text: Darkness. Darkness abounds. Never has the light abandoned you as this. Not even on the blackest nights, during the nightmares brought on by childhood, or even worse, those occurring as a man. The mouth of the tunnel leads you down a narrow path, no signs of alternate routes or branches exist here. You walk forward, hands stretched out in front, feeling the stone walls as you continue into the darkness. It's cool, the kind of temperature that greets you in the morning, a sign, perhaps, that the trial is only just beginning.
  
  The journey takes you around several twists and bends before you arrive at a clearing. Small gemstones saturate the rocks here, a full nightsky in each stone, sending the entire clearing into a lunar glow, although the darkness still sends the ceiling into an endless black. You stride forward, aware of the crunching of rocks underneath your boots, the sound of every breath. It's dead quiet in the gauntlet; every movement from your body brings defilement.
  
  Like all the Harri'ar architecture you've seen, the room seems to focus on a single point, centered around an object at the center. In this case, it's a sarcophagus. It's built like...
  
  ...you've seen it before. It's a replica of the one in the halls of the dead, the place where you and Redding first discovered the artifact. If the scene will play out similarly, then--
  
  --Stone shatters. Rocks separate, lighting bolt cracks running through their bodies. The lid of the sarcophagus follows suit, a large crack twisting down the center like a painted river on a map. In a shower of rock, a hand reaches out from within the sarcophagus. Not a second later, the other grabs a handful of air as it, too, breaks out. The arms themselves possess a layer of decaying skin, gaps showing all the way to the bone. Another shower of rock. Feet, skin hanging to the bone like a poorly-stitched tunic. A mouth without a jaw. Empty gaps where eyes should reside, the same for its nose.
  
  The creature rises to meet you, not a lich. Not an undead priest. But, Redding.
  
  Hiyya, kid.
  
  His voice appears both in your mind and through your ears, audibly. It's different, though. And not due to its medium, although that's another point to quickly address. It reminds you of your childhood, the way a classroom friend would speak to you. A certain innocence, or perceived innocence accompanies it. Here's a man speaking like he knows every goddamn truth to grace mankind. Whether childlike ignorance or a good cardplayer, you're sure to find out the answer soon, the undead Redding patiently awaits your reply.
  
  Take your time; I've only got...eternity! Ha ha!
  
  "You aren't him," you flatly state.
  
  Am I not? This is how you view me.
  
  You bite down on your tongue. Answering "Redding" would give credibility to his statement. Instead, you scan the area for a path forward. None exist, or at least none that are visible. The cavern walls hide in the shadows; they could be either a foot or a hundred paces and you wouldn't know for certain.
  
  Want to see my bunkmate?
  
  Before you can answer, another pair of arms reaches from within the sarcophagus. It must be deeply built, if two bodies can fit within, assuming it's actually there. Hands grab for the outer edges of the sarcophagus like the way one would rise from a bathtub, skin hanging loosely from bone. The new figure rises, and you can see a long ring of black hair around its skull. Dead, decaying, there's no mistaking the second undead man. It's like looking into a mirror, minus the obvious difference in health. It's you.
  
  The artifact. All that matters is the artifact.
  You would abandon your allies for it.
  Abandon. Betray.
  Whatever it takes.
  
  "You" dialogue with Redding, and it strikes you that the exchange sounds very similar to the way you and Amir'sshan speak. That's where the thought ends, however. Whatever meaning you're meant to discern from the symbolism is lost on you. The undead version of yourself now addresses you.
  
  You betrayed your family.
  
  "The company is fine," you answer, this time, thinking of Bastus and Lionel. "They were rescued by the battalion's takeover."
  
  You betray them even now, not even acknowledging their presence.
  
  Oh. So it meant your real family: A father too concerned with his work for your well-being, an overbearing mother, an older sister with achievements far beyond your own. Hell, Vladimir felt like more of a family figure than those who share your blood. Your name presented too much renown in Magda to escape to the military there. Even operation under a false name would eventually be discovered. Magda may be a large territory, but its social ladder makes it operate like one much smaller, everyone of reputable position knowing the dealings of other families. In Magda, both enemies and allies alike are invited to dinner, just remain vigilant of missing table knives.
  
  "If my actions are considered a betrayal, then it's only justified. I didn't start...whatever disagreements we had, but I certainly wasn't going to hang around as the family scapegoat."
  
  You left your father with no heir.
  
  "He's fine in that regard. My sister would lead the house better than I ever could, and I mean that. They're better off with me gone."
  
  Your house is no more. Dissolved. Consumed by a rival house. Vladimir was assassinated in the streets. Your sister was forced to marry into the rival's bloodline, a former classmate of yours. Do you remember a boy named Kelle?
  
