The spirit remembered and forgot many things as she drifted at the side of the one named Veleph.

At times, she knew her name, or thought she did, and sometimes she knew where she belonged and where she had once lived—but always she forgot those fragile images, left only with the fleeting impression of their presence, and she despaired over their loss. The one named Veleph assured her it was the nature of this place, that all spirits forgot what they once were before moving on. 

"Move on where?" she'd asked. He'd laughed. 

He'd assured her she had somewhere to return to, if she wanted to. The spirit wasn't sure. She didn't know.

The one named Veleph liked to talk, and he said it was because she wouldn't remember. It was easier if she forgot, he explained, simpler for them both as his words weren't meant to be heard. The spirit asked him many things, he answered, and she always forgot. The things he said could have shaken worlds to their roots, changed empires, challenged gods. She knew immutable terror and awe as she traveled with him—and always she forgot.

"Who are you?" she asked again when she couldn't recall who her companion was, and he answered, just as he always did, because the stranger didn't forget. He wasn't a spirit, wasn't from this place, and so his memories always remained. If he tired of her repetition, he didn't complain.

"Veleph."

"Who is Veleph?"

"The Fallen King." He smiled then, teeth very bright in the nothingness of that place. "The King Below."

"What is Fallen?" She realized she'd stopped moving, but the one called Veleph had a hand looped about her wrist so she wouldn't get lost. He was taking her somewhere, though she wasn't sure where. He'd told her many times, but it always disappeared. 

"It means I left my first home. That I am broken." 

Broken? He didn't appear broken to the spirit, though it was impossible for her to comprehend the difference between what was whole and what wasn't. In the void, things either were or weren't, with no in-between.

"Why did you leave home?" The word elicited warm sensations for the spirit, stirrings of hope and comfort that were not found elsewhere in this abyss. Why would anyone leave such a thing behind?

"I was no longer welcome there."

"Why?"

"I disobeyed my creator." 

"Why would you do that?" 

The one named Veleph smiled again and the spirit understood the sorrow behind the gesture, colored blue like the sky she wanted so badly to behold. "Matters of the heart, little shadeborn."

She wasn't sure what he meant by that.

They came across an anomaly in the interminable dark, a smattering of color in the otherwise monochrome place. It was crystalline, the color a vivid green, and the shape seemed to fester and twitch, spirals of yellow crawling outward at a sedate pace. Even the spirit knew that the anomaly didn't belong, and the stranger didn't pause before he unfurled his crooked wings and took her away from there.

"What was that?"  

For once, his answer wasn't immediate, and his eyes roved like stars through the celestial sphere. "An infection," he whispered, the words reciprocating the sudden weight of his mood. Where there'd once been levity was now only displeasure, a hollowness that ached without applicable succor. "A festering wound for which there is no remedy." 

"Where does it come from?"

The steady rhythm of his wings moving through the shadows was soundless, his arm tight about the spirit's middle as they flew through the nothingness. "You can feel the stare following you. That nameless pressure you cannot dissuade, the malice that nibbles and ebbs at the threads of your being, the poison that corrodes all of creation, going unheeded and unseen in the tainted dark. If he ever had a name, it has long been forgotten, taken by a world that died before I was even born. He is the Dream Eater."

The spirit thought she knew what he was talking about, that she recognized the unspeakable evil serenading endlessly from the other side of the dark—but she couldn't be certain, not without peering too long into the nether and losing something of herself to its ephemeral clutches. It made her wary of its siren call. 

She and the one called Veleph soared onward to their destination, and soon the spirit lost the name of creation's end. She asked the Fallen King his name, and he grinned.

Dante's Hell had fewer levels than the Blue Fire Syndicate's inner sanctum. 

Lucian had warned me of the tower's deceit, but if it hadn't been for Crow's End and my experience navigating its capricious setting, I would've been hopelessly lost. The magic employed by the mages was a mimicry of a similar Dreaming art that had been imbued in their buildings and homes. The Dreaming had been able to expand or compress space as they saw fit, altering matter to a design or form of their desire, playing off their ideology of time and being all existing in a uniform vacuum of existence. 

Unique and complicated, it was a magic that could not be replicated, but could be aspired to.

The mages attained a similar effect through different means. They utilized a system of mirrors, lights, and a bevy of scripts to create looping corridors and halls that stretched on without end. In truth, they used mirrors like the ones hanging in Lucian's home, and a proper spelling of the light and the hidden scripts rendered one's own reflection invisible while maintaining the effect for the rest of the structure. In Cuxiel's house, the Dreaming magic kept a person from physically moving forward through matter, thus creating the illusion of a loop, when the manor hadn't truly changed at all.

