At the sixth day of the sixth month the biggest of the Aenexian festivals, the Hoerenn, started.

  It was a grand commemoration of success and superiority over one's enemies held under the blessings of the Iron Held Lord. In tradition it was supposed to happen annually, but under the Greatest Menoux they happened either once every four years, or whenever "acceptable" prey had made themselves known, a change which chaffed against the Beast's desires yet was necessary regardless.

  Here, they were allowed to cut lose and prove themselves to their highers. They poured out to the countryside, bathing it in red as they feasted on violence and flesh, living or dead, slaughtering all who stood in their way. The neophytes who had joined for the thrills, who likely had spent years in the outer circles and at least six months in the inner ones repeatedly tested over their loyalty to the Mission, always waited with bated breath.

  Things had been different this time. They had got the fill of a lifetime and so much more.

  Balazia, orphaned from birth on the village of Lillol, which edged both the most miserable banks of the Lake Bell and the Deadlands of the slain god, had joined because he had, was, nothing. For kids like him, the options were to become a fisherman and drown at the bottom of the bottle, gang up with some other twerps and kiss the foot of bigger muscle for the rest of his life, or join one of the cults. The choice had felt obvious.

  Problem was, as the old sigwalist clergy haunting the village used to tell him, his kind had not been bred for the people-life. He had gone almost two batches of newbies before finding his way, almost costing him his life.

  In Balazia's eyes, the Mission was, at its core, about transcending the limits of the Dashi through copious outer strength fueled by an earnest inner self. One relied on the other, the failure of one meant the failure of the other; in the end, one was the other. The One Body, as the Greatest liked to call it, although ruled by its most secret facet, the Beast.

  The Beast was simple. It was selfish above all: jealous, possessive, gluttonous. It wanted what it wanted when it wanted and fuck what stood in between. Therefore, this "self-honesty" was to give it free reign, allow himself to take what he desired from whoever pissed him off the most so long as he could make himself the strongest.

  It was then, in the high of his certainty, that he met the mythical Pale Worm. Haruspect Menoux took a look at him, cackled, and beat him to a pulp.

  "Woe be to him, who never saw a pack of wild cats!" The Greatest swung him, who had been bigger than most adults by his teenage years and only grew larger, one handed by the neck like some naughty kitten. "What do we think about bad little boys like this one?!"

  The jeers and the taunts had followed him all the way to his dreams. Even those wimpy rats who had cowered under his shout and prostrated themselves under his heel without a fight had laughed. That was a wound to his pride like he had never taken before, and the following weeks blurred into feeble attempts to lick them close, always ending in cackles and his master's knuckles.

  There was a contradiction at the heart of the Aenexian doctrine he had not though thorough, but which was far too critical to ignore. For all this talk of the old ways long forgotten, the true path to strength, and those weaklings outside who boasted about their "civilized ways" despite living with a chains around their necks, the Aenexians had still created a cult for Dashi, and therefore were beholden to all the things Dashi needed to thrive.

  How could a community dedicate so much of itself to power and taboo desires when, at the end of the day, it still had to maintain itself a community at all costs? Was that why, when you looked at the greater picture, they remained so small and weak?

  He had felt so smart confronting them all face to face he blinded himself to the obvious foolishness of his act. The ignorants shouted insults and threw junk like monkeys pelting predators with shit, yet some had looked uncertain, almost ashamed. The Mission made no saints, but few were those who could live with so much atrocity without an inkling of regret, and those, he figured, could still be nudged to his advantage.

  Naivete. Menoux strode amidst his faithful, radiant.

  "Woe to him who doesn't know mutts hunt in packs! Woe to him who doesn't believe mutts will feed their own sick!" No amount of shouting could smother the bellows of the Greatest, and he carried on as if Balazia was mute. "To they whose claws cut the deepest the crown, yet a monarch must abandon his kingdom to be the strongest? A monarch must leave his strong yet weaker brethren to starve and be nibbled by the vermin?!"

  "Then you court the weak!" He had tried. "You cultivate weakness in your ranks and expect it to fade by its own desire?!"

