‘I’ll leave you to your work,’ said the owner, almost reverently, before turning to go. He stepped aside quickly as Totho’s companion came in, hooded and robed.

‘This will do, for a start,’ Totho said. ‘And they’ve manpower and materials enough for us here in Chasme. I thought we’d complete the arm first, and then…’

Drephos tugged his hood down, one-handed. ‘And then the future,’ he suggested. ‘And then the world.’

It became aware of itself between the trees, awakening to agonized existence shot through with thorns and briars.

Where-?

Around it, the forest was twisted and dark, each tree knotted and diseased and forever dying, never quite dead. It knew this place, immediately, instinctively. There was no mistaking it.

The Darakyon.

Yet this was not the true Darakyon, that brooding forest east of Helleron that, for centuries, had turned back or consumed any travellers foolish enough to breach its borders. The true Darakyon lay untenanted now, its ghosts faded from between its tortured boles, the sun breaking in through its matted canopy. The 500-year-old work of the magicians who had blighted it with their hubris had been undone.

So there was only one place that this could be, it knew. It had been touching the Darakyon. It had been part of a great ritual. It was inside the Shadow Box.

Awareness was coming back, and bringing the echo of memories. It – no, he – looked about himself. There was a mist at the edge of the trees now, and it was growing closer. Where it touched, the briars shrank back, the trees themselves faded and were gone.

The Shadow Box had been destroyed. The snarl that it made in the fabric of the world was being unpicked. The world was being dismantled around him, and soon it, and he, would be gone.

For a long moment, watching the greyness creep closer, he could not think why this should be a bad thing. He had not gained such joy out of life, most especially out of the ending of it, that he should wish to protest his extinction. Tree by tree, the heart of the Darakyon was undone, and he, the last inheritor of its power, watched dispassionately.

He had lived a strange and violent life, at odds with his own people, with ambitions utterly alien to the rest of his kind. Would it be so wrong to simply let go now?

Then he remembered some more, shards of his life falling upon him like blades, and he knew he could not go.

No.

No, not like this. He would not give up the world for this grey death-in-death. I have work to do.

He stood, unfolding himself, drawing the stuff of his body from the thorns and the knotted wood and the evaporating darkness.

I have not finished.

It was clear in his mind now. He had something left undone, and there was nobody else who would do it. He bared his teeth at the encroaching nothingness.

There must be a way out. The disintegrating world around him told him that there was no such way, but in life he had never much listened to the rules of others. He dashed from tree to tree, faster and faster, a narrowing spiral as the end came for him. I will not give up. I will not surrender. I haven’t finished. It isn’t over.

And then, at the very last, with the world no more than an arm’s length on either side, he found it.

The ritual, the Darakyon, all those ancient magics torn open and unleashed upon the cold world of the Apt, they were not gone. They lived on in him, for all that he was dead, and…

There was another. He felt the distant call of kindred power to power. Out in the world of the living there was another, if he could only find the way.

He stretched out for that faintest of threads, the ebbing reverberation of the Darakyon’s power in the world.

After that was silence: the Shadow Box destroyed, the Darakyon empty, all its tormented prisoners released.

But he was gone before the mist came, pulling himself hand over hand into the world of the living.

I haven’t finished.

He had work to do.