Gravis Berling sat near the center of the bridge that connected the two towers of Drumindor and watched the sun lowering itself into the sea. He'd seen the sight a thousand times before, but no two were the same. Even on days when no clouds were present, the colors were always a little different. And it was all about the colors. This evening the yellow ball was surrounded by a vast orange light, but the sea below was dark except for that diminishing line of fading gold. Gravis wanted to stare unblinking, to see the entirety of the sunset, but he couldn't. He was crying again.

He'd watched the last ship sail out earlier in the day. The big one that — when seen from Drumindor — didn't seem large at all. From his perch, Gravis saw only a tiny speck of white. The ship could just as easily have been a discarded handkerchief drifting out to sea. Next to Drumindor, nothing was big. Even Cornelius DeLur was small.

I suspect they're regretting how they treated me now.

About a month ago, he'd been nothing more than a speck of dust, a sad little joke, the lingering stench of a bygone age.

No, I wasn't a joke. That is the worst part. They thought me a liar.

No one could believe in a time where the Children of Drome ruled the world, when insulting a Dromeian was a dangerous thing. Watching that ship depart, he knew they had changed their minds.

Now they're sorry they messed with me.

He'd proven his point and could stop there. He had emptied the city. Gravis Berling had put the fear of Drome into everyone. Yes, he could stop it, vent the pressure, and walk away. The idea was welcoming. Bearing the responsibility for destroying Drumindor was a heavy burden that weighed on more than his mind. The towers were designed by his ancestor, the legendary Andvari, and built by the greatest Brundenlin engineers and crafters who'd ever lived. Drumindor was a wonder of the ancient world.

Who am I to destroy all that?

But of course, he couldn't simply walk away. Things had progressed beyond such naïve notions. After causing this much trouble, they would never let him get away with it. He'd chased Cornelius DeLur out of his own city. The Spider King would track him down no matter where he went. Gravis's life was over. One way or another, this was his end. And yet, fear of retribution didn't even rank in the top two reasons why he had to see the plan through.

One of those reasons was happily busying himself in the bowels of Drumindor. Thankfully, Falkirk spent all his time down near the forge and never came up this high. The two coexisted as estranged neighbors. Too lazy to build a fence, they simply knew not to breach each other's territory. Falkirk stayed in the basement whereas Gravis enjoyed the upper reaches of Drumindor. That was just fine with him. Gravis found Falkirk more than disturbing. He hadn't discussed the situation with him, but he was certain Falkirk would not be pleased if Gravis changed his mind.

Since the master gear was in the walking-corpse's territory, there was a sizable deterrent to changing his intent. Falkirk wanted him to blow up Drumindor and had no problem being ringside for the event. As the man was already dead, this likely accounted for his recklessness, but Gravis suspected something more.

The dreams had a lot to do with this.

Gravis still had them, and they had grown so much worse that he hardly slept anymore. When he did, the pounding was earsplitting and incessant. In his nightmares, he felt the vibration coming up through the stone. Despite wanting to escape, to run as far away as possible, he always descended the steps to the base of the North Tower. As Gravis grew closer, he could see the stone shake, crack, and begin to glow as below him pressure pushed magma up the main shaft. But there was something else. He heard voices. Deep, distorted utterances speaking in an ancient language. There were always three, shouting, crying for release, demanding their freedom. Gravis didn't understand a word, wasn't even certain he heard words, but still he understood their meaning. And down in the molten pool, Falkirk called to them, prostrating himself, reassuring those awful voices that the time was nigh, and in turn, they assured him of his eternal reward.

Those who patronized Scram Scallie often called the merchant barons who ran the city the Unholy Trio, but they had no idea what moved beneath their feet. If they had, the likes of Baric wouldn't be so flippant. The sounds Gravis heard, the sense of terror and dread conjured in his soul, became too great to bear, and he always woke up screaming in the tiny cell that had been his office. The dreams were horrible, but the worst part was that after he woke he thought he could still feel the pounding: fainter, more distant, but still there.