  The Greatest had shook his head. "And what strength is there in prostrating before avoidable circumstances for the sake of withering a pack? Surely you cannot be this brainless!"

  "T-then why are you so frail?" The defense had rang hollow even to his years, but he needed to a word out. "If you are going to be the same kind of coward as all the others, why not bow to Eln?!"

  "And woe to him," Menoux said, and his milk white grin felt as cold as the edge of a blade, "who does not know who my pack is. But no worries! You will learn."

  Pulp was perhaps too much of an understatement on the way he had gone to sleep that day.

  The next morning, barely capable of walking, Menoux invited him to eat from his own plate, and with a smile like the sun taught him much.

  The second of the Hoerenn festivities happened once the believers had all killed, fought, and fucked each other drained, physically and mentally. This was the most dangerous of the steps, used frugally in the destruction of the other sects.

  Morning was a subjective concept this far down the Mountain Innards, but as the right hand of the Greatest and therefore the owner of the single functioning clock they had managed to get their hands on, Balazia had made sure to be up and ready at 7 round. He kicked his fellows awake from their orgiastic knots, stripped those who still bore cloth or leather to their skin, and sent them down.

  He made the rounds one last time, just to make sure their newest and most important guests were still incapacitated. One was awake but quiet, while the other slept sprawled over dirt and stone. Good enough.

  With his duties accomplished, he went to the pens and chose five left from the Gwanegume raids and the ensuing feast, handpicked for being the healthiest. They were made bare, quickly washed, and herded down with the help of their guards.

  Their final destination was a great chamber dug beneath most of their inhabitations, bordering the soft layers of the Innards. Twenty meters across and roughly six tall, its marbled walls were white with veins of black and scarlet from carefully cultivated then stunted regenerative tissue. There was no furniture here, no reliefs or statues or decorations, except two: a dish of interlocking pieces of steel, shallow but measuring two meters in diameter, and a great slab of iron, shaved to perfect angles and polished to mirror sheen.

  His fellow believers sat in a semi-circle around the dish, giving it just enough distance for the ritual to be realized. The five, some weeping, some begging, some haze eyed and staring ahead, were led to the dish's edge and forced to kneel. Here, Balazia would usually sit himself among the others, bonking them silent when they insisted on getting over their hang-overs by provoking those nearby.

  Following Gwanegume, the mood had changed. Less so with the neonates, but the veterans were outright scared. In full armor, though he trusted them not to start a scene this far into the Hoerenn, he decided to remain standing, at least until the master arrived.

  It didn't take long. The moment the Greatest strode onto the chamber, all snapped to attention. Nude but for a great mantle, sewed from the tanned hides of the strongest warriors he had personally culled in previous festivals, his presence alone was enough to set their blood boiling with need and subservience.

  The Beast watched from Balazia's eyes, eager and painfully aroused.

  "This year, we have taken a leap not seen since the era of Aenexias." His voice rang like drums of war, and the collective skipped beat of the heart could be practically felt. "Once, the prophet's name was enough to shut every gate in this god forsaken island. Decades came, decades went, and the fear faded from the people's heart.

  "A mistake! The first among us may have lost his life, but so long as his Mission survives, his hunger shall be eternal! And this past week, we reminded them of this most basic truth."

  He stepped to the five, and their crying was reawakened. No pleading, however. How ironic, that they seemed to have predicted their own inevitable fates.

  "Some of you doubted, some of you feared! Yet saith the Iron Held, 'so long as strength lays in your heart, foolish Aenexias, no fall shall ever cripple you.' Those who here stand stuck by their siblings and followed the commands of their king, and to that I say: Be proud! For you found the measure of your being and it did not lack!"

  He grabbed the first of the sacrifices, a young man of scholarly build, and lifted him into the air, displaying him like a trophy. Eyes shut, his cries were as whispers.

  "Today, we gather before the Iron Held in worship, for his is the word of awakening, for his is the power we parasitize! His is the Grand Pack, long slaughtered yet never dead, and as our great leader he would not leave us to fend for ourselves! Fortune favors the bold, and through fortune his love reaches us.

