Nobody moved.
Morikk stood in the center of the chamber with Annabelle's small hand in his — the construct's fingers laced through hers, gentle, obscene. The Heartstone pulsed behind them. The green fire in Annabelle's eyes matched the green fire in his.
"Put the sword down, Maximus," Morikk said. "You can't kill me with that. You proved that already."
Maximus didn't lower Abyssalfang. "Let the girl go."
"In a moment." Morikk smiled. "First — don't you think they're owed the truth? Your little queen. Your little witch. The fairy." His gaze slid to Elias, cowering by the archway. "The apprentice. They've followed you into the dark, brother. Don't they deserve to know why?"
"Don't," Maximus said.
"Why not? It's a good story." Morikk's voice was conversational, almost warm. "Once upon a time, the Heartstone sang, and the world sang with it. And from that song came the Ancients — not born, shaped. Made of the world's first morning." He spread his hands. "We were its children, Maximus and I. Brothers."
"You're no brother of mine," Maximus said. But his sword had dipped, just slightly.
"Aren't I? We grew in the same light. We learned at the same knee." Morikk's smile faded. "And then came the First Cataclysm."
Elias made a small sound. Morikk glanced at him. "Oh, good, the boy knows the word. Yes — the Cataclysm. The Heartstone stuttered, you see. A flaw in the song. And the world broke. Cities drowned. Skies burned. Millions died screaming, and the Ancients — we who were made of the song — we felt every one of them."
"What did you do?" Lyra asked quietly.
Morikk looked at her. "I tried to fix it." His voice sharpened. "The Heartstone could unmake it. Rewrite the flaw. I told the others — give me the Heart, and I will sing the world right. No more breaking. No more dying."
"And the price?" Seraphina said.
"Ah." Morikk's green eyes gleamed. "The price was everything that is. To rewrite the song, you must first silence it. Unmake the world, to remake it." He shrugged. "A small cost. For perfection."
"Millions of lives," Maximus said, "is not a small cost."
"They were already dying!" Morikk's voice cracked like a whip, and the chamber shook. Annabelle flinched. He gentled his grip on her hand, smoothed her hair with his other hand, and went on quietly. "The Cataclysm was killing them by inches. I offered them eternity. And you —" He pointed at Maximus. "You called me monster. You rallied the others. And when I wouldn't stop, you unmade me."
"I gave you every chance —"
"You broke my body!" The construct's face twisted. "You scattered me to the wind! Three hundred years I drifted, brother — a thought without hands — while you played the wandering swordsman and the world forgot my name!"
"And then?" Pip said suddenly. Everyone looked at her. She was hovering in front of Annabelle, her light blazing, her fists clenched. "Then what? You got yourself a new body and decided to kill children?"
Morikk stared at her. Then he laughed — genuine, surprised. "Oh, I like her." He looked back at Maximus. "I rebuilt myself. Slowly. A construct — as you see. And I began again. The dead don't fear the silence, you see. The dead are patient. I raised them, and they followed, and I came back to the Heart." His smile widened. "And this time, brother, you're going to help me."
"Never."
"You already have." Morikk gestured at the chamber — at the broken door, at the tomb above, at all of them. "The seals needed two Ancients to open. The old fool king was only the first. I needed the second —" He bowed, mocking. "Thank you for coming."
Maximus went cold. "No."
"Oh, yes. Every step you took toward this place loosened it. Your blood remembers the song, brother. It always has." Morikk's voice dropped. "And now — the last door is open. The Heart is awake. All that's left is to use it."
"Over my corpse," Maximus said.
"That," Morikk said softly, "was always the plan."
He raised his hand — and the chamber screamed.
Not a sound. A pressure. The Heartstone flared, and the air went thick, and Maximus felt his knees buckle —
And then, from the archway behind them, came a sound he knew.
Marching. Rhythmic. Unstoppable.
Morikk smiled. "Ah. Right on time."
They came through the archway in perfect ranks — hundreds of them, green eyes burning in the dark. Farmers. Smiths. Mothers. Children of the town, grown into soldiers. And at their head, in blackened armor, a sword at his hip —
Kael.
Lyra's breath stopped. "No."
Kael's green eyes found her. His mouth moved. "Your Highness," he said, in Morikk's voice layered under his own. "Form ranks."
"Advance," said the dead.