  Remember him, the boy stands at the very center of a memory long forgotten, suppressed over the years and medicated with drink and other...distractions, a story that is the nightmare of every adolescent. That is not this story, however, and you are no longer an adolescent. So your father's house fell apart in your absence. Perhaps it was always destined to set upon that course. Who knows. There's no determining for sure, although the loss of Vladimir might have been the beginning of the end. Your father's man performed every task for his master, including serving as a sliver of what a father figure might be.
  
  "Their fate is their own," you find yourself saying. "As well as mine is my own."
  
  Flesh and blood is a lifelong bond.
  
  "No, it's a strong bond, but it's not lifelong," you answer. Your hand subconsciously travels to Amir'sshan. "I know what a true bond is, felt."
  
  It's taking him over already.
  I see it happening too.
  The allure of power, blinding.
  He cannot see what's occurring before his eyes.
  
  "Quit the riddles. Speak plainly," you address the undead.
  
  Plainly, then, the undead version of you speaks.
  You're the boss, undead Redding adds on.
  Amir'sshan will consume you.
  A mortal body he desires.
  The mad god feigns as an ally.
  But he seeks to trap another within the dagger.
  
  "You lie. You attempt to break me from my bond when I need it most. You work with the S'umbra and seek to remove our greatest weapon before the challenge."
  
  Come on.
  It's just us three.
  Amir'sshan holds no place here.
  It's your one safe place from the mad god.
  Stay awhile.
  Stay with us.
  
  > Refuse
  "That is not happening," you answer. "I'd rather stick around with two Magda soldiers than with you two. Now, I'm moving on, and you can either watch me go or you can take it up with Amir'sshan." You pat the artifact again, feeling the buzz of power that emanates within. They lied. As bondsman, you feel the artifact's energy. Amir'sshan might not have spoken during the exchange, but he was present. You're sure of it. They sought to weaken your bond; instead, they've strengthened it beyond all fraying.
  
  As you wish.
  We warned you.
  
  With that, the two undead men before you twist in motion. Bones snap, loose skin falls to the ground at their bony toes. Redding starts to cackle a witch-like laughter, the kind that supposes meaning in the taunt. The sarcophagus draws to them. It pulls the undead creatures like a riverbed around a large stone. An unseen power takes them back, two pairs of feet sliding backward on the cavern floor. In another explosion of stone, the undead are shoved back into the sarcophagus, a marred lid the only evidence of the tomb's brief escapees. You're back alone in the gauntlet. Then, a light appears. It starts soft, a low glow in the distance. Like the first signs of the morning sunrise, it creeps forward tentatively, an orange-red hue. You decide to meet it. You walk forward, leaving behind the sarcophagus. At least there are no ladders this time around.
  
  The world around you vanishes from sight. Darkness settles in for a moment as if pondering amongst itself. Then, the light returns. Red-orange framed by shifting shadows. A throne appears at the center of the light, like in the spotlight of a play. Instantly, you know it is Amir'sshan's, his place of rule of Harri'katan. And if there's something you've learned about the man-god, he has a taste for the theatrical. You sense a presence. It's the feeling like you're being watched, an unknown, unguided intuition that you're not alone.
  
  "Come forward," you speak into the darkness.
  
  Are you prepared?
  
  Your hand instinctively reaches for the artifact. As you draw it, you affirm your position. "Are you?"
  
  A spirit reveals itself from behind the throne. Like with the throne, you can only think one name: Amir'sshan. He towers above you, near the same height as Chieftain Malic'ant back in his day. Like you, he wears an a'lta and a headdress, only his is extravagantly embroidered, full of feathers without a single marred or plucked from its stem. It's in that moment that you're aware of your faults, your own shortcomings. You've never considered yourself short, unsmuscular, or unattractive, and suddenly, you're all those things in comparison. When Amir'sshan speaks again, you tack on unintelligent to the list, sure that there will be more to add momentarily.
  
  Bondsman. It is a rare thing for us to meet face to face. Well, in your case, face to chest.
  
  "You're--taller than expected," is what you manage to say.
  
  The spirit laughs. Yes, yes. Tall for someone trapped for centuries in a black mithril dagger. Feels good to finally stretch my legs a bit. Had a nasty kink in my back.
  
  "How are you allowed to escape?" you ask. "And why not do it sooner?"
  
  It's the 'gauntlet of the gods,' is it not? You may not know this, but they call me the man-god.
  
  "Of course I know that," you snap back. If you thought dealing with the voice was frustrating, dealing with the man(god) behind it is even worse. "You know what I mean."
  
  Careful, bondsman. One cannot simply assume another knows what they mean...but in this case, I do. The prison is deteriorating.
  
  Breaking.
  
  Behold.
  
  Your hand, still touching the artifact, jumps back instinctively. The artifact moves on its own, a low rumble grows from within. You draw it for a closer examination, and as soon as you do, a black puff of smoke appears. It's the last exhaust of a dying man, a mere shadow of the powerful thunderclouds that accompany a shape shift. Then it crumbles in your hand. Its wing-tipped grip fades to dust, a black sand that escapes your hands, flowing down the sides of your palms and in between your fingers. A gust of wind catches it on the way to the cavern floor, a chilly gale that loses the artifact forever.
  