  "Today, I shall reach into that fate, and see what favor we have been granted."

  The young man was placed above the dish, one hand over his spine and ribs while the other held him by the back of the thighs. Eyes wide, all those watching leaned forward as the Greatest twisted both ways with no visible effort. Like cloth being wrung dry, the young man burst into a shower of blood and innards, cascading to the middle of the dish.

  Gently laying him aside, he reached for the next, a completely mute young woman.

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  Then a middle aged man who bawled his eyes out.

  A matronly lady who teared but did not sob.

  An older woman, built strong and silent.

  Fivefold meat.

  The Greatest sat himself opposite his faithful, spine straight and chest puffed as he cast off his mantle. With a heavy breath, he slowly reached for the pile of viscera with his fingers and began the ritual.

  There was power here, everyone could tell. There was a tension in the air that held all watchers firm to the ground, no matter the discomfort, an unheard order that nonetheless could not be disobeyed. The same way, there was a technique to the motions his master repeated, one he had never managed to comprehend no matter how often explained, it all looked like just mixing to him.

  Red tinged hands pulled back, caressing some unseen organ with the fondness of a father.

  "The Lord approves! The Offer has been accepted!"

  There was no cheering. There never was. This was a moment of respect.

  "Our name shall spread, and the Mission shall strike fear into the hearts of all the failures in this island! The enemy shall sleep ill at ease, while we become as thieves in the night!

  "... Glory however is not the only gift of our Lord. A warning has been sent," his eyes closed, the Greatest dipped his hands back into the pile. "A storm brews on the horizon, one we must endure at all costs. The Lord trusts our strength, and through the whispers of the flesh, shall aid us the best he is allowed."

  Balazia did not fidget with discomfort anymore, thankfully. Still, the temptation was there.

  A question that had lingered on his lips for many years was: Could the art of Haruspecting truly predict the future? Could his master read the currents of fate in the life essence of others?

  To his knowledge? No. Only in a manner of speaking, but that was on the wit and planning of the Haruspect, not the art itself. Balazia had eventually come to the conclusion he did not believe in fortune, even divinity could only do so much, and guessed his Greatest thought much the same.

  Looking at the palpable sense of relief in the face of the others that grew with every prediction, however, he couldn't deny the ritual's utility. To those who feared for their lives, the integrity of their bodies, or just their sense of belonging, there was no stronger balm than that divine approval.

  It wouldn't help, in the end. The beings put in motion would not be halted by any amounts of vague predictions.

  But for now, Balazia was happy with letting them have their balm.

  The third phase of the Hoerenn was the slowest. The Beast indulged, worshiped, then rested.

  Everyday life bled back to its rightful place. Miners returned to their depths, hunters slinked back to the dark, and theirs champions, those of the purest blood, marched back to their forges. The entrances to the surface world were sealed though stimulation of the Mountain's healing, and the Mission was set to hibernate until it could afford to be celebrated again.

  Balazia followed the smell of smoke until the temperature rose to a burn. Here at the smithy, the Innards would digest soot, notice the dangerous intruders, and leak poisonous substances that would be further used to fuel the furnaces. It was a genuinely inhospitable environment, and only the strongest among them could remain here without the right equipment.

  That evening, the absolute mightiest among them exerted his craft, and all those who could bear had come to see.

  To watch the Greatest hammer away at steel with such inhuman precision was as close to a miracle as most of the cult would ever see. It was through metal the Aenexians had carved their place in Ivias, and it was through metal their love had lasted beyond their lifespans. Of the Dashi, neither gobans nor humans grew useful claws, and so through metal they had made their own.

  Flames licked the nascent curved blade again, the scythe shape of the Ravish all but done. Extremely unpragmatic for conflict, his siblings in faith nonetheless loved the novelty of the ritual tool and its bloody forms, watching with naked desire. Once it had taken an orange glow, it was laid back into the anvil, as the Greatest held his wrist flat in the air above.

  Skin splitting as if under the stroke of an invisible blade, his own artery blood flowed freely. Where his work greedily drank him, its glow briefly turned golden before. Quality triumphed over quantity: the essence and the way it was fed into the steel were what defined his success, and too much could drown the weapon, rendering it brittle and mad.

