Capital of Endomyar – Days before the opening of hell
The main square of the capital seethed with people.
It was not a joyful seething, of those who gather for festivals and markets. It was a seething of hatred, of fear, of hunger. The men, in dark clothes and pale faces, brandished sticks and stones. The women, in stained aprons, shouted insults. The children, on their fathers' shoulders, threw rotten tomatoes.
"Aryster!" shouted the crowd. "Aryster, murderers!"
"The second sun died because of you!"
"Burn them! Kill them!"
In the center of the square, tied to wooden posts, four men and two women trembled. Their clothes, torn. Their faces, swollen. The blood, dry, ran from their foreheads and split lips. They were Aryster. Merchants, for the most part, who had lived in the capital for decades. They had shops, families, debts. Now, they only had fear.
"It wasn't us," stammered one of the men, an old man with a white beard. "The masked one... it wasn't us..."
"Liar!" shouted someone in the crowd. "The masked one came from Aryster!"
"He came from Aryster, yes! King Arésyu received him!"
"Die!"
The stones flew.
The old man fell. Blood gushed. The crowd applauded.
Lirius Remadís watched from the castle window, his arms crossed, his face impassive.
"The people are furious," said Elisa, at his side. "Are you going to let them kill innocent people?"
"Innocent?" Lirius smiled. "There are no innocents. Only guilty ones who haven't been caught yet."
"The old man was innocent. The merchants too."
"The old man was Aryster. The merchants were Aryster. The guilt is in the blood."
Elisa clenched her fists.
"Father wouldn't approve."
"Father is dead. I am the king."
"Not yet."
Lirius turned. His dark, cold eyes fixed on hers.
"Not yet," he repeated. "But soon."
Elisa left the room. The door closed with a bang.
The crowd below continued throwing stones.
+++
Martha Errêndias sat on the floor of a dark cell, her back against the damp stone wall, her hands tied behind her back. Her dress, once blue, was now torn and stained with dried blood. Her black, curly hair fell over her face.
The door creaked. Lirius entered.
"Martha," he said, his voice sweet. "My future concubine."
"Never," she replied, her voice hoarse.
"You already are. The Pope approved the marriage. I am the king. You are mine."
"The Pope is a corrupt old man. The throne doesn't belong to you."
Lirius approached. He knelt. His cold hand touched her face.
"Listen," he said, low. "In a month, the tournament decides the succession. I will win. Elisa will marry me. You will be my concubine. And all who oppose me... will die."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I want you to know. I want you to have time to prepare."
"Prepare for what?"
"To serve me."
Lirius stood up. He left the cell. The door closed.
Martha closed her eyes.
Arth, she thought. Where are you?
Her brother did not answer.
---
In the City of the End, the Pope received the envoys of the Aryster.
They were three men, in blue and gold armor, their faces pale, their eyes tired. They knelt before the ivory throne.
"Your Holiness," said the eldest, his voice trembling. "The people are killing our people. Our merchants, our artisans, our families."
"I know," replied the Pope, without moving.
"We do not ask for justice. We ask for clemency."
"Clemency does not depend on me. It depends on the people."
"The people do not listen to us."
"Then shout louder!"
The envoy fell silent. The three men left.
The Pope was left alone.
+++
In Decatry, Ander Féris watched the castle walls.
The sea below was black and agitated. The seagulls, which once filled the sky with their cries, had disappeared. The first sun, pale and sad, was barely visible.
"Baron," called a soldier, approaching. "The girl Mira asked for you."
"Where is she?" asked Ander.
"In the garden. Drawing."
Ander descended the stairs. The garden was small, with a stone bench and a dry fountain. Mira sat on the ground, papers scattered around her, charcoal in her hand.
"Ander!" she exclaimed, smiling. "Look!"
She showed him the drawing. It was a stick figure with long legs, a line pretending to be a sword, and a yellow circle above – the sun, perhaps.
"Zirinos," said Mira. "Fighting. And winning."
Ander knelt beside her.
"Zirinos will come back," he said. "I promise."
"When?"
"Soon."
Mira put the drawing in her pocket.
"I like you, Ander."
"I know."
"I like Zirinos too."
"I know."
"Is he coming to get me?"
"He is. When he can."
Mira looked at the sky. The first sun, pale and sad, seemed smaller than the day before.
"I'm afraid," she said, low.
"Of what?"
"That he won't come back."
"He will come back."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Mira squeezed his hand.
The wind outside howled.
+++
In the north, near the first portal, the ground continued to tremble.
The cracks in the earth widened. The black smoke, thicker. The demons, more numerous.
Zirinos and Lindériu walked. The snow, which in Lunos fell softly, here was hard, sharp, like shards of glass. The wind howled in the mountains. The sky, always gray, hid both suns.
"Listen," said Lindériu, stopping.
Zirinos stopped too.
The sound was low, distant, but recognizable: footsteps. Many footsteps. A crowd approaching.
"Refugees," said Zirinos.
"Or demons."
"Or both."
The mist opened.
They were human. Men, women, children. They came from the north, dragging themselves, fallen, thin. Their clothes, torn. Their faces, pale. Their eyes, empty.
"What happened?" Lindériu asked a man carrying a child in his arms.
"Hell," he replied, his voice hoarse. "Hell opened. The demons came out. They destroyed the villages. They took our people."
"How many?" asked Zirinos.
"Many. Hundreds. Thousands. I don't know."
The man continued walking. The child cried.
Zirinos looked north. The dark horizon seemed heavier than the day before.
"Let's go," he said to Lindériu.
"Let's go."
They quickened their pace.
Hell was near.