  "So you'll be free. No longer imprisoned."
  
  I'll be lost to eternity, my soul swept away like dust of the earth. I have no body to contain my soul; the godkiller took the form of a placeholder, so to speak, without the ability to move of my own accord, but alive. Very much alive. And I intend to keep it that way until the S'umbra are dealt with.
  
  "Why do I sense there's a but coming?"
  
  Ahh. Not a bad sense for the harem, but, perhaps not what you desire now. That's because there is one, bondsman.
  
  You're careful not to think the phrase "mad-god." Amir'sshan can likely read your thoughts just as the artifact did. Since you're faced with his spirit--and somehow you imagine your longsword won't be effective--you'd rather not start anything that could lead to a confrontation. You're confident in your skills as a soldier; however, this is unlike any battlefield you've been a part of.
  
  The walls are coming down. Their container of my soul is burnt through. But there is a way to preserve my power. You.
  
  "Me?"
  
  Your body is a suitable vessel. The bond is growing deep. The others could not have held my power without destroying their soul in the process. You are different. The bond unites us in body and spirit. The 'artifact,' as you say, is crumbling. The only way for Amir'sshan to survive is if we connect, body and spirit.
  
  Now it's your turn for the but. "But what will happen to me?"
  
  Typical Old World mindset, always thinking about themselves...I jest. You'll still be...around. More of a passenger on a boat rather than the one who steers the ship.
  
  "You address the topic easily for one who's discussing the takeover of one's body," you comment. "Are you certain you've never gotten this far before, just with those unwilling to depart from their shell."
  
  Don't play the jealous farmgirl, asking if your lover's laid with another.
  
  "Your answer's yes, then. In my experience, that sort of response is telling in itself."
  
  Think yourself sly, do you? I've been around long enough to know someone's preference to--oh what's the Old World phrase? 'Play second fiddle?' You may be in possession of your vessel, but you're anything but the steerer of the ship.
  
  Amir'sshan's articulate speech feels like it's slipping. Often the different (mad) style of speaking is lighthearted for the most part, the result of being hundreds, thousands of years old relating to modern times. There's more than a few generation gaps in place. It's been direct, downright odd during moments, but never aggressive like this. True, there may have been an outburst or two; never so obviously towards you, however.
  
  "You don't know what you're talking about," you answer, feeling your face becoming hot. When faced with confrontation, you've never been one to shy away. "I'm here alone, aren't I? Running through the trial all by myself, no one else to 'steer my ship.' I stand on my own two feet, whether that ends in victory or death, at least I know that I've chosen to make my stand. And you cannot take that away from me."
  
  The pup bears fangs after all. Interesting. You are in no more control of your life than I am of the High King's. Yes, I know who he is. You are here because I've guided you here. You stand alone? False. I stand by you, lead you, as I have no doubt that your companions would try to convince you otherwise, perhaps minus the priestess. She's a looker, isn't she? No doubt will want to lay with Amir'sshan's vessel. Isn't that what you want?
  
  Ignoring the obvious prodding, you reaffirm your stance. "My decisions are my own, as E'ffy's are her own. You have not brought me here any more than I worship the Raven."
  
  Ahh, blasphemy in the face of the gods. Truly, you are special. It's fun to poke a resting bear until it wakes. Behold!
  
  The cavern ceiling illuminates above, showering the two of you in a cosmic glow. Stars twinkle into existence, small grains of sand with the heavens as their backdrop. Above, the nightsky appears projected on the dome-shaped ceiling, constellations displayed exactly as a winter night in Alteran. You see the Warrior, his arms extending into "swords," two streaks of stars forming themselves into straight lines. It's as if you're a god yourself, an equal to those Alterans pray to at night, the heavens standing before you, not as a faraway, untouchable thing, but with the closeness of a friend, a welcoming and comforting presence.
  
  You are but a passenger on the ship. Who brought you to the New World? Who led you to the artifact? Who brought you to the Harri'ar war camp? Who put you on the trial?
  
  The frightening part about Amir'sshan's words, besides the truth that accompanies it, is that you hadn't shared those things with the voice. You never discussed details of your past. The fact that he knows is concerning; no memory, no thought is safe in Amir'sshan's presence. Such is the bond between the man-god and his bondsman.
  
  "So I've ever had companions. That does not mean they swayed my actions. It just means I've had the support of others."
  
  Support? Bah! A true warrior stands on his own. His strength lies in his own sword arm. All others will fail you. Their shields grow heavy in their arms, wilting. They cannot be trusted to cover your flank. Better to watch your own back. That's, truly, the only way to live. Stand or fall, it's by your own making.
  
  "And how did that turn out for you? Strong words for a soul who needs help now. Dare I allow you to stand on your own, then? FIne. Find another vessel to reside in. You ask for my help and then spit in my face for accepting the help of others. Good luck with your next bondsman."
  