  The great secret that once made the Old Empire dominant, lost until the Iron Held Lord whispered it into the ears of Aenexias and his clan.

  Living Steel.

  He had missed the best part of the show, when the Greatest enjoyed feeding the metal from his own neck, but he had seen it enough times he could imagine the gasps.

  As the end approached, Balazia was motioned closer with two fingers. Carefully, admiring the way his master could endure the powerful flames with nothing but the protection of his own naked hide, he waited for orders.

  The Greatest admired his craft before speaking. "I'm planning to go see our guest later."

  "Would you like me to fetch something for the occasion, Greatest?" Balazia said.

  "Of course!" He smiled, cleaning sweat off his brow. "I want to greet her back to the world of the living with a banquet, so I'm thinking... how about another cut of our premium cattle?"

  Balazia restrained a frown, but he couldn't hold the question. "I would not dare question your desires, Greatest-"

  He sighed. "Sure thing."

  "... But do you believe she would be capable of handling more in her current state?"

  Balazia saw him rub his beard with some trepidation. His smile, at least, didn't remark him as forced. "I think she will be thankful for it, if not now soon. Now, if you would?"

  "At once."

  Leaving the forges and the upper inhabitations entirely, Balazia headed down into the darkness. Curve after curve, wavering hallway after wavering hallway, torches grew dimmer and farther apart, the few fireflypebble lamps still in use disappearing entirely as stone turned red like a muscle while the walls grew moist and ever so slightly pliable.

  The soft layers. The chaff of their sect were explicitly forbidden from ever exploring this far down, because if the forges were too toxic for them, than this was a tomb. Besides, at least up on the hard layers there were no carnivores squeezing through the minuscule gaps in their barricades, mindlessly starved for bodies to scavenge.

  Down here stood the quarters of the Haruspect, although quarters were perhaps a misnomer. locked by nothing other than a simple gate of steel bars, illuminated by nothing but the old, flickering fireflypebble he always carried on himself, what greeted him was a long storage of sorts, weapons of all makes and sizes displayed in their full glory at all sides.

  Walking under these conditions without tumbling something to the floor or accidentally dismembering yourself on a stray edge was a skill in itself. The entrance was the single safe spot in the room, where the Greatest would sometime sit by, reminiscing on his collection, but everything else was a trap. That Rava he was creating, if not gifted within the next week, would likely end up crammed somewhere around here.

  Already experienced with its biggest snags, Balazia dexterously reached the far end of the room, and began to rummaging through the boxed piles of precious belongings his master explicitly didn't want in the open, which made for a surprising amount of memorabilia.

  He never noticed he had been followed, until a voice rang from behind.

  "Agent Nilio." The name sent a stronger jolt of fear through his spine then the distorted cadence of the voice. "A pleasure to see you yet live."

  He slowly turned around. The light of his fireflypebble revealed not a person, not even the silhouette, but a pillar of liquid, shifting shadow rising from the mess of weaponry all the way to the ceiling. letting the pebble go, he interlaced his fingers together and bowed, eyes low and hands above his head.

  "Captain Welda," he said. "To what do I own the honor of this visit?"

  For a second, the silence stretched beyond comfort. He knew that if it came to a fight he had no chance of emerging out of this room alive, yet contingencies still flooded his mind.

  "The time has come," she said. "The Butcher has crossed a line, and Her Sanctity demands retribution."

  He felt as if the ground sank away beneath him. "Gwanegume."

  "Precisely."

  "And what does command wish me to do?" he said. "I do not believe myself capable of assassinating the Haruspect, even by surprise."

  "Indeed, neither do we, but assassination is not what we have in mind."

  "Then?"

  "The operation is already under way." she said. "All we need is for you to lure the Butcher and most of his troops Northeast, the First and the Second shall take it from there."

  "And if I cannot?"

  "We will seek alternatives, and you will not be part of them." No inflection, but the message was well understood. "You are dismissed."