Here, the loop was literal. The mirrors—while physical—lost tangibility, and flowed across one's skin like moonlight when it was passed through. A step through one of the hidden mirrors transported the unwary to the front of the hall again—and, if ignorant to the trick, allowed one to wander aimlessly forever in the same ten yards of floorspace. Whoever had concocted such a layout was a madman, and I had a suspicion said madman was the same fool I sought to free of this continuous hell.

"You're going to want to go down," Lucian's voice droned in my thoughts. "But don't heed the instinct. Go up."

I followed the man's instructions and found that he was correct. Knowing the prison lay below my feet, I was drawn to the stairs the led into the earth, but instead turned my attention to the steps ascending toward the main level. At the top, I discovered the transparent mirrors hovering there dumped me at the base of the stairs I'd seen leading downward. Had I walked down those stairs, I would have appeared at the top of the ascending steps—and the process would have repeated itself.

It was the enigma of a nightmare, a maze of glass and steel and white walkways never bringing a traveler to his destination.

As I passed a hand through a solid wall and followed it to another hall—moving with breathless trepidation, certain every blind entrance would land me in the middle of a bunch of mages—I pondered when Lucian had been a member of the Blue Fire Syndicate. The man hadn't said he was, but after seeing the legitimacy of his information firsthand, I'd be a moron not to realize he was familiar with the inner workings of Itheria's heart. Lucian Harris was once a Blue Fire mage.

When did he leave the syndicate? He was branded, so he hadn't done so voluntarily and must have escaped from the very prison I was attempting to infiltrate. No black mages of his caliber were allowed free on parole: they were branded for posterity, and summarily executed.

I crossed through another wall, the hot brush of running wards rubbing against my exposed face. As I'd been told, the spells laid into the stone were keyed to members of the supernatural and didn't register my presence, and I likened them to Cuxiel's ward. Though his barrier had been comprised of the void and not from magic, it also filtered souls by their resonances, defining creatures based on the very essence of their being.

My mundaneness was the reason I had to be the one to delve into the prison's recesses. I passed through the scripts like a swimmer through thick water, yet if I had been a Sin, or a mage, or a witch, or anything else, the mirrors wouldn't have allowed me passage. I would have most likely been killed by an activated curse.

A room appeared before me, empty but for the square tiles upon the floor arrayed in a spiral pattern. I stood upon one tile and observed the others, crouching so I could lay a hand very near the surface of the one adjoining my own. Heat rose from the porous stone, slight but tangible, evidence of a lingering magic steeped into it. A sage who worked with physical material as opposed to verbal cues had infused the floor with a spell.

This hadn't been part of Lucian's instructions. It must've been a recent addition.

Exhaling, I folded my arms atop my knees and drummed my fingers on my thighs. No one else wandered this forest of hellish mirrors, which was a blessing I no doubt owed to Saule, her Itherian sisters, and the bedlam they'd managed to incite in such a short a brief window of opportunity. Afforded time to examine the tiles, I again tapped my fingers upon my legs.

My gaze flicked from side to side, then caught upon a smudge distinguishing one tile from its fellows. A scuff, left by the black soled shoe of a rushed syndicate member, marred the stone.

There were several types of mages, and only a marginal percentage of them were sages, and the rest were not capable of reading the spellwork materialistic mages wrought into their items. That lack of ability meant a work around had to have been written into the magic to allow other mages passage, and I imagined it needed to be readily identifiable to them.

I lowered myself closer to the floor, careful not to move outside the tile I was in as I observed how the light glanced across the surface. The blasted mirrors played havoc upon my sense of perception, yet I saw no discernible difference between the tiles, at least none that was visible to the naked eye. I refrained from touching them, as I was sure doing so would set off a ward and trigger whatever trap laid in the floor.

That bloody mage, I fumed as I again glanced at the stone with the scuff mark. Worthless as the rest of them when all is said and done.

Per Lucian's instruction, I should have been in a new passage with a single egress at the back. Said passage was supposed to direct me to a barred door manned by a single guard, and inside that door was the first ring of the magical penitentiary. If I was fortunate, the guard wouldn't be present or would be asleep because this access was meant for mages of the syndicate and not incoming prisoners. It wasn't well used.

I surmised this room and the coded tiles were an additional level of security added after Lucian's time with Blue Fire, which was a reasonable assumption if the mages had enough brains to examine their infrastructure after his breakout. I dragged a hand through my hair and grimaced, because understanding why this obstacle was here wasn't important: I needed to get by it.

The tile I was crouched upon was the first square inside the mirror that served as this room's entrance. I touched the tile between my feet, splaying my hand across it, and noted the surface was cool, lacking the friction of magic hidden inside its stone. Stretching, I touched the tile with the scuff mark—and it, too, was cold. I hopped to it, silent in the hall's uncomfortable hush, and waited for something—anything—to happen, but no alarms sung and no magic struck.