  Fool! If you will not offer it freely, then I will take the vessel myself!
  
  The spirit of Amir'sshan dives forward, both arms stretched in front of him. The feathers on his headdress trail behind him, a wing in flight. You meet the attack with equal ferocity. Your longsword rests in your hand, a foreign weapon since coming into possession of the artifact. It feels heavy in your hand, outdated. The spirit approaches, two ethereal longswords appearing, one in either hand. Amir'sshan moves as if the wind, a flurry of strikes committed before you, barely, have time to muster a defense. He fights as if an angered hornet's nest, a bear who protects the well-being of her cubs. Amir'sshan sweeps low, then finishes high, his blades in constant motion, the edges themselves a blur.
  
  You do your best to maintain distance. The longsword you carry at your back is aptly named, better suited to wield with both hands due to its size, which means you can strike from a greater distance. If Amir'sshan--or any opponent for that matter--is able to get in close, then you'd have a difficult time, not to say the act of keeping the spirit of Amir'sshan at distance is any easy task by any means. It takes great footwork and quick reflexes to keep him away, both of which you pride yourself in. Still, they call him the man-god for a reason. The spirit does not relent. It does not falter. It does not tire.
  
  Both of Amir'sshan's blades ring across your defensively-raised longsword. Three swords remain stagnant in front of you for a moment; the strength of both wielders pressed against each other. Amir'sshan's face draws close to yours. His face is young, yet his eyes speak of years well-beyond his looks, a time-tested mixture of stress and wisdom displayed in them.
  
  I've nearly forgotten the thrill of combat, the feeling of the clash of swords. Heh. And it will feel even better once in my new vessel!
  
  He nearly overtakes you after finishing his words.
  
  "The artifact will be your grave," you answer with a grimace, the strength of the man-god increasing.
  
  Sorry, old friend. Your companions will understand. The world will understand. I will not forget you. There'll be a grand feast in your honor every year. The Last Bondsman, friend of Amir'sshan who sacrificed all for the man-god, the chieftain of chieftains.
  
  The way Amir'sshan switches tones, addressing you as enemy one second and friend the next is concerning. Your thoughts circle back to the mad-god. Perhaps both are equally true. All other thoughts escape you as the spirit's boot catches itself behind your heel. Just as you have time to register it, you're sent sprawling to the cavern floor, two blades following quickly behind. Your life flashes before your eyes, as cliche as the statement itself is.
  
  It's not like the stories you've heard: events flashing quickly together, a mash-up of important moments in your life. Rather, your mind runs in the opposite direction. The possibility. What could be. What could have been. Missed opportunities. Experiences you'll never have again. There is regret, sure, but that's not the theme of it. It's as if clarity has finally settled in for the first time, unfiltered, unmuddled by other distractions and worthless things that life brings. It's the feeling of passing into manhood and realizing the petty squabbles and desires of boyhood don't matter. They never mattered. In the moment, however...in the moment it felt like the fucking world was on a knife's edge. You feel it on a grand scale. There are things you'll never get around to. There are people you'll never express your true feelings towards. And that's fine. It has to be. It's not as if you can change it now.
  
  Clarity. It speaks.
  
  You battle, yes, but Amir'sshan can't kill you. He needs your "vessel." Instead of fighting back, you accept the outcome. Supine, you toss your longsword away and raise both hands in surrender. The man-god stands over you, both swordpoints at the base of your neck.
  
  "Go on. Do it," you whisper.
  
  Don't tempt me, Bondsman.
  
  "Do it," you utter a second time. "End me here. I've betrayed those who've grown close, my blood family, the Alteran company I've spent years fighting beside. It's only a matter of time before the same thing happens to E'ffy and Redding. You'll be doing the world a favor. I'll not beg. I'll not plead for mercy. You win. You've bested me. End it here. End it now."
  
  The spirit raises both swords overhead. Here it is; the restlessness you've spent your life avoiding will finally be silenced. Amir'sshan pauses a moment, then he stabs both blades down. As hard as you try, your eyes shut with the sudden motion. The world turns into darkness.
  
  > Light appears
  Your eyes open. It takes a second to register sight. Blood lines the edges of Amir'sshan's ethereal swords, red drops falling from the points. It's not yours, however. You remain unscathed. Two bodies fall shortly after, Blackbirds dressed similarly in a'ltas, their faces painted with ash. While your exposure to the natives has been short, the ability to distinguish between them is not lost. You recognize the pair of bodies, each carrying two axes. Terr'ok's bodyguards, the sizable warriors that accompanied him to E'ffy's temple.
  
