Akara's calm infuriated Marduk. With Ishev in ruins, the sages dead and the pegagi gone, the Deep's most powerful shrine would fall, and this time Marduk was certain there would be no being of light to prevent what was contained within its elaborate, blistering white prison from breaking free.

He followed Akara, sour. Right to the bitter end, sages always had to find purpose and meaning, even when faced with obliteration. Not him. Not this time. Where had his meditations led him, or his ambition to save his people? To this. To nothing. He had barely even begun to live. Anu had been almost five-hundred-thousand sars when he ascended to the light. With his father's aggressive demands fulfilled to achieve greater longevity from the regeneration devices, Marduk had expected to live to a million. His existence amounted to just over five thousand sars. A mere heartbeat.

Akara slipped into a narrow crevice in the edifice. Marduk left the crates behind and followed, cautious, realizing the sage had led him into a great rent in a massive ashlar, presumably made by one of the many earthquakes. Apart from the beam from his lamp, utter darkness surrounded them, yet Akara's steps were certain as he made his way past various openings, leading Marduk through a maze of cuts and angles, his progress slow, yet steady, confident.

Akara turned and vanished into the rock wall. Marduk hastened to catch up, uneasy. Another crevice opened before him, recessed into the rock at a ninety-degree angle. Marduk pressed on, claustrophobic, as the way narrowed and he had to shuffle after the sage, sidewise, his armor scraping against the rock face, longing to escape the oppressive weight of the stone bearing down on them. By degrees, the crevice widened and a faint glow of light breached the shadows beyond the reach of the lamp.

Akara took another turn. Marduk followed. Brilliance slammed into him. He fell back, stunned by the abrupt presence of light after so much dark. Lifting his arm to shield his eyes from the glare, he hunched down and edged his way forward, feeling his way along the wall, cautious, waiting for his vision to adapt. The passage ended. Ahead, in the center of a circular chamber, just before the fabled prison, Akara's frail silhouette stood, stark, against the unforgiving onslaught of a rotating sphere, shot with flames of light. Marduk eyed it, his instincts crawling, as it pulsed and churned, alive, a cold, dying star. Between the filaments, glimpses of unutterable darkness—of a formless, shifting entity slamming itself against its weakening barrier, determined to free itself after a near-eternity of confinement.

Akara turned, his face lost in shadow, and gestured for Marduk to join him. Marduk hesitated. When he had last been here, none but the pegagi were permitted to enter this chamber, not even his mother could go in. A viewing gallery, high above, and behind a thick barrier of pure crystal had been satisfactory enough for him to witness the existence of the prison of light. He had looked, because his mother had wished him to, but he had been glad to leave. Even then with the shrine fully protected by the pegagi, he could sense the evil contained within the light's brilliance. It had called to him, touching his dreams, subtle, offering a future beyond his childish understanding, frightening him. It was what had driven him to turn to the teachings of the sages, to contain the dark thoughts which plagued him when he was alone, or when saturated in the blood of the dead, that his conquests for Uribi were only the beginning—that a destiny of absolute power, and eternal rule awaited him, for a price. Now, here he was again. And soon, it would be free.

Akara gestured again, gentle, reassuring, as though coaxing a wild animal to him. Marduk eased his way across the chamber, the sphere growing until it consumed his vision. Gaps opened and closed, allowing longer glimpses past the net of light. Silence saturated the chamber.

At last. I knew you would return.

He stopped. His blood ran cold. That voice. He knew it. The same one which had haunted his dreams as a child.

"Did you hear that?" he asked, low, the silence oppressive, expectant.

Akara shook his head, eyeing Marduk as he took the final steps toward the sphere.

"It speaks to you?" Akara asked, soft.

Marduk clenched his jaw, gave a tight nod. "It began when I first came here with my mother on our return from exile. It is why I studied the philosophies, to cleanse myself of its taint."

Akara's gaze sharpened on Marduk. "Indeed?" He turned to look back at the prison, the flames of light encircling it slicing over its girth, harsh, angry, fighting their demise. He continued, quiet. "Why did you come here, my son?"

"I want to remove my father from the High Seat to save Uribi and the remaining worlds of the Deep from his tyranny. I hoped to gain the blessings of the sages."

Akara said nothing, though his silence spoke volumes. Condemnation bled from him. Marduk waited, shamed, uneasy. Now he had said his intention out loud, the ugliness of it screamed back at him. How would he be any less of a tyrant if he murdered his own father and took his throne? And yet, how else could he stop the inevitable without bloodshed?

"The lives of others are not ours for the taking." Akara's bland statement gilded the light-laced space. It faded, blotted out by the shards of immense dark clawing their way through the light.

Marduk clenched his fists. What did it matter what a learned sage thought? Once the prison failed, everything would change. He was a warrior, it was all he knew. All he had ever done was take lives, most of them innocent. He had not been given a choice. It had been thrust upon him—his duty to the empire and the throne. Even his mother had lavished praises on him for his successful campaigns, while pointedly ignoring the price he had had to pay, the nightmares which haunted him.

"You said there was something you wanted me to see," Marduk said. He tilted his head at the shearing undulations of the dark's cage of light. "I assume it was this?"