I'd found the trick to this particular test.

My progress across the room was initially slow going, as I had to kneel and search for my next step, but soon I discerned a pattern that was similar to the mirrors, stepping backward to move forward, utilizing the curve of the tiles' spiral design to rotate myself around the edge of the room rather than cross it directly. Once I reached the opposing side, all I had to do was walk through an opaque mirror of bright silver to exit the room.

I was in the passage Lucian described now. There were no mirrors, no gimmicks, just a stretch of sterile, white walls and common tiles that could have been present in any mortal hospital or infirmary. At the end of the passage waited a man in a navy blue uniform, sporting a utility belt of violent items he used to keep his charges in line. He leaned at the side of a barred archway, reading something on his phone, while several bolts of topaz lightning danced across the archway's gaping mouth.

No forcing my way through that.

"Hey!" the mage shouted, fumbling to stash his phone in a pocket and lower a hand to the belt of deadly magic. "H-halt! What are you doing down here?!"

"Hello!" I replied, adopting a false, meek mien as I shuffled along. The effort it took to look like a guileless lost newbie was deceptively difficult and burned in my veins as I stopped my fists from shaking. "Wow, this place is so big! I'm new—I mean, this is my first day, and they sent me down to storage but I just don't know where that is—!"

My ploy confused the man, though not for long. I saw him shake his head and reach for the belt again, falling into his memorized referendum—but the mage had allowed me to come too close, and I struck him in the throat with the side of my hand. He choked, fingers digging into his collar, then slumped when I slammed my elbow into his temple.

I scoffed as I wiped off my hands and reached for the utility belt. "What a fool."

The key was a simple card, like the ones common to all bureaucracies. I found the corresponding slot by the door and slid it in, waiting for the electronic mechanism to register. The reader flashed from red to green in quick succession, and the energy barring entry into the prison quieted to a dull hum. Though begrudgingly impressed by the fusion of modern engineering and magic, I didn't linger at the door, and seconds later the energy field came alive again, blocking any chance of retreat.

I stood in a partially enclosed lift, the flat platform suspended by two opposing rails above a natural cavern burrowed deep into the earth. The cavern was divided by catwalks and more platforms, the unlit cells cut into the bedrock itself, the levels plunging far into the misty shadows waiting below. As the only reputable other prison in all of Terrestria, the Facility was monstrous in size.

Heedless of the height, I leaned over the lift's front bar and its console, taking in the magnitude of the place as I sought a clue to my destination. The walkways were kept dim, illuminated by the occasional lamp welded to the metal struts, and the blue light cast the jagged rock formations and gleaming metal in a sinister mien. Far below, generators rumbled, the sound amplified by the cavernous design until the noise was like the snoring of a dragon in the depths of its cave.

Guards patrolled the levels, invisible in the distance, shown only by the harsh striations created under the lights, all dressed in the slate colored assembles of the Blue-Iron Syndicate. There was a definite dearth in their numbers, thanks to the covens and Aurelius, as the guards missed steps or paused, creating hiccups in their routine that were usually filled by other members of their syndicate.

I would need to be careful. Overcoming one Blue Fire boy stationed at a neglected side-entrance was not the equivalent of facing a trained Facility guard.

Prodding the outdated console brought up a simple two-toned display of various lists, categories, and a blinking search input. The buttons on either side of the screen were faded from use, the stenciled numbers and letters stripped clean off the plastic by impatient mage fingers.

Eyes narrowed, I read the listing of prisoner identification numbers before spotting an option that would allow me to filter them via surname. Three choices with the name Meriwether were highlighted, and I punched the key to accept Cage's location.

The lift shuddered—then plummeted.

I grabbed the console and held on despite the violent jarring of the free falling platform, trying to think of the reason for its malfunction as it hurtled into the earth. It was descending too quickly. The wind whistled through the ventilation holes drilled into the floor, tearing at my clothes, and my feet barely clung to its solid surface.

King's breath, I'm going to be killed by an elevator.

A dampening effect spelled into the bottom of the shaft reached upward like the plumes of a black thunderhead, enfolding the lift and me in blankets of unpleasantly sticky energy. It set my hair on end and ached in my teeth—but it did slow the elevator, and when I arrived in the lowest level of the Facility, I was able to step into the hall with no lasting damage.

Cage and the coven Mistresses were not kept in the same area, nor had I expected them to be. For all the effort they had expended in his capture, Cage was but one man, a single outlaw, and he was not as valuable as the Mistresses. They were what kept the witches from openly rebelling and were thus precious to the syndicates. Most of the available personnel would be tasked with their surveillance.

