Heshtat fell to the ground as he emerged from the Other, just barely avoiding a scything swing of Harsiese’s great axe.

  The man turned to him, wild eyed and teeth bared in a snarl. His neck was straining, tendons corded and muscles locked, foam bubbling from the edges of his mouth. Neferu was laying nearby, face bloodied and looking dazed as she tried to stand. Even as he slid beneath the clumsy strike, Heshtat noted the crimson coating on Harsiese’s knuckles and put the picture together.

  He twisted, rolling out of the abrupt fall to regain his feet and prance backwards. The portal had already closed behind him, his aspect guttering as it ran out of essence. Sub-consciously, he was already pulling more in from the air, coaxing the ambient essence that eddied through all things to fill his empty aspect, but it would take time to replenish. Time he didn’t seem to have.

  But that was only one of three, and his Khet and Jb still had power remaining within.

  “Stop,” he commanded, lacing as much essence as he could pack into the words. Just like with Sekhem when he cut the world apart, Heshtat channelled the power of his chosen god through his soul. This time it was Wusis, the Vengeful Wife, and channelled through his heart rather than his blade.

  Harsiese froze in place. This type of working was unfamiliar to Heshtat—his channel wasn’t based on command, and the Jb did not often grant one the power to control others—but Harsiese was not himself. Something had taken over his body, but he could see the Tomb Guard still strained against whatever compulsion was driving him. The comparatively minor obligation that Heshtat tried to hit Harsiese with simply allowed the man to marshal his will for the fight against the alien compulsion that puppeted his body.

  Heshtat took the moment’s hesitation for the boon it was and looked around. The palace guard still held the wall, reinforced by a few notable Tomb Guard, but here and there enemies had slipped through. The criminals that ran amok in the outer districts were nowhere in sight, too weak to make a difference in a fight of this scale. Even the city guard could handle most of them with ease, after all.

  Heshtat caught glimpses of powerful warriors striding across the battlefield, unleashing devastating magic and weaving potent spells to force back the defenders. None immediately nearby though, so he turned to look to the palace itself. A huge building. A dozen great steps leading up to the central throne room, which stood proud and regal beneath the pyramid behind it. Great pillars lined the walkway, green ferns and golden statues adding colour to the imposing structure, though they all glowed a dull orange in the burning eve. The colonnade extended perhaps a hundred yards from the steps to the entrance of the throne room, the floor a marble of swirling colours; mostly white, with streaks of red and green shooting through here and there.

  Heshtat had only heartbeats to look, but Bestat’s blessing had made his senses keen indeed. There! A flash of red cloak behind a pillar. Heshtat took off at a dead sprint. Wind whipped his face as his legs propelled him forwards, the slapping of his sandals against smooth marble a staccato drumbeat heralding his approach.

  A figure leaned out from the pillar as Heshtat closed, arms raised in the midst of casting something his way. Heshtat veered to the nearest pillar, his eyes widening as he saw the figure release their hands. Forked lightning, green and crackling with fell energy, shot towards him. Heshtat leapt, planted a foot on the leg of a kneeling statue of Anubian and sprung off, twisting into a spinning corkscrew in the air as sizzling chains of lightning cauterised the air around him. One bolt skimmed his arm, leaving a branching, blackened trail that he knew would scar. His teeth were already gritted, otherwise the pain would have made him scream. But he was already in the air, already promised to the movement and unable to halt it even if he wanted to.

  He landed a mere few feet from the shocked assassin. They tried to raise their hands again, to summon the virulent power that they had no doubt slain many with before, but Heshtat’s sword was faster. A single strike, and two hands fell to the marble floor, spewing crimson colour across its pale surface, and then the man was screaming.

  Heshtat took his head.

  He turned to see Harsiese sag in place, looking around blearily. Heshtat hurried over, grabbing his face to check his eye movement. It seemed normal, and Harsiese was coming back to himself with each passing moment. He moved on to Neferu, helping her stand and gently pressing against her cheek. A split lip and nasty bruising, but the cheekbone was still whole.

  Lucky, though Heshtat was sure she didn’t feel it right now.

  “What happened?” she asked with a slight lisp.

  “Someone well-acquainted with the darker side of the Heart aspect. An adept at the least. Compelled Harsiese. Dead now.”

  He spoke quickly, ushering her up the steps and back to where Harseise still stood, rolling his great shoulders and spitting to one side. When his gaze landed on Neferu and her bloodied face, his own crumpled.

  “Forgive me, I—” he began, but Heshtat cut him off.

  “No time. It was not a conscious decision, and you fought it the whole time.”

  “Had my will been stronger—”

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  “And had it been weaker, she’d be dead. Let’s go.”

  Heshtat led them across the marble floor, Neferu pausing as she passed the corpse of the headless, handless assassin to give it a quick kick, before hurrying to catch up. They approached the entrance of the palace, and Heshtat’s already pounding heart began to gallop. He could hear fighting within, knew that the last of the Tomb Guard would be holding off whatever enemies were coming for his queen. This was a coup; it had to be. He wasn’t sure who it was supported by, but right now it didn’t matter. There was only one reason to assault the palace district despite its relatively heavy fortifications and defences.

  Harsiese looked grim, his face in a frown that seemed carved from marble. His rage billowed out, the fell aura he had used to cow Senusret on their way out of the city all those days ago now slipping from his control and filling the air around him. Neferu was still gingerly poking at her face, but when she caught Heshtat looking, she straightened and flashed a crooked smile. One hand went to the dagger on her hip, and the other to a bandoleer of trinkets and tools she had picked up from somewhere. Probably a corpse.

