I am the Riven, and the four winds bow to my will. The sky is my womb, and one day it shall carry my ashes to the Nine.
That is, if death would dare to Challenge me, for I will not go willingly into the dark.
Will not break the vow I once made — to speak only truth and to see the bloodline of Eternal to its natural end.
Seven centuries have passed since I took the burden of that curse. Or was cursed with it.
I know the scent of the clouds, the tang of blood on the wind in war, and the cold faces of the mountains. I know the hum of undying stone beneath my talons and the guiding hands of the currents beneath my wings. Those are ageless. Lasting. Constant.
But not memory. Remembering the past is a fickle thing for a creature of the skies, and I no longer recall why I follow the violet ribbon or who bound me to its fate. I have followed its pulse for so long that doing so is instinct.
And so, when the ribbon went with the Starborn deep into the Veinroads, I honored its call. A silver trail remained in its wake.
In the wake of her.
And from the moment I scented that starlight in the air, I could only think of how its softness belied a deep-seated loneliness…
Not so very different from my own.
Prologue
The Attendant was Nameless, and so she was unseen. She moved through the Jade Lattice without obstacle, her existence so insignificant that not even the guardian Reskala looked at her in passing. Their hollow white eyes scanned for intruders—for lawbreakers. As an Attendant, she was neither. The rich violet color of her robes, her ornate mask, and the long pointed hood resting at her back were enough to signal her right to pass.
And her limp, perhaps. All those in the Lattice knew of Her Radiance's malformed Attendant, of the way her right foot twisted inward as she walked.
Reflection: Thoughts of this are improper.
Hands do not reflect.
Hands only serve.
Correction: Think of Her Radiance. Think of duty. Meals. Linens. Her Radiance needs a new comb. Fresh Lustrals. A new supply of herbals.
With each step, the Attendant catalogued the supplies she needed to bring back to the Sokâr's room this morning. The farther she moved from reflection into duty, the less her shoulders tensed.
Step by step, she moved; until the maw of the Servitor loomed above her in the inky murk of the palace. A maze of stone tunnels, shared quarters, and ovens that never cooled. Pillars of black marble veined with pulsing emerald light rose like guardians at an ancient gate. On theright, an effigy to the Destroyer glared down at her with empty eyes; his clawed, malformed hand pointing to the carving of the Littany cut into the stone.
Beneath the Shields in the city of Krystopolis, all was silent. Always silent. Doctrine brooked no sound to interfere with the magic's steady humming, save for the Onyx Horns and the voices of the Holy Blood.
Such a voice echoed in the halls of the Lattices now. Light and airy, at odds with the frigid stone and empty gaze of the effigies lining the walls. The Sokâr chanted the Litany, as she had every morning for three and fifty years since her arrival in the Endless Dark, long before the Attendant’s birth.
“The Void is impartial.
The Darkness does not take sides in judgment.
The Void guides our steps.
The Darkness cradles us.
Strength is our spine.
Silence is our freedom.
Order is our mercy.
Hail the Sovereign.
Hail the Resh.
