Familiar rooms, grey and gloom

Hope for one; for others, doom.

The grey light was familiar, and abysmal. The black-and-silver geometric pattern wove about on all sides – floor, ceiling, walls; an infinite, unbreakable web of arcane, ancient, grotesque magic. Mekka felt trapped in it, as though the harder he struggled to resist its grip, the more tightly he seemed to enmesh himself, like a fly pitifully trying to save itself from becoming a spider's meal.

And yet the spider played with him, pretending that there was no danger, whispering to him with false reassurance, enticing him with glimpses of power, of control, of knowledge; of a terrible sense of belonging that he abhorred and at the same time yearned for… a sense that he was special, sacred, even, as the last living remnant of the lost Iriphim.

All a lie.

The Watcher watched him. It watched everything.

And it did what it wanted. It made monsters. It made Humans into black-winged puppets, false and flimsy mimics of the ancient race who had created it; flawed, mindless, shadowy children, stripped of everything they were but never able to become what, in the Watcher's warped, artificial imagination, it sought to make them.

Something was dreadfully wrong with the Black Pyramid's magic. Why had it turned Reeves into a Muron? He was already an Angel… it should have turned his feathers black, and stolen his mind, perhaps, but… this? And it had gone even more wrong when it had tried to convert animals…

Mekka closed his eyes, trying to shut away the awful pattern, but it seemed branded onto the inside of his eyelids. His breathing came raggedly. He could hardly sort through what had happened, his mind turned to sludge shot through with streaks of red-hot terror.

Fear for Carmine ate away at him like a disease, a fever. He could not seem to slow the racing of his heart.

Upon arriving inside the Pyramid, he had ordered it to take them with all speed to Lady Araynia. A whisper of affirmation had brushed his mind as a response. As it had with Carmine, the Watcher appeared to have accepted his request.

Of course it did, Mekka thought bitterly. We go to yet another town full of living things to torture and subvert…

He suppressed a shudder of nausea. When they arrived at Bridgetown, he would need to move quickly. He would have to locate the Lady, drop Carmine and the Sword off with her and then retreat immediately, try to command the Watcher to go somewhere unpopulated.

Gods only knew if it would listen.

And then there was Reeves.

The Sky Legion Commander had followed them inside the Pyramid and was now stalking the halls like just another of the twisted monsters.

Mekka no longer cared what his game was. He hoped against hope that the Muron got himself lost or into a deadly fight with one of his fellow abominations.

Opening his eyes, the Angel looked down at the mortally-injured red-haired woman.

She faded in and out of consciousness, shivering and feverish, sometimes muttering incomprehensibly. Mekka had laid her on a stone slab, raised up off the floor, the Sword of Healing resting lengthwise upon her body. He had stripped her leather armour off and ripped up her red cloak, binding the puncture wounds in her back as best he could, but her blood still darkened the stone beneath her. The slab had a slight raised lip around the edge, so the blood did not leak onto the floor.

Mekka tried to ensure that it didn't. He had been careful not to allow Carmine to touch any trigonic surface. He was well aware of what could happen if she did.

As with Ferrian, he had begged the Watcher not to take her.

So far, it had acquiesced.

Mekka sat on the side of the slab with his hands pressed over hers, around the handle of the Sword. He had been sitting that way for what felt like an hour but was probably only minutes, unable to move or look away, as though to do so, even for a second, would cause him to lose her.

Lifting a shaking hand, he stroked her hair away from her face.

Within the Pyramid, there was no sense of time passing, no indication that they were travelling at all. There were no windows to the outside world, other than the Void Triangles.

Nothing but empty, lifeless, silent rooms, as though the Watcher was little more than a giant, flying mausoleum.

He let his breath out in a shuddering rush. His left hand clenched over Carmine's, as though he could bring the Sword to life through his own force of will, as though to summon magic he had never had.

And yet… he could summon magic, he thought wretchedly. He could command the Watcher to heal her.

But it would do more than that, of course.

Mekka's skin prickled. Suddenly, he felt that he needed to move away, that his presence beside Carmine was not helping her cling to life, but instead putting her in danger…

Wrenching his eyes away from her, he forced himself to release her, to get up, to walk away.

There was a fountain in the next room, in the shape of three leaping fish, tinkling with unseemly serenity in the silence. He dunked his head into the water, watching blue ripples shimmer around him from the cursed wing-shaped magic attached to his head. Straightening, he brushed his hair back from his face, then washed the blood off his hands. His new clothing was stained as well. Taking off the green jacket and shirt, he threw them into the basin to soak. Then he collapsed onto the floor, rested his arms across his knees and dropped his head onto them.

