He learned the arts of many worlds, took on ancient riddles, repaired governments and relationships. He lived for a time as a pacifist monk wandering the streets of Sanctum, though he quickly grew bored with that.
No matter what he did, the nature of his origin didn’t change.
Not that anyone else from the Abidan minded. Warriors and killers could both be put to work in the service of order, and if Ozmanthus didn’t want to bring death, there was always his other great talent of detection.
The Spider of the Abidan works to find instances of chaos and disruption among the Iterations, and to bind the Abidan together with communication. Ozmanthus joined his Third Division and was declared the successor to Telariel in record time.
In this capacity, he continued to have a special fascination with the Phoenix Division, as they were those who could do what he could not. He struck up a friendship with a woman expected to succeed the Mantle of Suriel.
She advised him not to ignore his talents. A true Phoenix would contribute to the greater cause of restoration however they could.
He kept that in mind when he and his fellow Spiders encountered a Vroshir trap.
It was an ambush intended to wipe them out. The enemy had taken over an entire Iteration, then cut it off from the Way when the Abidan arrived to investigate. Upon entry into the world, his entire team was eradicated.
Except him.
He escaped, but the disparity bothered him. With a weapon on the level of a Judge, he would have been able to defend his team, but such weapons were highly restricted and forbidden to create.
Ozmanthus began to gather materials.
He stole, unearthed, or recovered weapons of absolute destructive authority. Obsolete Judge weapons, like the prototype Razor of Suriel, and the Shears of a previous Makiel that had once snipped threads from Fate. Weapons that had been used against Judges, like the Bane of the Titan—made by the Vroshir to kill the second-generation Gadrael. Even the greatest weapons used by the Vroshir: Sha’irik, the absolute curse, and Auctarius, the Blade that Sundered Heaven.
Finally, he added his own original creation. An improved version of Penance, his old creation, the arrowhead of absolute death.
He bound these together in the depths of the Void, so far from the Way that even Fiends could not last long, in a zone of pure nonexistence and annihilation.
He forged them in the energy of a stolen Worldseed, with enough power that it could have birthed an entire Iteration.
By doing so, he indeed created a peerless weapon: a Scythe that would let him fight like a Judge. But he did not expect the recognition of the Way.
He became the avatar of true Destruction, the opposite of lost Creation. And when he was taken into custody by the Court of Seven for his creation of the Scythe, the Court was in awe.
Unwittingly, Ozmanthus had achieved a goal that the Court of Seven had pursued since antiquity. He had manifested another absolute aspect of reality. He had become the Judge of Destruction.
With the exception of Makiel, who urged that Ozmanthus be executed, the other Judges agreed that Ozmanthus should be given the mantle of the Reaper and raised up as their peer.
He was even granted a new name: Ozriel.
Record complete.
Back in the Ancestor’s Tomb, Lindon faced the door marked with the symbols of the four Dreadgods. He still had a headache, but his vision and spiritual sense had largely returned. In fact, this was the clearest his perception had ever been in Sacred Valley, now that the suppression field was gone.
He could sense panic all over the Valley. Their spirits were weak, and their populations were depleted, but they scurried everywhere. He could sense techniques of every aspect and Path used from here all the way to the remainder of Mount Venture in the west.
Including a presence cloaked in light and dreams. Lindon turned from the door to face Elder Whisper as the fox dashed up, five tails lashing.
“What have you done?” Elder Whisper demanded.
Mercy, Yerin, Eithan, and Ziel stared at the fox. Even Orthos and Little Blue, on Lindon’s shoulders, faced him down.
None of them were intentionally threatening—Eithan was unsurprised at Whisper’s appearance, while Little Blue gave a little gasp, and Mercy waved—but Lindon could see the realization dawn over Elder Whisper as the sacred beast realized he was facing down a group of sacred artists far more advanced than he was.
That must have been a serious adjustment to make, after centuries of being the strongest in many miles.
“Apologies,” Elder Whisper said quietly. “If you don’t mind telling me, I would be grateful to learn what happened to the suppression field.”
He was holding back his urgency, but he still gave a little dip of his forelegs in what could be considered a bow.
Dross manifested on Lindon’s shoulder and spoke to everyone. [This is Akura clan territory. Legally, you are not obliged to answer him. In fact, with Akura Mercy here, execution would be within your rights as a Lord.]
“Why would I execute him, Dross?”
Dross gave a long, slow blink with his one eye. [That was a joke. Ha ha.]
Elder Whisper sank lower into the stones.
“Apologies, Elder Whisper. My mind-spirit is not himself right now. We believe someone has tampered with the structure of the labyrinth, and we’re going to investigate now. But we don’t expect to return until we’ve found Subject One.”
Whisper’s tails began to drift back and forth again. “That’s…good. Very good. Gratitude. You have the key I gave you?”
Lindon produced the silver box containing the shriveled hand.
Elder Whisper looked from the case to Eithan’s clothes, which bore the Arelius clan symbol. “I notice this one has the same symbol on his robes.”
Only then did Lindon realize they had never told Elder Whisper about House Arelius. Before he could explain, Eithan swept a bow.
“Eithan Arelius, at your service,” he said, though he’d met Elder Whisper before. “I am a humble scion of the ancient House Arelius, which is the symbol I bear. This key that you have shared with Lindon was once the property of my clan’s leader and Monarch, Tiberian.”
“Elder Whisper, we believe there may be someone else in the labyrinth,” Lindon said.
Elder Whisper watched the door carefully. “I saw no one enter or leave this labyrinth since the attack of the Dreadgod. And several of these too-curious children have tried. But I cannot guard every entrance, especially now.”
“Do we have time for this?” Ziel demanded. He had been dragged back from going off on his own, but every second he seemed more and more likely to walk away again.
“We don’t!” Mercy said.
“Then I will leave it to you,” Whisper said. “Please do what I could not.”
Lindon focused on the door. “I will try. Open.”
He felt weaker as his will passed out of him, but the stone carving slid inward. Ziel entered without hesitation, though the power emanating from within caused everyone else to hesitate. It was the same all-consuming hunger that reminded him of the Void Icon. Identical to the aura that had flooded out the night before.
Hunger aura.
As Ziel walked inside, Yerin drew her black sword. “Oi, fox. How long does it take for a trip down there?”
“The labyrinth constantly shifts. The hand can allow you to reach the center, and it is said that those who mastered its patterns could reach the heart in a day. Those I have known spent months or even years down there, and never reached the heart. If they made it out at all.”