  Amir'sshan meets your gaze. He winks, then gestures towards your holster with his head. As you look down, you discover the artifact intact, back in the shape of a dagger at your thigh. Upon return, the spirit is gone. You're alone, save for the two dead Blackbirds lying next to you, the fabricated nightsky still shining overhead. Realizing there could be additional threat, you rise to your feet and draw the artifact. Black smoke. Thunderclouds. The six-shooter manifests in your hand. A footstep drags on the cavern floor behind you. You wheel, cocking the hammer back. Click. It echoes in the gauntlet, a warning to all who would approach.
  
  Terr'ok, high priest of the S'umbra, ancestor of the Amir'sshan's assassins, stands before you. He carries the wooden staff with a raven carved at the top. His dark purple robe is frayed at the edges, fitting for the Blackbird. You somehow can't imagine a native of the New World wearing extravagant clothing--at least what the Alteran nobility would consider extravagant, Amir'sshan excluded. Unlike when you met previously, his hood is pulled low, hiding his features behind a wall of shadow. Terr'ok's voice speaks from underneath the hood, a lion purring in the jungle.
  
  "Made it this far, I see. Most don't make it past the crypt of self-reflection."
  
  Whether that's the actual name for the events at the sarcophagus or strong symbolism, you know his meaning...and his intent. There's only one reason why the high priest would meet you here, intervene. The S'umbra were content to sit back as you first entered the gauntlet. Although as you made progress, you imagine nervousness settled in, uneasiness. They took matters into their own hands, as blasphemous as it is. Intervening in the gauntlet of the gods.
  
  Kill him. Kill him now.
  (You know, we agree for once.)
  
  You do not answer Terr'ok. You do not pause to spill words, highlighting your revenge or the journey that's reached its climax. Your mind does not run to E'ffy, dedicating the shot to the priestess, a friend, perhaps even more. Strange as it sounds, your mind, instead, is filled with images of training. The first time a flintlock was introduced in your hand. How comfortable it felt, a weapon of deadly power with only two pounds of pressure needed to release. Countless hours spent at the range, honing the craft. There were plenty of misses. Many more than the number of hours you practiced. But still you kept at it. After a while, drawing the flintlock felt like lacing up your boots, buttoning your military jacket. Natural and necessary. Pulled from its holster, slamming down the hammer, firing. All in one smooth motion. You do as you've done countless times. You do as you defeated the lich to claim the artifact. You aim. You fire.
  
  Smoke appears at your face. As it clears, you expect to see Terr'ok's body blown apart. He remains standing, however, and you imagine a grin shining underneath the hood. Your bullet falls harmlessly at his feet in a sound no louder than a needle dropping, although here, in this moment, it sounds like stormy waves slamming into the side of a ship at sea.
  
  Amir'sshan screams in your mind. It's all you can do to hold a straight face. His sudden outburst affected you before. You'll not let it happen again.
  
  "The Veil," Terr'ok explains," protects me."
  
  "And here I thought it was supposed to be the Raven," you retort. The mention of their god sets him off.
  
  "Who do you think bestowed the power upon me," Terr'ok hisses. "Your accusation is full of blasphemy. The Raven helps those who helps themselves. I do not worship and expect the Raven to fulfill all for me. One must be willing to fight for their belief."
  
  You ignore the obvious point of blasphemy as Terr'ok is currently interrupting a test meant to prove the gods' favor. And you know what? Perhaps he's simply a part of it. The Blackbird people aren't ones to ignore customs; that was seen clearly with the tradition in Chieftain Malic'ant's hut. Intervening on the trial meant to be judged by the gods: that's more than enough cause to remove the S'umbra from power. Terr'ok's done you a favor. Your enemy has come to you. In one fell swoop you can prove the Blackbird gods support you and the S'umbra aren't worthy to lead. You'll need to survive the encounter, of course, and you have a strong feeling that Terr'ok isn't planning to allow you to simply walk out of the gauntlet.
  
  "Your people will be better off without you," you say. Amir'sshan becomes a blade in your hand. You emphasize your words by pointing the sword tip at Terr'ok. "You will be remembered as a group of power-hungry priests using your religion as a weapon against your own people. Parents will tell bedtime stories to their children of the evil S'umbra, of Terr'ok, the coward who hid behind the name of his god. They will celebrate your death. Their only mourning will be that you weren't removed from power earlier. You will be nothing but a stain on your people's history, a name accompanied with spit. Your fate runs much deeper than bodily death. I will destroy your very being."
  
  The hood prevents you from seeing Terr'ok's response, but you can tell he's seething. You imagine his teeth grinding together, eyebrows narrowed. His grip around the ravenheaded staff grows tight. White color starts to show at his knuckles, the staff itself threatening to snap in pieces.
  
  "You, my misled outsider, will pay for that." Terr'ok's staff raps against the cavern floor. It echoes softly, the sound appearing all around you, diminishing in volume. Then it grows larger, louder. Another tap. It appears behind you. All around you. Tap. It's joined by others. The S'umbra, more than just Terr'ok. Tap. More hooded figures step out from the darkness, wearing the same dark purple robes as their high priest. Tap. They carry the same staves; their faces hide in the shroud. Only you stand, exposed to all; you and Amir'sshan.
  