  There were less than a dozen yards from the entrance, the roar and light spilling out resolving itself into identifiable noises and sights. A man’s scream, high and shrill, the crunch of weapon against bone, the flash of fire and the tinkling of glass.

  Before he could charge in though, a shadow rose from the floor, slipping up the stone of the throne room’s outer shell until it resolved itself into a jagged doorway. Heshtat bared his blade, but to his surprise, Ahhotep stumbled out, looking haggard. His emerald eyes alighted on Heshtat, and he surged forwards with desperation.

  “Heshtat! Please, you must come. The temple district,” the old man gasped, struggling for breath even as he delivered his urgent message. “They are summoning something. The ritual is crooked, but-—-”

  “We saw,” he replied quickly. “Who is doing the summoning?”

  “The cult of Sebek.”

  Heshtat felt his belly clench in anger and worry. “This changes nothing. Our best chance of stopping it is getting the Eye to Cleo. She can—”

  “There’s no time!” Ahhotep cried, clutching at Heshtat’s arm. The skeletal fingers felt deathly cold against his skin, making him shiver and throw the arm off.

  “And what would you have me do, priest?” he hissed, anger finally rising above sense. “I cannot smite a demon from the realm or kill every fucking priest that tries to bring one across the veil. What can I do about this?”

  Ahhotep didn’t back down in the face of his rage though. Instead he stood tall, matching Heshtat’s glare with his green-eyed visage evenly. “Trust me. I have a plan.”

  “Give me more than that,” Heshtat argued, body itching to move and join his fellows in the throne room.

  “The demon will break through any moment now. We literally have seconds remaining. Trust me, and do as I say when I tell you to.”

  Heshtat stood above a yawning cavern. On one side he heard the screams of the populace, brutalised by some demonic calamity summoned by scheming cultists. On the other, he heard the cries of the woman he loved, torn apart by the strangely bestial assassin he had seen clamber over the palace wall.

  None of it was real, but Heshtat’s imagination ran wild. He needed to make a choice. He was the leader, his companions looking to him for direction. Harsiese was bouncing on the balls of his feet, awaiting a simple command to rush into the throne room and support his fellow comrades. Ahhotep stood pleading, begging for Heshtat’s intercession to help stop the looming incursion.

  Between them both, Neferu waited patiently. Her earlier nervousness was gone. Still scared, but she no longer looked like she was about to cut and run. Something had firmed inside her, and now she waited for orders with the patience of a veteran.

  Half the city or his love? It seemed a simple choice in some respects. Heshtat had served others his whole life. It was natural, instinctual even, to sacrifice his own happiness for the greater good. But the last month had changed him profoundly. He had found a new purpose, a new oath to which he tied his soul. The thought of dying without speaking to her one final time, without looking her in the eyes and telling her how he felt was heartrending.

  Because death was the likely outcome here. Even if he thought it better to abandon his duty to his queen and rush off in an attempt to stop the demonic incursion, surely it would only end in his death and failure. Ahhotep was just a single man. A high priest, true, and a master of Akh besides, but still just a single man against what sounded like a cable from within his own cult.

  And did Heshtat even trust him? He was a high priest of Sebek. Who was to say he wasn’t in league with the others of his kind that even now sought to break Amin-Ra’s veil between realms and usher forth chaos onto Idib’s streets. Heshtat took in the man’s glowing green eyes, his simple brown robes and hunched back. Tallow skin, wispy hair showing grey beneath his hood, skeletal hand clutching that damned tome…

  He had threatened Heshtat twice now—or his shadow had, at least. Was he even sure the priest was in control of himself right now, and not the puppet of the demon that lurked below his temple and whose offspring infested his shadow?

  Perhaps this was simply a trick to lure him away. To prevent Queen Cleosiris—another experienced practitioner of Akh—from gaining the power she would need to combat this disastrous working. The thoughts and questions and doubts swirled around his head as time slipped by at a crawl. He felt like his mind was afire. Stay the course or let distractions divert him? The people or the city? Cleo or her wishes?

  He could ignore the priest. Slip through the throne room to his queen’s side, press the Eye into her hand and commit himself to her protection as she stole power from the gods and threw the invaders from their home. She might even destroy the demon herself. Hundreds would die in its emergence and the following rampage, perhaps thousands, but she could stop it. A far better outcome than the demon held at bay but Idib’s queen and last hope dead.

  But she wouldn’t want that. The woman he loved was selfless, driven by a desire for the greater good just as he was. That purity of purpose, that willingness to sacrifice for what she knew was right, whether easy or hard… that was part of what had drawn them together to begin with. It had been ten years, but he still understood her. That single conversation in his little hovel was enough for him to know, deeply and without doubt, that she was the same person still. It had just taken him a while to let go of his own doubts and admit it. The years might have changed her superficially, but deep down, he knew what she would want him to do.

  “Fuck!” he swore with all his heart. He grabbed the amulet from beneath his vest and pressed it into Neferu’s hands. “Get this to the queen. Harsiese, get her there. That is your task.”

  Then he turned to the priest. “Show me.”

  Ahhotep inclined his head, gesturing behind himself, and Heshtat marched into the pool of shadow without further hesitation. The world went black.