Chapter 3

  “Survive,” said Rasmus, wreathed in gloom and chain. He clenched his fists, grinding the chains in his palms, and he glowered at the starless void. The silence of his companions spoke to him: survive? Survive what? And why? Rasmus had no answers for them.

  He wished for something to strike. He longed for a trial which could be overcome through mere strength. He wished for an enemy, for a monster.

  And one appeared forthwith, though it was one beyond even him. A pale leviathan appeared, brilliant bright in the darkness. For all its size and its light, the creature arrived suddenly, without warning, as though it had crept up on them through the nothingness.

  It was the Prothagonus, the many-eyed beast of the Bright World, whom Rasmus had seen but once and had never wished to see again. Rosma cowered to his right as Rasmus turned to face it, and even Emmius to his left shrank back behind his moon-breaking instrument.

  The creature seemed made of eyes, eyes in limitless variety. Rasmus’s gaze found his own eye in among them, staring back at him, a golden tiger’s eye, lidless, enraged. And though Rasmus sensed that the end was at hand at last, he let loose a breath of relief. Surely he would fight to live; he could not do otherwise. He would strike out with all his might. But no struggle would avail against the Prothagonus; he would be destroyed. He would be overcome. At last.

  For a time unknown and unknowable, Rasmus and the Prothagonus gazed silently at each other. Something touched Rasmus on the leg. It was Fiora, half glass now, leaning against him in wordless terror. And beyond: Akkama, broken blade dripping blood, not with fear in her eyes but bleak resignation. She said something that Rasmus could not hear, but he read her intent well enough. He nodded at her. They had failed indeed. Derxis, their last chance, lay dead on the cold rock behind him.

  So. They were all of them here. The five who remained.

  begone, failed heroes

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The voice of the Prothagonus made their little space-rock tremble. Rasmus heard it in his bones, in his skull. It made sparks crawl on his chains and flicker in his blood.

  die elsewhere in your despair

  your passage into the Genesis Machine has been secured for you

  though you do not deserve it

  Rasmus had readied for a fight, though the very thought was ludicrous. This being could speak him out of existence. Rasmus did not understand this about a Genesis Machine, but he knew that he deserved nothing, nothing but the end that was coming.

  He laughed—a short, sharp sound that made Fiora cringe away and that shook the stone as much as the speech of the bright leviathan.

  laugh then, hero of storm, you who used unwisely your strength

  recoil indeed, tiny one, for your gift of life was never enough

  bare your teeth, bringer of destruction, for this is the consequence of your apathy

  glare at me, fool, in whom there is naught else but fear

  sneer, mute, whose pain poisoned your mind and these skies

  you have been paid for

  it will not avail you

  no hope walks the halls you go to

  The eyes of the Prothagonus blinked, and all went dark. And next they knew, they were in another place entirely.