  (I am myself again.)
  Not entirely, but I know what you mean.
  (Kill them?)
  Kill them all.
  
  Six of them stand before you. Six proud men, confident in their abilities, never tasting the bitterness of defeat. Soon. It's a flavor that'll soon overwhelm their senses. Curious, the thunderclouds appear. Black smoke subsides in Amir'sshan's shape shifting. The six-shooter, fitting name for the circumstance, lies in your palm. Terr'ok may be protected by the Veil, but, perhaps, the others aren't. There's only one way to find out. You attempt to fire at all the newcomers. Your hand slams against the hammer, hard enough to bruise, firing the weapon directly from the hip. You don't watch to discover if your bullets land true. Rather, your eyes fix on the next target, the next victim.
  
  And just as you hoped, they aren't covered by the Veil. At least not at first. Three fall to the dirt, their hoods removed from covering their faces, exposed like you. Perfect bullet-sized holes lie in the center of their foreheads. A crater of blood starts to pour down the sides of their faces, soon to grace their bodies in a crimson pool. Three. You're able to drop three before the Veil extends to the remainder.
  
  Terr'ok screams in fury at the sudden loss of his brethren.
  
  "Your own" screech projects from your mouth, drops of spit fly from your lips, brought upon by the rage building within Amir'sshan. You use it as fuel, a source of energy yet untapped. The remaining S'umbra won't be dropped by marksmanship; they'll have to be handled with a more hands on approach. Fine with you. You've been relying on the six-shooter too much. Might as well put your sword skills to the test. They've felt a little neglected as of late.
  
  Black smoke. Thunderclouds. The black blade once again threatens the S'umbra. It's a weapon they recognize, something that was buried deep within the halls of the dead, hoped to be lost to eternity. Amir'sshan will not stay buried. Amir'sshan will not be forgotten. The man(mad)-god makes his presence known, felt, in the form of a black blade with a wing-tipped hilt.
  
  The Blackbird priests don't just allow you to cut them down. Flames, real fire, not from ravenlight, ignite at the tops of their staves, near the carved raven. In an instant, you know that they are the ones who greeted the Alteran voyage on arrival to the New World. The fire does not arrive in siege form, however; that might bring the entire cavern down. Streaks of small flame, like piercing arrows, fly towards you.
  
  Amir'sshan shapes into a tower shield, a defensive tool that covers your body from damn near ankles to neck. Fire impacts against the shield, each a bright flash of light, each a steady impact against your arm. Underneath the cover of the shield, you rely upon the feel of battle. Unable to view with your eyes--unless you risk exposing your face to the flame--you draw upon other senses to guide you, the cadence of the flame against the shield, the sound of the high priests casting their spells, knowledge that they can't continue at this pace for much longer. It's only a matter of time--
  
  --daylight! Figuratively speaking. A window of opportunity opens before you, and like any good thief scouring the streets of Alteran's capital city, you don't squander the chance. The flame lets up for just a brief moment, the pause between each inhale and exhale, the moment when eyes see but the mind does not register: the moment when magic is spent, making the caster vulnerable to an ex-soldier and a god trapped in a mithril weapon.
  
  The six-shooter will not help you with the Veil in place, so, instead, you allow Amir'sshan to do as he pleases. Rather than sticking with weapons that you're familiar with, hold mastery over, you give Amir'sshan the freedom to shape as necessary, for the desire to cut down the priests are equally shared between you two. His, a revenge building over thousands of years in torment, trapped. Yours, a conviction to remove such people from power, starting first with the people of the New World, then moving to the Old.
  
  Black smoke. Thunderclouds. Spear. Black smoke. Thunderclouds. Longsword. Black smoke. Thunderclouds. Axe. Black smoke. Thundercl...
  
  Death.
  
  Standing around the fallen S'umbra, you focus your attention on Terr'ok. The bodies of his fellow priests lie scattered at your feet, limbs in unnatural positions, all mysticism absent from their now exposed faces and shattered staves. There stands only two now: you and Terr'ok.
  
  "The Raven whispers to me," he utters. "It comes to me in my dreams. Amir'sshan is my destiny."
  
  "Not all fates are desired," you answer. "You dream of your death. And the nightmare is upon you."
  
  You charge forward, Amir'sshan becoming the state of his prison's origin, the dagger sought after by Redding and Alexander. The man-god, trapped and buried in the Blackbird halls of the dead. The destiny of Terr'ok, high priest of the S'umbra. The artifact. Amir'sshan and the last bondsman. Terr'ok twirls his staff as if a martial monk of the Old World, the kind who spend a lifetime secluded in a monastery preparing for combat. The carved raven becomes a blur, the staff itself melding into a streak of brown. The flow emerges. It reigns above all else. The mind is of no ally here; it brings overthought, past memories that hold no place on the field of battle. All that matters is your next breath. The present. Training takes over. The flow gently soothes your mind to sleep, allowing the body to rely on its own reaction time--far quicker when operating solely. The staff twirls, attacks appearing seemingly out of nowhere from the blur.
  
