The black candle above Earth burned sideways.
Erebos noticed before the alarms learned how to scream.
He stood alone in a room that had once been a prison cell for a god with too many names. The walls were old white stone. Chains thick as bridge cables hung from the ceiling, each link carved with a dead prayer. He had turned the cell into a map room because history always worked better after someone cleaned the blood from it.
Mostly cleaned.
One stain still climbed the north wall in the shape of antlers.
Erebos set his teacup down.
The cup did matter. It was porcelain, blue-rimmed, stolen from a royal train on a world that believed tea could settle wars. The king of that world had been wrong. The tea had been excellent.
Across the center table, twelve circles of black glass held twelve pieces.
A brass crown.
A feather.
A red coin.
A shard of angelic armor.
A lock of Jade's hair sealed in crystal.
A skeleton finger wrapped in black thread.