This left Cage alone, sequestered in the farthest reaches of the Facility, out of sight and out of mind until his trial could be prepared.

I heard him long before I saw him. His voice careened through the narrow passage of roughly hewn rock, the baritone humming of a man who didn't have a care in the world, and my stride quickened as I realized how very close I was. It was infuriating to think the black mage was so unconcerned with his own survival—but I didn't care, not in the slightest. I would free him and he would tell me what I wanted to know, and the Absolian would become his problem.

I came to the final turn in the corridor, breathless.

Three thousand miles. Three thousand miles of running and fleeing, long hours spent staring at red taillights of other travelers, grappling with witches and mages, vampires and hunters, chased by my Absolian brother and beaten within an inch of my life—all of it worth the effort, if Cage would say what I wanted him to say. If he could tell me how to bring her back.

He was relaxing against the bars of his cell with his neck bent as his fingers twitched in rhythm to his lazy singing. He wore the same clothes he had disappeared in, and it was clear by the amount of fresh bruises on his face that his mage brethren had not been treating the outlaw kindly.

Cage glanced up as I approached, the rubber soles of my shoes slapping the rancid puddles gathered upon the stone floor. "Well, if it isn't my favorite broody-faced ex-Sin!" he greeted as he smiled, wincing at the strain it placed on his wounded face. The cell was fairly standard, though I noted the presence of several scripts written upon the oxidized metal. "I did wonder if I'd be seeing you again."

"Shut up." I wanted to reach through the bars and wrap my fingers around his throat, but I knew sticking my hands past the enchanted metal would have dire consequences. "I did not cross the country, ally myself with a cowardly witch and an incompetent vampire huntress, and work with a black mage to exchange witty banter. You know why I am here. Tell me how to revive her. Tell me how to resurrect Sara."

A measure of the wry cynicism bled from both the man's expression and his tone. He looked older, angrier, like a man jaded by the world and its issues, one who used sarcasm as a way to deflect a silent rage simmering in the depths of his heart. His hair was ragged and his bronze eyes clouded with exhaustion. The novelty of this game was wearing thin for Cage.

"Get me out."

"No. Tell me first."

He scoffed, hands braced on the struts of his cage. "Get me out, or I won't say a word, and I won't help you free the Mistresses." The black mage shoved his filthy hair from his forehead and wiped away a line of perspiration. His eyes gained red highlights in the weak light. "Oh, do you think me a fool? Do you think I don't realize what's happening behind this spoiled paradise? You want the girl back, true, but I know you need me to help you save this wretched realm. Free me, or you get nothing."

He expected cooperation, however begrudging and ill-mannered—but I was not a man to be ordered about by a jailed criminal, nor a sentimental fool. I began to laugh, low and harsh, and had to cover my mouth lest the mad sound carry to the ears of a nearby guard.

"Do you think I care about Terrestria? Everyone assumes I am its guardian, its champion, but they forget who and what I am. My flesh is malleable, my body weak, but inside this mortal shell is the soul of a Sin. That is who I am, what I am—and I am selfish."

Something close to madness gripped my mind as I leaned my face nearer the cell's bars, the smell of rust and mold rising from the old metal. I'd felt madness before in the Baal's tender care and thus recognized its malady, its entreating whispers. It was an imbalance awoken by peoples' unfounded misconceptions of me: they had expectations of how I should behave and act, of how I should be. I wasn't a tender-hearted mortal or a love-besotted fool. I was a man who regretted the monstrous things he'd done, regretted the monstrous thing he had become, but I wouldn't stop or change. I would always revel in violence and in death because that was who I was.

The Baal had anointed me this realm's savior, but if not for Sara, I would light the match myself and watch Terrestria burn.

I had things I wanted—things I needed—and like an amoral animal, I cared not for what I ruined to attain them.

When the disquiet in my mind quieted, I would think upon the Baal's promise of intervention, would remember how close Terrestria was to annihilation, and would remember I needed to preserve a world to which I could return Sara to—but for now, I didn't care. There were other places, other realms, and I'd rather stand over the ashes at her side than exist alone in a perfect world.

"Tell me," I hissed, eyes wide and jaw clenched. "Or you rot here."

Cage stared for a long while and didn't speak, though I saw the words waiting behind his pursed lips like sharp bits of glass he wanted to spit in my face. He inhaled once—twice—and some semblance of his normal bravado took over, tipping his lips into a pleased smirk as he played with the silver ribbon at his throat.

"The solution is simpler than you'd think, boy, though you won't like it much."

"Tell me."

Shorter than I was, the black mage had to tilt his chin upward to face me directly when he leaned on the bars between us. His teeth were sharp, eyes dancing. "You're going to have to die."