  Then, understanding.
  
  The body catches the cadence of Terr'ok's movements like a child jumping rope. There's a steady pace to his attacks...and a steady opening. Sure enough, all it takes is waiting for the next opening and--
  
  --the black mithril dagger, the vessel that Terr'ok's ancestors trapped Amir'sshan within, buries deep into the priest's neck. In an instant, the staff stops in motion, falling from Terr'ok's hands. It falls to the cavern in a crash, bouncing from end to end before finding its final resting spot, much like its owner soon will. Terr'ok takes a step forward, his hood falling from his face. His face exposed, the priest's eyes are wide in surprise as often is the case for one meeting their end.
  
  Terr'ok takes a final step forward, both arms stretched out, empty, seeking to land on your shoulders for support. You take a step back and let the man fall to the ground, never to rise again. Black smoke. Thunderclouds. Amir'sshan becomes an axe in your hand. The Blackbirds will demand proof of the S'umbra's intervention. You'll provide it.
  
  > Epilogue: The Last Bondsman
  They're waiting for you as you exit the gauntlet. A man entered the trial, an outsider from across the Great Sea. The one that stands before them now is a legend, a name to be spoken for all eternity. The gauntlet of the gods is a trial few have withstood over the span of the Blackbird people--and never before has an outsider passed. Gripping Terr'ok's severed head by his hair, loose tendrils of dripping blood mark your journey, spilling from the priest's open neck. You raise it high for all to see.
  
  They stand as a crowd, backed by natural ravenlight of the cave, a fitting shade for the present moment. The gauntlet opened up to the top of an underground hill. At the top, you look down at the crowd before you. It's mostly filled with warriors, yet that much is true of the Harri'ar themselves. For the first time, they look up to you, their large size paling in comparison to the hill, both physically and symbolically. Amir'sshan, once again as a dagger, rests on your hip. He speaks through you.
  
  (Blasphemers!)
  
  Compelled by the man-god, you toss the severed head of Terr'ok into the crowd of Blackbirds. A roar erupts, the sound of rumbling thunder coaxed into existence by storm clouds. Hands grip axe handles and tighten around spear shafts. The Blackbird warriors await your (Amir'sshan's) next words, for they will dictate whether you will be allowed to live or not.
  
  (Is this who you would worship in my absence? Priests masquerading as true devotees of the Raven, ones who would use my name for their own gain?)
  
  The words themselves are much like the initial word screamed by Amir'sshan. Blashemper. Looks, born of puzzlement and rage, are met in return. Did the outsider claim to be the Raven? More than a few weapons are drawn now, warriors deeming your words poorly chosen, a disrespect spoken to the Raven that must be answered in blood. Several of them attack. They charge the underground hill with a cry, a scream of righteous fury to their god. You cut them down. The very spirit of Amir'sshan possesses you, and you move like the man-god himself, the chieftain of chieftains.
  
  You discard the headdress that was placed upon your head; its feathers plucked, you have no time for impurity. It falls to the ground in the same manner of the S'umbra. Amir'sshan wishes to remain a dagger. You can work with that. You meet the charge of the Blackbird warriors, not with one of your own. Instead, you walk towards them, casually, like the way a nobleman strolls the streets of the capital city, eyeing shops and mannequins displaying the latest, finest overcoats. Their swings are telegraphed, born of rage and wildly arced. You dodge, sidestepping just out of range, mere inches away from their axes. The artifact finds a home in their necks, each Blackbird warrior felled with a single thrust of the blade, all dying by the same wound, the very one that ended the life of their leader, Terr'ok. With bodies of those in opposition around you, the words spoken from Amir'sshan have great effect, the message behind them clear: join or die.
  
  (Your god has returned. Behold! The Raven incarnate!)
  
  What are you doing? I thought the vessel was breaking.
  (Did I say that? Oops. I lied.)
  You tried to have me willingly surrender my body.
  (Once again, oops.)
  You'll not have me.
  (We'll see about that.)
  
  The Blackbird crowd, if they weren't in an uproar before, now definitely are. Hands gripping weapons now raise them against one another. Like a fissure splitting the earth, the Blackbirds become two parties, one in support of Amir'sshan's claim and the other ready to succeed where Terr'ok failed. Their shouts are louder than any Alteran market, each voice seemingly louder than an Alteran quartermaster barking orders at sailors. Infighting ensues. Blackbird on Blackbird, tribe against tribe. They were united under the S'umbra's rule. Now, however, they're split. Able to think freely for themselves, yet their thoughts spill blood against one another.
  
