Xeras Timpleson panted in the throne room. His pupils flicked across the chamber, frantic, scanning every shadow. His breath fogged, leaving mist in the air. Golden locks fell from his scalp to the marble floor, shedding like tired snakeskin. His muscles tightened and shuddered as his baby-blue eyes sagged with exhaustion.
The doors creaked. Medea entered, a sharp grin bright against his dark skin. His white eyes gleamed as he sauntered closer. "Bad day?" he asked, voice lilting with mockery.
Xeras gave a hoarse chuckle and tried to steady himself with Medea's arm—until he snapped his hand out, unleashing a bloom of tentacles. They lashed through the mist, snagging something moving in the shadows. The God of Mutation reeled it in, each footstep deliberate, each ragged breath echoing in the vaulted chamber.
The victim slammed to the floor. Xeras tore away the writhing limbs.
"Miles Phillips of Asaldom," he wheezed, cackling softly. "I knew a rat would crawl in. They said you'd participate in the Reprisal. Yet here you are, not in the games, but in my hall. Tell me—what's your plot?"
Miles spat on the floor, laughing under his breath. "Plot? No, no. I have no such thoughts for our… former lord."
"Former?" Medea interjected. His white gaze glowed brighter, slicked-back blue hair catching faint light. He crouched, cupping Miles' face with cold fingers. "If you want to be a Slavi, your veins better drip with bloodlust."
"You've only got three Slavi," Miles said easily, eyes flicking from Medea to Xeras. "Three guards for Mister Emperor. Where's Eliza? Haven't seen her grace these halls lately."
"You'll meet her," Xeras smiled thinly, "when you're thrown outside the Cathedral." He leaned down, voice razor-edged. "Where is he?"
"Amarze?" Miles' tone was clean, casual, like gossip. "On your throne."
Xeras turned. His throne was no longer gold, no longer shimmering with mutation. It was now a scaffolding of decaying statues—stone figures of long-dead mortals straining to hold up Amarze. The First Angel reclined upon them, laughing, sackcloth head cocked to the side.
"Treason," Medea giggled, flexing his long fingers, "you bastards do make this fun."
Xeras' body twitched. He punched the ground. Marble split before his hand even struck. He kept punching, blow after blow, until a crater yawned beneath his feet. His skin peeled away to reveal a regal black cloak, stitched with his insignia—a bright red cherry pulsing faintly.
"So. Amarze." His voice carried a low thunder. "You choose death by challenging me? Devotion is admirable. But now it seals your unceremonious demise."
Amarze lifted a hand and pointed. Miles rose from the floor at the signal.
"Golden Boy never showed you his real power," Amarze sneered. "He's fast. Not just fast—lucky."
Miles vanished in a blink, reappearing in Xeras' face with saber raised. The blade sliced air, but Xeras caught it with one hand, the other driving into Miles' chest. A heart-punch that rattled the chamber.
Miles staggered back, gasping. He darted forward again, saber striking in furious arcs—each one parried effortlessly by the God's restored hand.
"I'm not afraid of you." Miles snarled. "You were imposing once. A leader. I feared you. I respected you. But now? You're hollow. A shell of your rage."
He shifted the blade from right to left in a flash, slashing across Xeras' hand. Flesh split. Golden ichor spilled. Miles smashed his forehead into Xeras', staggering the deity back a step.
Xeras looked at the wound, then flexed his hand, the gash knitting itself whole. He rolled his neck. His lips curled into a predator's grin.
"Then prove it." His voice roared with thunder as the cloak billowed around him, cherry sigil blazing crimson.
"Prove my weakness, Miles Phillips of Asaldom."