Akara didn't say anything for a long while, he stood, with his hands folded in front of him, content to watch the ebb and flow of the web of light as it wove and re-wove itself against the thick pulses of darkness. Then, just when Marduk thought to speak again, he said: "It needs something to live within. A vessel from which to achieve its ends. A half-divine pegagi was a bad choice. Us, however, how pliable we are with our pride, lofty ideals . . . intelligence."

Marduk cut a look at the sage, but Akara's attention remained fixed on the sphere. After several heartbeats of quiet, he continued: "The poor creature it corrupted has long since been consumed by the entity which once possessed it. Once the darkness breaks free, it will seek the first living creature it can find and enter it." His lips lifted in a soft smile. "I have determined that creature shall not be me."

Marduk tensed, Akara's words, though soft, bore into his soul, exposing his greatest fears, that all along he had been destined for this, ever since the day he had come here, full of innocence, a mere child, and was marked by whatever lurked within the light. He took a step back. "Neither will it be me. Lead me back out into the city. I will depart immediately. Let it find a rodent or insect instead."

"How I long to return to the light," Akara murmured. "I have done my part and waited for you, brought you here. To this." He lifted his bony hand as though to caress the sphere. Marduk yanked him back.

"Have you lost your senses?" he demanded. "You may choose to end your life if you wish, but first see me out of here. I shall not be its vessel. In this, at least, I have a choice."

Akara turned to face him. Resignation shrouded him. "My son," he said, gentle, "it is your destiny. It was written even before you were born, inscribed in the heavens from the beginning of time. You will be the embodiment of the greatest darkness imaginable. It is your purpose."

"My purpose?!" Marduk took another step backward, pulling the sage with him, out of reach of the hateful thing, which had tormented his thoughts and dreams for the last five thousand sars. "How could one such as you spout such nonsense? Your whole life you taught we are subject to free will, that it is our moral obligation to choose right—to be accountable." He jerked his head toward the sphere. "I would never choose this. Lord Akara, you have gone mad from solitude and hunger, and have lost your way. Come. Let us leave this accursed place. We will find—"

Akara succumbed to a violent spasm of coughing, the force doubling him over. "You will choose," he rasped as he wiped droplets of blood from his lips, "because only you are strong enough to control it."

"What do mean—control it?" Marduk cast a wary look behind him, eyeing the immense power holding the darkness within. Doubt plagued him. No mortal could control that.

"Soon it will be free," Akara said. "You can choose to flee Ishev and let it plough its way through one creature after another, traveling through the Deep leaving a swathe of ruin in its wake until it finds you and enters you against your will, or—" Akara glanced at the sphere and fell silent.

Akara's earlier opaque words replayed in Marduk's mind: You have come for one thing, but will leave with another. He eyed the sphere again, the darkness within called to him, soft, enticing, just as it had done when he was child. For a heartbeat, he considered the immense power he would possess, the intelligence, the near-immortality—with power like that he would easily be able to end his father's tyranny. No. He cut off the thought. The price would be too great. He met Akara's calm gaze. "It would destroy me within days."

"Only if you allowed it."

Marduk bit back a smile, flattered despite the incongruity of the statement. "It overcame a pegagi. A half-divine creature."

"The pegagi was taken against its will, its purity corrupted," Akara said. He turned and faced Marduk, intent. "My son, unlike the pegagi, there is in you an affinity for the dark. Did you not come here seeking to gain the blessing of the sages for the murder of your father—the rightful possessor of the high seat—with the intention to take his seat, yourself?"

Marduk blinked. "Lord Akara, I came in the hopes of saving my people, to return the sages to the temples, and to protect those innocents still alive in the Deep. It is my father who is dark, not I. If I do not intervene, everyone will die. Only I am powerful enough to stop him."

"Only you?" Akara asked, sharp. His expression hardened. "Do you believe there is no other power within the Deep which might intervene? Perhaps Uribi is meant to collapse, its long ages terminated so another empire might rise from its ashes. You speak as though only you possess the agency to control vast outcomes. Do you not perceive your arrogance?"

Marduk glared at Akara. Was the man dense? If he did nothing, everyone would die. Had the sage become so blinkered by his philosophies he would chastise Marduk for not remaining a puppet to his father, would encourage him to continue murdering innocents so his father and half-brother could feast and drape their lovers in gems for another hundred sars?

"It is not arrogance that drives me," Marduk answered, cold, "but necessity."

"Indeed?" Akara sniffed. "I tutored your father, watched him grow into adulthood. He does as he does, but without evil intent, he is short-sighted, greedy, a wastrel; a flawed, weak, vain man, but he is the firstborn son of Anu, and rightful heir to Uribi's power. You, however, possess something else, something other. Did you not come to Ishev for the sole purpose of seeking a blessing to commit both patricide and regicide? You present yourself as a savior, having decided the act of premeditated murder is justifiable, as though you are above the code of life which the rest of us must honor. Is that not the mark of true darkness of heart?"