  More charge the hill, those in support of your claim at their heels, chopping at ankles and attempting to hamstring their fellow people. Through the madness E'ffy appears. Her face is like the sun peering through a cloudy day, a warm welcome in an otherwise dreary day. The tattoos are her wrists illume with magic, her holy power smiting those who stray too close, Redding next to her doing the same with his longsword. They cut their way towards you, having to avoid the pile of growing bodies at your feet.
  
  "Kid, why the hell are you claiming to be their god?" Redding shouts over the swing of his sword.
  
  Before you can answer, E'ffy interjects. "Because Amir'sshan is seeping into him. Becoming him. The bondsman is finally fulfilling his task."
  
  "Becoming me?" you question. "I refused his offer."
  
  E'ffy laughs, normally a comforting sign. In this moment, however, it sends chills down your spine. It sounds wrong, somehow, an innocent tone in the face of cruelty, like a troubled child giggling as he kills small animals. "Amir'sshan does not ask. He takes. Consumes. It is the duty of the bondsman to bring the second coming."
  
  Anger rushes into your body. Anger at being lied to. Anger at being used. After all you've been through, your life is thought as nothing, simply a soul in the way of the man-god's. Damn the artifact. Damn the Blackbirds. You're through with both. You wish that you'd never chosen to come to the war camp. Your grip tightens around the dagger. With a yell, you throw the artifact in to the sea of fighting natives. You're done with it. Let another, a true devotee, bear the burden. You don't even believe in the Raven, and you're sure there's more than a few present who would gladly surrender their life for Amir'sshan, E'ffy counted as one of them.
  
  "That's what I think of your sacred artifact," you shout, your voice ringing above the sounds of battle. Finally, you're rid of the thing. Let the natives fight each other to determine the next wielder. Suddenly, weight appears in your palm, a familiar wing-tipped handle rests in your hand. A sickening feeling rumbles in your stomach, and the meal eaten the night before threatens to jump ship. The artifact, it returned.
  
  (Not so fast, hero.)
  
  Your mind screams a pitch similar to Amir'sshan's, taking on his demeanor the way spending long amounts of time with another cause picked-up habits. Seems you're stuck with the artifact for the time being. Redding extends a worried glance in your direction; E'ffy displays the exact opposite, a constant grin at her lips. Her arm reaches out and touches your shoulder. It's comforting, reassuring.
  
  "It is a great honor to be in your service, Raven."
  
  You do not respond at first, though you sense Amir'sshan allowing you to do so. Allowing you. Allowing you to speak for yourself. The man-god spent centuries trapped within a prison of black mithril; it's early, yet you have a feeling you're taking the first few steps onto his path, the prison being your own body.
  
  No.
  
  You'll not surrender easily. You never have. You'll not start now. The battlefield has simply shaped form, much like the artifact itself. Rather than fighting by traditional means, you'll be battling for control of your mind, of your body. You sense the disapproval within and send your own in response. One body. Two souls in constant struggle over one another. You're not quite done living yet. There's much you haven't gotten around to due to military service. An entire New World lies at your feet, a freedom surpassing all that you've experience before. You'll not be chained, conscripted, bound to any other. A mental surge overtakes Amir'sshan's hands playing puppeteer. You're in control. You'll do as you want.
  
  "I'm not who you think I am," you state flatly. "The man-god is under my control, not the other way around."
  
  E'ffy's face turns dark. Backed by ravenlight, it almost becomes formless. "Only the S'umbra threaten the Raven in that way."
  
  "The S'umbra are no more. Same for the 'second coming.' There is only me and my ambition." (EEEEEEEEEE) Turning to Redding, seeing his face still shows concern, you add, "Our task here is complete. There is much work to be done, is there not?"
  
  Redding's expression becomes blank, his card-playing face. "There is always work to be done."
  
  "You are leaving then," E'ffy speaks.
  
  You nod.
  
  "Then I am coming with you."
  
  You offer her another gesture. This one, a shrug.
  
  "Not a bad idea," Redding says, "to have a Blackbird ally along with us."
  
  E'ffy doesn't correct the term. Old habits. You glance at the battlefield before you, the physical one. Infighting between tribes, a people raising axes and spears against one another. It is necessary for change. You have a feeling you will be doing the same with the people of the Old World as they voyage to the New. It's the natural order of things. The Old must die for the New to survive, like a snake shedding dead skin. Within, Amir'sshan settles down, the sudden outburst from the voice calmed for a moment. The internal struggle will continue. That's for damn sure. For now, however, the external struggle must be the main focus. Blackbird warriors climb the hill towards you.
  
  Black smoke. Thunderclouds. They climb to their death.
  
  You'll cut your way through the Blackbirds and leave the war camp, Redding and E'ffy along with you. The S'umbra are no more. Each Blackbird tribe is free to act on their own, and with their new-found freedom, they seek to end your life. So be it. Some lend their support, but not nearly the majority--not even near half of them. You'll cut them down as free men; they've chosen their path, and you, yours. Their choice leads to a dead end. Yours, on the other hand, is just beginning. The New World awaits you. Best to not keep it waiting long.