Reaper(Cradle #10)(31)

Lindon had never met the man before, but Gaien was quick enough to bask in reflected glory.

Serpent’s Grave was a city built from ancient, giant dragon bones. Almost every building was either carved into a towering rib, supported by yellowed fangs, or resting inside a skull. When Lindon had last seen the place, it had just weathered an attack from the Jai clan, and he was taken away by the Skysworn.

Now, Arelius family colors were everywhere. Their crescent moon symbol stood out from each street, and their banners flew dark blue, black, and white.

Gaien Arelius was therefore very important here, but Lindon didn’t care much for the aging Truegold. He had far more respect for Gaien’s son, the next heir to the Blackflame branch of the Arelius family: Cassias Arelius.

Cassias sought out Lindon and Yerin after the major welcoming ceremony, his curly hair shining golden. He held a long, thin silver saber at his hip, and he bowed gracefully before the two of them.

“I hoped I would be able to welcome you back someday,” he said. “But I never dreamed it would be like this.”

Lindon was happier to see Cassias than he had expected.

Windfall settled over the city. At first, Lindon intended to stay only long enough to get the refugees from Sacred Valley started in their new lives. But there was always someone who wanted the opinion of the Void Sage, and Cassias was dealing with some rivals who had been sabotaging his operations in neighboring cities.

Once Yerin took a casual stroll in the streets of those cities without using a veil, the obstacles to the Arelius family quietly disappeared.

All in all, there was always something else to do.

Windfall went from waiting in the sky, ready to depart at a moment’s notice, to sitting on the ground inside the city walls. Before long, a camp of the Twin Star sect sprouted around it.

And the seasons slid slowly by.





Reigan Shen tore through a crowd of slavering ghouls made from hunger madra with a sword that blazed like the sun.

His body was so weak as to be worthless, and he had lived among the suppression field for months. He was panting and sweaty, caked in filth.

But Reigan hadn’t always been a Monarch. He had fought his way up, just like the others. And he had forgotten nothing.

The ghouls hungered for his blood essence, for his madra, for his lifeline, for his authority, for his soulfire—for any source of energy he had on him or in him. He gave that energy to them in his attacks, flooding them with power from the edge of his blade, slicing them in half with a weapon of golden sunlight.

He left chunks of hunger madra dissolving on the ground behind him. Some of the other half-formed spirits stopped to feed on the essence flowing out of their comrades.

Reigan Shen finally found his way to a stretch of wall.

This had once been a door, but centuries ago, it had been filled in and sealed off. Never intended to be opened again.

There was no key to this door any longer, and the wall was almost indestructible.

But almost indestructible was no obstacle.

Shen deactivated the sword, noting as he did that the red-gold blade was starting to warp under the strain. Using powerful sacred instruments in this environment was terrible, and his heart ached at the waste.

There was almost no such thing as a true Monarch-level construct. Monarchs died so rarely that weapons formed from their bodies or Remnants were considered final life-saving treasures. There might even be more Abidan artifacts on Cradle than Monarch weapons, though no one would be able to prove that.

But this sword had been made by a Monarch and intended for use by Monarchs. It was a work of art, and outside of this maze, it could cleave mountains.

He placed the tip of the sword against the wall with great reluctance. The prize was worth the cost, but that didn’t make the cost easy to pay.

“You will be used for a great purpose,” he said to the weapon.

Then he activated the binding at full power. At least, the full extent of power it could manage down here.

The Song of Falling Ash shone with fire, light, and destruction. Its bright light filled the hall, illuminating the stone…but failing to pierce through.

The walls here had been invested with authority to make them inviolable, but this sword was the true product of a Monarch, made in the Soulforge and imbued with his will to break.

And, weakened though he may have been, Reigan Shen was a Monarch as well.

“Begone!” Reigan Shen commanded.

The authority on the wall shattered…and then the wall did.

A wave of flaming power dissolved the broad stone wall, leaving a hole big enough to pass a cloud fortress through. The Blade of Falling Ash was twisted and half-melted, its physical shell now leaking madra.

Reigan Shen sheathed it anyway. He could repurpose its material, and the masterpiece of a Monarch Soulsmith deserved more than to be thrown away.

Then again, this labyrinth might be the best place to dispose of such works. No one knew how many genius Soulsmiths had put their life’s work into this place.

And nowhere was that more evident than in this room. Behind the wall, he found a massive chamber filled with blue crystals. But perhaps “crystals” was the wrong word; though they seemed to be solid, they flowed like rivers over every inch of the walls and floor.

This was madra Forged naturally and infused with aura for years. This material would be perfect to make priceless treasures, but Reigan Shen couldn’t afford to open his void space more than necessary. He would risk destabilizing the rest of his collection.