A house made of red brick and mortar hung horizontally over the vast emptiness below, sticking out of the side of the curving slope of Ma'aseh Merkavah. It had a sloping roof with quite a lot of shingles missing, and tiny, broken windows. The old building showed some scars, but it had stood the test of time.

A calloused hand covered in nicks, and bruises grabbed onto the edge of the house. Filthy fingers, smeared with blood and grime, searched for purchase in the shallow grooves between the bricks. They found it and held on tight.

Oak pulled himself up, fingertips digging into the small imperfections on the brickwork. He floundered to the top of the wall of the house and gasped for breath like a beached fish. Every muscle in his beaten body complained loudly at the treatment he was putting himself through.

A short break. Just so I can catch my breath. By the Corpse-God, my leg is killing me.

The brick was uncomfortable to lie on, so Oak dragged himself to a sitting position on the edge of the brick and mortar, feet dangling.

Much better.

Hunger and thirst gnawed at him, and he did his best to ignore them, just like he tried to ignore the ache of his wounds. Almost falling and then getting stuck on the slope had been horrifying, but he had overcome his fear, and the subsequent realizations about himself had left him feeling lighter. Loneliness. The need to do better, maybe even be better, if such a thing was possible for a man like him.

It was said that to know oneself was to glimpse the Godhead. Oak could not say if that was the truth of it, but he had seen himself, and he was better for it. Despite his ailments, he felt steady. Like an old, thick tree whose roots had dug deep into the earth. The climb ahead held no fear for him any longer. He would cling to the slope like a birch tree to a cliff, crawl up the stone like the roots of a mountain pine.

Nothing the mists could utter would uproot him now.

The view was haunting but gorgeous. The City of God spread out below him, around him and above him. Streets shrouded in shadow and fog criss-crossed the surface, like a web of veins in the flesh of some great beast of legend. Structures that dwarfed all Oak had seen before coming here dotted the city. Palaces of silver glass and white marble, towers of red granite and black stone. Courthouses, stores, apartments and mansions. Warehouses and workshops. The occasional spot of dwindling light shone in the gloom. Enchanted lanterns fighting a losing battle against the encroaching dark.

The longer he spent here, the more the duality of Ma'aseh Merkavah struck him. It was the tomb of a civilization. A monument to an empire laid low. At the same time, it felt sickeningly alive. The Waking Dream of a million souls, a sea of ghosts lingering in its mists. Beautiful and deadly. The dragon's malice had seeped into the city so deep that you could feel the hate and arrogance permeating the very air when its attention fell upon you.

It was the cocoon of Yam-Nahar, in service to his profane feast. It was the belly of a ruined beast, digesting the bitter meals of suffering and death. Nothing good could come from a place such as this.

At the center of the city stood the great ziggurat, made of giant blocks of white limestone and fired brick. The symbol of the reign of Aoibheann and Ur-Namma. Sister and brother. Empress and general. Now that symbol belonged to someone else.

The long and sinuous tail of Yam-Nahar had not moved in the time Oak had been watching. It still circled the ziggurat, scales of black and silver glistening with unnatural light, like diamonds in the dark. The mists hid away the rest of the imposing beast. The sight of it stole the breath from Oak's lungs, set his heart beating like a drum.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

One day, they would face the owner of that tail in battle.

Yam-Nahar, the last of the dragons of old. He Who Feasts on the Flesh of God.

From the moment he had accepted Ashmedai's bargain and become a Warlock, he had been set on a course towards that confrontation. The fight for the lives of every soul on Pairi-Daeza. The fight to break free from the chains of the old order. The fight for the right to choose your own faith, and make your own mistakes.

The angels had their part to play in the coming struggle, and Oak had not forgotten it. It enraged him beyond reason. The hypocrisy of it was maddening. Inaction in the face of Armageddon was a sin. What a disgusting and craven impulse, to let something else lay your enemies and friends alike to waste, and then swoop down like a bird of carrion to lord over the ashes left in the wake of your cowardice.

When the followers of Ashmedai killed kings, they did not leave the deed to the hands of unbelievers. No heretic could be allowed to steal the glory of the Children of Strife. Every crown slain was an act of worship and an act of actualization. They would bring a better world into being, one death at a time.

No Gods, no kings.

Where was the virtue in letting someone else fight your battles for you? In Oak's eyes, the angels had lost their edge. They were, for the first time in eons, scared. Nothing else could explain such a drastic shift in their ways.

Ashmedai had the right of it.

The angels were losing, and they knew it. Inaction in the face of Yam-Nahar's ascension was a culmination of the onward march of the demons, and the ensuing desperation on the side of the angels. Nothing else would make the Choirs sacrifice the lives of their own followers.

Still, the fact the angels were shitting themselves in fear did not mean their plan could not work. Looking at the beast that might just cleanse the continent of life and provide the Choirs with the clean slate they yearned for could make a man think. A dragon was always a fucking dragon. Arrogant. Unassailable. An army of one.

Best of all, this one was dining on the Divine. Who knew what the beast was capable of, after centuries of partaking in such forbidden fruit?

I sure hope that the Sacrament of Ingurgitation is all it's cracked up to be. If the empowerment ritual we found from Aoibheann's secret stash can't be reconfigured for our purposes, victory will not be in the cards.

Oak stared at Yam-Nahar's unmoving tail and thanked his lucky stars the beast was still asleep. The entire mission would have been impossible otherwise. They had a couple of years at most before the force of nature down below awakened, and Yam-Nahar would know in an instant that Ur-Namma had escaped. The beast had been the one who cast the curse. He would know someone had broken it and released Ur-Namma. He would know that his enemies were on the move.

If Ur-Namma's jailors noticed he was gone, they might try to recover him before alerting Kurigalzu or waking the dragon. For good reason, since such a failure might be deadly otherwise. Kurigalzu did not seem like a forgiving leader, and Oak doubted Yam-Nahar was any better.

Dragons were not known for their mercy.

Because of the ache of his many wounds, and the exhaustion left behind by the day's events, Oak did not fancy the idea of continuing the climb, but he did not feel anxious either. It was just an unpleasant chore that required doing. A task that needed doing before he could kick up his feet and finally rest. He glanced up towards the church. The distance did not seem insurmountable anymore.

Wincing, he stood up and tightened all the straps holding his weapons in place. It was time to find out if the fold was still there. Time to see whether he would escape the City of God, or become a wet smear, decorating the street below. Or the ground outside, depending on what height he would exit the fold.

Not being able to know before he jumped was a cruel joke, but that seemed like the only humor in town. Beggars could not be choosers, and Oak was fresh out of options.

The cruelest joke of all would be to get out of the city and find out that Ur-Namma and Geezer were dead. That the fold they had used had dumped them both high on the outer surface of the sphere, and the drop had shattered their bodies. Oak was not willing to accept such a possibility. Ur-Namma and Geezer were alive. They had to be, because he did not know what he would do if they were dead.

Oak rolled his shoulders and shook out his three working limbs.

One last dance, Ma'aseh Merkavah. One last dance.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.