the horrifying power of an immortal who had lived far too long. "Come... look upon the groom your mother bought for you."