Water dripped off his face and trickled down his back between his wings. An involuntary sob heaved itself out of him.

He felt shattered, as though every single part of him was broken. He had not felt this bad since Aari had died, not even when he had been claimed by the trigonic dagger. The shock of seeing Carmine stabbed in the back while so newly healed had crushed some fundamental part of him.

He closed his eyes, trying to squeeze the tears away. His thoughts slid back to that room at the inn. When he had awoken and seen Carmine asleep in the chair next to him, looking almost exactly as she always had, as though none of the horror of the past four years had ever happened, he had felt light as air. It had taken several stunned minutes to convince himself that he wasn't dreaming, that the trigonic armour and all of its foul, corrupting influence was gone.

For a precious, glorious, impossible moment of time, everything was right again; as though sunlight had shone through the shadows of his soul.

He had never felt anything like it.

And then he had looked out the window and the world had spiralled right back into chaos. And in the turmoil of his madness, Carmine had come too close…

Swallowing heavily, he lifted his head. He could see her in the room opposite, framed by the stone archway, reposing on the stone slab as though in a tomb awaiting burial. Whatever moment of brilliant happiness he had been granted had been snatched away with cruel and astonishing rapidity.

Not for you, Mekk'Ayan, the Gods seemed to sneer, mockingly, as like-minded as Reeves. Not for you, peace or contentment. Not for you, to love or be loved…

Something butted his leg, making him jump and flinch away, instinctively reaching for his daggers before remembering they had been destroyed by the Watcher.

But it was just the Cat.

Warm and black, furry and purring, he smooched against the Angel's knee.

Mekka let out a breath, some of the tension leaking out with it, if not his despondency. He reached out and stroked the Cat. "Hello again, little friend." His voice came out hoarse and querulous.

The animal purred in response.

"Can't keep calling you 'Cat', though," Mekka said. He sniffed, brushing his nose. "You need a name."

He thought about it for a few minutes, but came up with nothing. He closed his eyes again.

The Cat was a little bundle of inexplicable life in a cold, inhospitable, deserted place. He radiated warmth and wordless companionship. He was like a campfire glimpsed between dark trees, to one who was hopelessly lost.

"Campfire, eh?" he murmured, frowning doubtfully. "Odd name, but… eh." He shrugged. "Not exactly feeling creative." He looked down at the feline, rubbing his head. "What do you think, little Campfire?"

The Cat shied away from his hand, deciding that he had had enough petting for now. He shook himself, then nonchalantly licked his paw, got up and sauntered away.

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Well, at least he didn't stick his claws into me, Mekka thought, deciding to take that as a sign of approval.

The strange little animal wandered over to another of the archways off to Mekka's right and sat down in the middle of the opening, curling his spiky tail over his paws, and stared into the room beyond.

Mekka watched him, gazing past him into the room, but nothing could be seen or heard. Only the sound of the fountain at Mekka's back disturbed the hush.

A creeping feeling passed over him; a mixture of apprehension and gut instinct. The Cat often stared fixedly at random walls and ceilings for no apparent reason, but still…

Silently, warily, Mekka rose to his feet, made his way over to the archway, and peered through.

The room – and the identical one inverted above – featured the usual dreary pattern, alcoves, and a single open, doorless archway directly opposite, leading onwards to yet more hexagonal, black-and-silver tiled rooms. This one, however, contained four Void Triangles suspended within the alcoves: their velvety depths so black they generated a kind of primal horror. Mekka was somewhat used to them now, but his stomach twisted and sweat broke out on his skin if he looked into them too long without a definite purpose in mind.

He wasn't the only one to have discovered their uses.

Reeves was there.

The Muron was facing away from Mekka and the Cat, over on the far left side of the room, staring into one of the alcoves. The Triangle there had come to life with brightness and colour; a tantalising wash of light reflecting off the achromatic tiles.

The sight of Reeves was even more sickening than the Void Triangles. Mekka turned quickly away, setting his back to the wall, taking deep breaths.

But despite himself, curiosity got the better of him. Mekka had already used the giant Triangle in the Great Hall to locate the Lady, as he had done twice before with Carmine and the White Dragon. The Watcher was – he hoped – flying them there with all haste.

So… what was Reeves doing?

Soundlessly, Mekka slipped into the room. Keeping close to the walls, he edged along until he reached an angle where he could see past the Muron's huge leathery wings, but still remain just outside of his peripheral vision. The Triangle was big enough that Mekka could see the image it displayed clearly.

He was disappointed.

He had hoped to see something that would reveal Reeves' secret, but instead it simply showed the Lady again – along with a group of other people, some of them Mekka's companions.

