He grabbed Angul's cold hilt and stood. From this new vantage, he could see farther into the chamber. The lines of light that were not burned out seemed to lead to a nexus at the chamber's heart. He walked toward that gathering point, favoring one foot slightly.

At the center lay a crumpled, half buried shape, like the husk of some fantastically large spider's recent meal. The shape was a humanoid figure forged of crystal, stone, iron, and more exotic components, but it had fallen over. Its surface was rusted, pitted, and cracked, and half of it was buried beneath a section of collapsed ceiling. A partially visible design winked from its dented metallic chest-the Cerulean Sign.

"Cynosure?"

The figure did not respond. Despite that, Raidon was certain he was in the presence of the artificial entity who once served as Stardeep's warden.

"Are you awake?"

He bent, tapped the golem's forehead. Was that a slight glimmer of light deep in the idol's stony eyes? He couldn't be sure.

"Did you exhaust yourself pulling me from the Chalk Destrier's domain?" he asked. "If so, thank you. I hope it does not prove your last act. I'm not worthy of such sacrifice."

He frowned. "You sacrificed yourself to save me, someone you hardly know."

His thoughts turned backward. He murmured, "Me, I left the heart of my life to die alone while I slept in safety."

Even as he spoke aloud, he recognized he half consciously reflected the golem's noble act back upon himself. A pathetic show of self-pity, and for whom?

He was far more human, with all the failings that implied, than he'd ever admitted to himself. He was only a fool with an outsize ego, like every other fool who pranced and paraded through life, deluded they were somehow finer and better trained than most others, until shown the truth.

He turned, disgusted. His hip brushed a stone block, closer to the golem than all the rest. The glyphs on the stone flared into life. Their shapes fluttered and morphed, until the monk saw they spelled out words in Common. He read:

Raidon,

If you can read this, I have consumed my last remaining store of animating elan. Fear not, I did not trap you. With your Sign, you can access Stardeep's functions and propel yourself across the face of Faerыn one last time. You must go to the seamount we earlier scried, where Gethshemeth lairs. You have the Cerulean Sign. Worry not about your lack of training. Concentrate on Stardeep's spellmantle, and you will be able to access it as I have. Go to Gethshemeth. Subdue the great kraken. Destroy the relic of Xxiphu it wields. Much depends on you, Raidon. Though I have no spirit or life that will persist beyond my physical death, I wish you well with all the fiber of my faltering existence.

Your friend, Cynosure

"I am doubly unworthy of your trust," Raidon murmured.

He gazed long at the stone block. The runes he'd read were changing, forming a great ring. The ring lifted off the stone until it hung vertically before Raidon. Within it, an image resolved.

Raidon saw the isle where kuo-toa cavorted above, and a tentacled monstrosity lurked in the watery hollows beneath.

The view through the scrying circle showed him the island's surface. It was night, but noisome glows and glimmers gave outline to the sentinels that continued their circuit above the island.

"Angul, are you ready?" The monk raised the sword, gripping it. The cerulean light in the blade's pommel continued to glimmer, no softer, but no stronger.

He recalled one of the last times he'd seen the sword. It had been more than ten years ago, more like twenty, he supposed.

Kiril had stood before Angul, considering relinquishing the blade that had cursed her with its overzealous nature. Cynosure's words came back to him: "Angul's life is only a half-life. Without a living wielder, the soul-forged blade will fail, releasing the soul to its final peace. All that will remain is a dead length of sword-shaped steel."

The memory faded, but concern tightened Raidon's eyes.

If his memory reported true, then when Kiril had given up the blade to the Chalk Destrier, Angul lost his living wielder. He hadn't had a living wielder for years…

"By Xiang's serene teachings, you had better not be broken!" exclaimed Raidon.

The sword remained as quiescent as when he'd first drawn it from the stone.

Warmth flushed the monk's cheeks. He resisted smashing the sword on the stone obelisk before him, even though it was what he wanted to do more than anything in that hot moment.

No, he commanded himself. I am an heir of Xiang. Focus. Calm yourself, or your pledge to defeat Gethshemeth in Ailyn's name will fail.

Raidon unclenched his chest and shoulders, standing taller. "Angul," he said, his voice calm but commanding, "I beseech you, wake! A foe you were forged to destroy threatens Faerыn with a relic of elder days. If it and its foul artifact are not obliterated, you will fail your own purpose."

Had the dim pulse of blue in the hilt grown slightly brighter at his words?

No. They hadn't changed at all.

Raidon tried a few more appeals to the sword before concluding the soul-shard in the blade was too far gone to be conscious of such petitions.

He regarded the Blade Cerulean. It was a tool of the Keepers of the Cerulean Sign. A sign of which he himself had become a living manifestation.

He loosened his jacket, revealing the ruddy Sign on his chest. He placed the blade's hilt directly upon it and willed his Sign to pulse.

Something tickled the back of Raidon's mind. A query, so faint he thought he might have imagined it.

Raidon pulsed his Sign again. This time, he clearly heard a forlorn question, a question asked without sound.

Kiril, is it you? Has my Bright Star returned?

The monk said, "Angul?"

No response. He frowned and infused the blade a third time with his Sign.

The voice, no stronger than before, spoke anew into Raidon's mind.

I am so tired. So tired. Why won't you speak, Kiril? I thought you shut of me, finally sworn off this shattered soul that can never know peace. I don't blame you. I have no restraint, none whatever, as you know so well…

Raidon addressed the blade again. "Kiril has moved on."

My Bright Star… She was my all, and I was her bane. "Angul, listen to me-"

Angul? Is that my name? No, it was something else…

"You are called Angul. I speak true."

… I remember. I am Angul. I was Kiril's companion and righteous tool. But I have fulfilled my oath. My task is complete, and peace beckons. Why do you disturb me?

"A new wielder has need of your strength. A blight threatens the world, a menace you were specifically fashioned to vanquish. You are needed!"

So tired…

"Aboleths from ancient days, Angul, are poised to poison the surface world," pleaded Raidon. It seemed the blade was actively resisting him, actively trying to descend once more into complete, unknowing somnolence.

Leave me be. Perhaps this time I can be reunited with Kiril as a whole and complete-

Raidon pulsed the blade a fourth time.

Like a candle begets a wildfire, his Sign finally ignited Angul. The paper-thin personality he'd been interacting with, ghostlike in its tentative, fleeting nature, charred and burned to nothing. Beneath lay the true Angul, hard and bright and unforgiving.

Aberrations shall be purged, a voice pronounced in a tone completely shorn of the pain and loss of the earlier persona. This voice was keen for what awaited it, eager to strip the world of all who were unfit to walk its face.

His hand disappeared in a nimbus of burning, searing fire, a fire that burned away his own self-pity, his doubt, his focus, and his half-realized desire to walk away from the entire escapade. Something more than aspiration took hold of the monk-it was moral certainty, simple and absolute. Some things could not, could never be suffered. Angul was the first, best, and only tool to accomplish that end. Gethshemeth, and its stone of corruption, would be eradicated. He knew it-he and Angul would be the instrument that accomplished that righteous deed.