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Gravis knew Falkirk would kill him if he changed his mind. And the dead man was more than capable. When they had first entered, the main floor security force greeted them. These were men who Gravis had seen every day for years, the old officers and the young recruits. Falkirk had killed them all. He hadn't acted in self-defense. None of the guards had threatened them in any way, but Falkirk had jumped to the task. At least two managed to stab him. Falkirk hadn't appeared to notice. Exactly how he killed the guards was still something of a mystery. The dead man had no weapons, just his bare hands and . . . teeth. Gravis thought he remembered Falkirk biting into a guard's face, but that had to be wrong. Not having seen the totality of events, Gravis had the luxury of denial. As it turned out, he hadn't seen much. Sickened by the bloodletting, he had turned away. In truth, he cowered beneath the reception desk for what felt like hours, but he couldn't escape the sounds. Shouts were followed by screams, screams faded to whimpers, and then there was only the sounds of tearing and . . . chewing? When at last he found the courage to crawl out, Falkirk had stood before Gravis, drenched red as if the man had bathed in a tub of blood.

"I'll collect their skins later." He told Gravis with a giddy glee. "Show me the furnace."

Terrified, more by the grisly sight than any sense of mortal danger, Gravis nodded. There was simply no sense in discussing anything with a blood-soaked, murderous corpse who looked as happy as a six-year-old sitting in a mud puddle. Gravis led the way up and across the bridge to the North Tower, and then he escorted Falkirk down to the bottom. Gravis set the chutes and locked the master gear. The two parted ways soon after, with Falkirk haunting Drumindor's base while Gravis stuck to the towers. To unlock the master gear, Gravis would need to go back down. Still, this was only a supporting argument to why Gravis couldn't walk away. The real reason remained that he had more than one ghost haunting him.

"I loved you," Gravis said softly as he sat on the edge of the stone bridge, his legs dangling, watching the sun die. Then he listened, waiting and hoping to hear a reply, but he knew it would never come.

Surprisingly, something else drifted to his ears. From far below, the sound of singing wafted toward him.

He pulled his legs up and stood. Turning away from the ocean side, he crossed the width of the bridge to where he'd hung his flag. He peered down at the harbor. The city should have been empty, but the sheltered port was filled with lights. Hundreds, maybe thousands of flickering dots moved down Berling's Way. They fanned out, filling up the dock, illuminating the wharf and piers like a swarm of fireflies.

Candles, Gravis thought. Or perhaps lanterns, maybe a bit of both.

He knew the song they sang. It was not the Belgric Royal Anthem, but it might as well have been. Dromeian voices lifted the words of the Hagen Ere Brock. The ancient song was so old that no one could say where it came from or who wrote it. Every Dromeian knew the tune and the lyrics by heart because the song was sung at every funeral. Not understanding this, other cultures who found the ballad beautiful played it at parties and weddings, butchering it in taverns near and far. For Dromeians, merely hearing the tune made them cry. Singing it was a challenge, as it choked their throats and broke their hearts. All of them had used those words, sung in that manner to say goodbye to someone they loved. Hagen Ere Brock was a mourning song, and a thousand Dromeian voices sang it to him as the last light of day faded.

He knew why. They were begging him to stop, to have pity. But at that moment, all Gravis could think of was how he hadn't sung the song to Ena. He remembered her last minutes in their lonely shack on the night of her death. While the wind blew and whistled through the bleached planks, he was down on his knees at her bedside. He held Ena's hand as she lay soaked in sweat. She'd been that way for hours, and then she woke up.

Her eyes found him, and in a horribly lucid moment, she said, "It was always the towers you cared for." He was surprised to hear her speak and was still processing what she'd said when Ena took her final breath and used it to whisper her last words, "You never loved me."

Then she was gone.

He stared at her, shocked. In a moment of panic, he told her she was wrong. He shook her by the shoulders, begging her to listen, only to realize there was no one there. He was alone. Ena had left. She was gone forever, and he would never be able to explain.

Now, Gravis stood on the bridge, peering down. The builders hadn't bothered with a wall or rail, and his toes flirted with the edge. He whimpered and jerked as he cried. Tears blurred the many tiny lights into one swirling smear, and as their song came to an end, he shouted up at the appearing stars. "I do love you! Can you hear me? I've always loved you!"

But his words were beyond her reach.

That's why he had to destroy Drumindor. Gravis needed to prove to Ena — to her, and everyone else — he needed to show the world the truth.

Gravis wiped his eyes. Then he looked down once more at the lights. Over the course of the song, they had shifted position and now spelled out the word Please.

"I don't know what to do." He sobbed. "I don't know what to do."

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