Chapter 8: Chapter 9: On the Wordlessness of the Outer Devil

The supplicant's mouth works. They look to the Castellan and the Seneschal--but of course, their posts do not exist right now. For the Lady sits upon her throne of silver blades, a silhouette of purest umbra against the stolen nova in the heart of Zul.

"But--" they protest."B-but you gave your word."

"Did I?" the Lady asks. "I cannot remember." The sigils of wicked omen glow on her six horns. Kaleidoscoping fangs dance in the blue-fire maw splitting her shadow. "Do you suppose the name of the kshiinurzhalg means naught? My word does not exist."

"But I killed for our pact! For you!" the supplicant screams. "I became the monster you asked of me!"

"Hm," the Lady says. "You did. You upheld your promises. Yet I find no savor in your slaughter. Our pact sings only for its own ending. May decay take it."

And the supplicant rises, trembling, eyes empty, and leaps from the edge of the dais into the cyclones of irradiant aurorae and azure lightning, the world-devouring ever-storm of Machrae Diir.

The Lady watches, and smiles. "A better sacrifice," she says. "Your world will live."

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