When Mekka had seen Lady Araynia, she had been sitting beside a campfire in a forest, looking worried. Now, she knelt on a paved road, using her healing magic on a well-dressed man lying unconscious before her. She appeared to be still within the forest, which rose on either side, but the view in the background opened up into a stunning vista of broken plains and distant mountains. A city lay in between, suspended over a vast red canyon, shimmering in the sunlight.

Bridgetown, Mekka thought.

On the hill with the Lady were a group of soldiers wearing the cobalt uniforms of the Imperial Army. Some sat on horses, others wandered around picking something up off the ground, or tried to soothe their jittery mounts.

Ben was there, as was Li, and one of Reeves' men.

Mekka recognised the Angel as Lieutenant Tander – notable for being the only member of the Sky Legion to have shown decency and respect. He was speaking with the Imperial officer, a short, barrel-shaped man with an impressive beard and a huge mace.

No sound accompanied the vision: it was impossible to know what was being said.

Mekka felt troubled by the scene; someone he didn't recognise had been wounded – perhaps attacked – and he could see no sign of either Ferrian or Flint. Either they weren't there, or they were somewhere beyond the Watcher's field of view.

What was going on over there??

Then Reeves lifted a black clawed hand. Hesitantly, he placed it upon the image, as though it were a fragile thing that might shatter at the slightest touch of his powerful talons.

And Mekka realised something in that moment – Reeves had not asked the Watcher to see Lady Araynia.

He had wanted to see Tander.

Campfire walked into the room, then. His little cat paws were silent, but his hind reptile claws clicked softly on the tiles.

Reeves head snapped around in an instant. His eyes narrowed at the Cat, then he caught sight of Mekka.

His snarl was furious, his yellow eyes widening.

Mekka tensed, poised to either flee or fight, certain that the Muron was about to attack him, but instead Reeves smashed his claws into the Triangle, exploding it into hundreds of small black tiles, obliterating the image. Then he stalked away out of the far doorway, without looking back.

Mekka crouched where he was for a long moment, waiting for his heart to stop racing. Campfire had fled with the violent motion. Black triangles lay spilled across the floor.

Cautiously, Mekka rose to his feet, staring in the direction Reeves had gone. Then he turned and quickly made his way back through the fountain room towards the slab where Carmine lay.

Thankfully, Reeves had stormed off in the opposite direction.

When he reached the archway to Carmine's room, however, he came to an abrupt halt, taking a step backwards in shock.

An apparition sat beside Carmine, an elegant figure made all of shimmering white light. He perched upon the side of the slab in exactly the same spot that Mekka had recently occupied, and in the same pose – one arm extended, pale glimmering hand resting upon the wounded woman's on the handle of the Sword. He was taller than Mekka, with fine long white hair framing his face and falling in a braid down his back, over a flowing cloak. Lifting his head, the spirit gazed at the dumbstruck Angel.

He said nothing, simply nodded once, slowly, giving Mekka a mysterious smile. Then he closed his eyes, bowed his head, dissolved into feathery mist and was gone.

Mekka's breath was stuck in his throat. Though the apparition had spoken no words, his expression had told Mekka everything.

She will be looked after, in your absence, the nod had said.

All will be well, the smile promised.

And in the glow of his eyes, which beamed warmth like the sun, the whisper:

Trust me.

Against his better judgement, Mekka decided that he would go and speak to Reeves.

It wasn't a wise thing to do, he realised that. At best, the encounter might prove entirely pointless. At worst, he would antagonise the Muron even further, and get into another ridiculous fight. He presumed the Watcher would intervene if Reeves made another concerted effort to kill him, and perhaps that knowledge emboldened Mekka.

Or maybe he was just feeling reckless.

He checked on Carmine's condition first, to make sure it hadn't worsened. She seemed stable enough for the moment. The appearance of Lord Requar's magnificent glittering spirit had done much to ease Mekka's anguish and reassure him that as long as Carmine was in contact with the Sword of Healing, she would be all right.

The fact that Requar still existed in spirit form within the Sword hadn't come as a complete surprise – Ben had told him as much during their meeting in the desert, but in truth Mekka had forgotten about it since then.

He had no idea why, or how such a thing was possible, but there were far too many other problems to occupy his mind with currently. It was enough that Carmine had a… guardian, of sorts. He felt certain that Requar would not let her die before she reached the Lady.

So it was that Mekka felt reasonably confident about letting her out of his sight for a little while.

Campfire jumped up on the slab and curled up in a black ball against Carmine's leg. Mekka scratched the cat's chin. "You look after her too, eh?" he whispered.

Then he went off in search of Reeves.

Pausing by the fountain to wring out his clothes, he laid them out on the basin to dry, then continued through the room with the Void Triangles.