  He waited until he heard one of bigger warhammers, propped against another warhammer, tumble to the ground and bring half a ton worth of metallic paraphernalia down with it before straightening his back. Searching, he failed to find his fireflypebble, and realized it likely had gone out during the conversation.

  He searched his master's possessions until he found another, stashed in secret just in case of such emergencies. With a quick examination, he found what he was looking for, and hurried away.

  He found his master on the way up, sitting by a bifurcation with a heavy bottle of liquor taken from Gwanegume on hands. The moment their eyes met, he smiled most sweetly.

  "Aaaah, but aren't you just the best, my Balazia!" He laughed freely, swinging the bottle from side to side in the air. "Come have a swig! You deserve this much at least!"

  "The Fifth has come," Balazia said, and only then did he make the connection, "but you already knew that."

  The Greatest nodded and reached behind himself. The clock, Balazia's clock, looked diminute under his master's grip, despite being bigger than his palm. "They arrived yesterday. Their numbers are still small, and they seem pretty occupied rooting out escape routes and defensible points. All pointless, if you ask me, but I don't quite think they would be willing to listen."

  "I thought I was being followed."

  "The little monster that had been trying to ambush you since morning had left for more important matters, and the worm it left on your trail was easy enough to distract." The Greatest shrugged. "I will take care of it in a moment, just let me rest a while."

  His fingers did not clench over the limb he carried. Years of experience meant he had better control over his emotions than that. Yet, the sinking feeling wouldn't stop growing "Then the time has come? You-"

  "What were your orders? I would love a good chuckle right now!" His master laughed.

  "... They wish you head Northeast with most of our forces. The First and the Second will handle it from there, her words. Beyond that, I was given no information."

  "Ha! Seems like they don't even trust you anymore!" He drank from his bottle, heavy and deep, not remotely caring for the trickle escaping the corner of his lips. When he separated the bottle's mouth from his own, not a drop fell. "What, already empty? How shameful! Isn't Abam liquor supposed to be the strongest? I'm not even tipsy!"

  "Greatest, they are-"

  "Aiming straight at me, I imagine. So long as I remain, the legacy of Aenexias survives." his master looked down at his lap, throwing the empty glass aside with no particular regard. "And here I thought the Fifth would take a little longer to settle down the Western kerfuffle. Guess that's what I get for underestimating my enemies! Or overstimating. Well, regardless, don't you have another mission to attend to agent?"

  Balazia watched as his master got up, wiping his thighs of dirt with a couple slaps, then stood aside. Though dug and stretched with his height accounted, the tunnels could still barely handle the Greatest's size, leaving him ever so slightly hunched.

  He did not miss the way he blocked one of his paths, leaving one direction left.

  "You already had everything planned," Balazia said, looking at the carefully maintained package in his arms with a new light.

  "I would say I don't like to boast, but I hate lying that much more!" The Greatest chuckled. "If they can't make their love for me any less conspicuous, they can't blame me for catching on! Now, get a move on, we are going to have one busy night ahead of us, and I don't fancy wasting time while rats are scurrying around my house."

  Balazia nodded, and his legs moved of their own will. To obey his Greatest, the man who had made of him something, no matter how lowly and filthy that something was, was but an instinct to him.

  And for the first time in so long, he fought against that instinct, halting right at his feet and meeting Menoux's eyes.

  "I don't like that I will never know you well, master," he said.

  "You know I don't like being called that." Menoux pouted, but he would not budge. "Besides, you learned all you needed. Everything else you would have to figure out by yourself anyway."

  "You never-"

  "Go. I mean it." Despite everything, hearing him turn serious was still a thrill. "I'm sure you figured out already, but they aren't expecting you to succeed beyond poking the situation slightly to their side. Put on your armor, then I give you thirty minutes to do what you need to do. After that, disappear."

  "Of course. Thank you, Greatest."

  And really, what else did he have to say?

  With one final grin to shine his way, the Pale Worm gave him a two finger salute. "Just don't forget about good ol' me, wherever you go!"

  "Never."

  Without turning back, he rushed towards the barracks, soon to toll the bell for the Aenexian faith.