The one that had collapsed was mysteriously whole again, carving its triangular emptiness into the alcove as though nothing had happened. Mekka spared it only a brief glance without stopping.

He did not have to search far for Reeves, finding him only three rooms further on.

The Muron was hanging upside-down in the room above Mekka, leathery wings wrapped tightly around himself, like a massive bat.

Mekka stared up at him for a long moment, but Reeves did not move.

Spreading his own black-feathered wings, the Angel flew upwards, twisting in the air when he felt the pull of gravity and landing in a neat crouch on what had been the ceiling, but was now the floor.

This room was dominated by a large hexagonal platform, made of plain grey stone unadorned by the black-and-silver pattern. It extended from the floor by about five feet, with an ornamental wrought-iron railing ringing its edge. Mekka had no idea what sort of purpose such a construction was meant to serve: it was another of the Pyramid's random oddities.

Reeves hunkered in the middle of the platform like a black statue. His head was hidden beneath his wings.

Mekka watched him, but still, the Muron did not react or show any awareness or interest in his presence.

He was not fooled. And he knew from previous encounters that when Reeves was disinclined to talk, his patience was virtually limitless.

Mekka sprang onto the platform, landing lightly on the other side of the railing. He remained with wings spread, ready to take flight in an instant if necessary, all of his instincts alert.

The Muron did nothing.

Straightening, Mekka folded his wings and leaned back against the railing, arms crossed, frowning. Now that he was here, he was beginning to wonder why he had bothered. What did either of them have to say that hadn't already been said? They both knew where they stood with each other. Nothing was going to change that.

The Angel looked off into the empty, silent array of rooms around them. For some reason he felt the need to say something. "I'm still not dead," he stated finally. There was more regret in his voice than he had expected. He snorted. "You failed to kill me. Again."

He turned a resentful gaze at Reeves. "But if it makes you feel any better… yes, I hate you, Reeves."

He was quiet for a time. "But I am not the only one who has tossed his principles into the wind. There was a time that you took pride in being above murder. That you respected the Angels' First Law. It was a mark of difference between us, wasn't it? I wanted to believe that you were better than I was, Reeves! I wanted you to prove it!"

Silence.

Eyes glimmering with bitterness, fists clenched, he looked away. "I hate what the Watcher has done to you. Arrogant as you are, you did not deserve… this. But there was no need to kill those Freeroamers, or hurt Carmine. If you did so just to cause me pain, then you are far more despicable than I ever imagined!"

Silence.

Mekka's jaw worked. "Well, you achieved what you wanted. Well done. But I know it's more than that. You overheard our conversation. You were afraid that I was going to fly off with the Watcher, abandoning you and Carmine in Watchroads."

It was true. He had intended to do just that.

"So you took desperate measures to prevent me from doing that. To force me to fly you both to the Lady."

He glanced back at the Muron. "You hope that the Sword of Healing may be able to reverse the Watcher's magic, turn you back into an Angel. But you did not have to—"

He stopped talking. A soft hiss emanated from behind the wings, a kind of rhythmic, whispery sibilance.

It took him a minute to realise that it was laughter.

The wings parted then, just a crack, revealing the shard of a yellow eye deep in their shadow.

"Your preciousss Sssword can do nothing for me," Reeves whispered finally.

Mekka stared at him, going tense again.

"The Watcher revelled in my agony," Reeves went on, his voice soft and dark. "It gloried in my s-s-s-ssssuffering…" A visible quiver passed over him, and there was a rasping pause before he continued. "It burned me down to the core of my being and… remade me into… thisss. It forced me to bear witnesss to my own devassstation."

All of Mekka's blood had drained out of him.

"I am the Watcher'sss possesssion, now. Any attempt to undo the change may be ssseen asss a threat to one of itsss cherissshed creationsss."

Mekka took hold of the railing to steady himself. That was something he had somehow failed to consider, even though he had warned Carmine about this very possibility – that the silvertine Sword was in danger from the Watcher's power. He didn't know if Reeves' logic was correct, but if it was…

"Reeves," he breathed, "I…"

The Muron unfolded himself, standing to his full height. He was at least two feet taller than he had been, and far more imposing, a sleek, black, scaled creature of death forged out of hate, pain and anger. His eyes seared into Mekka's like chips from a forge. "Go!" he snarled. "Go and sssave your sssweetheart! Get out of my sssight before I tear your head from your ssshouldersss!"

Mekka was so stricken with horror that any possible response eluded him. Instead, he leapt into the air, twisting back down to the room below, and fled into the bleak chambers beyond.

He could feel Reeves' eyes tearing holes through his back as he went.

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