Marduk said nothing, though a frost of anger sheathed him, sharp, dangerous. Akara ignored Marduk's narrow look and gestured toward him, continuing: "When you were born, a sample of your life code was taken to store in the Vault. During its transfer, they discovered an insidious malevolence, a taint of darkness hidden deep within the fundamental weave of your existence. It is why your father sent you and your mother away soon after you were born. He feared what you were. Then, once he gained the throne, he feared what would happen if he left you in exile. It is the only reason—"

Fury suffused Marduk. He raised his gloved hand, abrupt. "Cease."

Akara had the wisdom to obey. Marduk turned his back to the sage, his thoughts churning, chaotic, laced with rage. From within the gruesome tide, a memory shoved its way free, of the night he left Dseum to return to Uribi. His mother had said his future was to be the commander of the legions, to go into the Deep and secure resources for Uribi. At the time, he had been honored, yet how could she have been so certain of his ability to fulfill such a demanding role? He had only been alive for five sars, was barely out of infancy, far too young for anyone to yet know his strengths and weaknesses—unless she already knew what he was, what he was capable of. He turned again and stared at the sphere, the light seething, tormented, trapped in its scorching battle against the rising dark.

All his life he had been told he had been given the hateful task of murdering millions because he was the highest prince and it was his duty—instead it was because of what was buried within him, and because his father wanted him far away, doing his dirty work. He wondered if Dumuzi knew, if he laughed at Marduk's ignorance of his fatal flaw, cleverly repurposed to suit their needs.

Anger surged, a hot, flaming wave. For five thousand sars, he had been deceived, had been sent out devastate entire worlds because his mother and father believed that was all he was—a brutal, cold-blooded murderer, whose darkness could only be satiated by violence. Perhaps his father never intended for him to inherit the throne, perhaps he hoped his firstborn son would suffer fatal injuries during one of his distant campaigns, and conveniently relieve him of his unpleasant burden.

He clenched his fists. "When I was a child, my mother brought me here, to this so I would never realize the darkness in me has always been my own," he said, his throat tight with restrained rage. "She knew and let me suffer, alone and in darkness, never once revealing the truth so I might come to terms with myself. Instead, she let me believe it was this which had brought the disturbing visions to my dreams, and prompted my dark thoughts, instigating the constant battle I have waged within myself ever since." He turned back to Akara who waited, patient, his grime-stained fingers folded in front of him. "She witnessed my torment—the guilt of my very existence, and did nothing to help me, apart from encourage me to go out and ravage another world." He blinked back tears, her betrayal cutting him deep, emptying his soul. "She never loved me." He swallowed, his throat aching as realization slammed into him, and his heart spiraled into the brutal abyss of himself. "She feared me."

Oppressed by the weight of his awakening, he sank into a crouch, quaking, seeking to regain control of his grief, his anger. His attention fell to a deep crack in the floor, his gaze moved along its length from its beginning to end and back again, tracing its outline, over and over. Light and shadow chased one another along the rent.

Thoughts of his childhood swept through him, of when he was young; of his mother reading him stories before bed; of him leaping out at her during a game of hide and seek; of them planting a tree together in Dseum. He shoved them aside. His life with her had been a lie. She had been pretending to love him. There was nothing left for him. Not even his memories of her were true.

Akara coughed again, a raw, rough bark. He spat. Silence saturated the space once more, a cocoon, washed in mute brilliance.

Marduk looked up at the sphere, seeking the coil of darkness pushing its way into the crevices of light. It thrummed, calling to him, seductive, promising the power to achieve everything he sought. He had been born with an affinity for darkness, his fate written in the heavens. Despite his longing to do right, to walk in the light, he never would. Resignation saturated him. Akara had been right. He would choose this. He realized he wanted this. He was tired of fighting himself, of trying to be someone he was not, and could never be.

He rose. A thought struck him, faint, laced with hope. "If I take this upon me, will I be able to prevent worse things from unfolding in the Deep?"

"You will."

Marduk cut a look at the sage. "You said I would be able to control it."

Akara glanced at him. "The stronger your affinity to the dark, the greater will be your control."

Marduk absorbed Akara's words. "Then let us hope for everyone's sake I am as bad as everyone believes me to be."

Akara looked away, but not before Marduk caught the flicker of certainty in the other man's eyes. A stab of loneliness impaled him. Even Akara, a man he had revered his entire life was repulsed by him.

"So how must I do this thing?" he asked, seeking to change the subject, to shorten the distance between himself and the last man who would know him as he was, and not as he would be.

Akara rubbed the back of his hand against his cracked lips. Several pieces of skin flaked off. He nodded at the barrier between them and the unutterable darkness. "You have to go in."

"Like the pegagi?"

"No. This will be different."

"And what about you?"

Akara's gaze dropped to the weapons strapped to Marduk's armor. "You might do an old man a kindness and put him out of his misery. I would rather not be here when your transformation is complete."

"No," Marduk said. "I have enough innocent blood on my hands. Go to my ship. There is a regeneration device, if you—"

But Akara shook his head. "This is where my path ends, son. Yours would have been the more merciful end, but I understand I ask much of you, and will not do so again." He took hold of Marduk's shoulder and clasped it, though Marduk felt nothing through the metal of his armor. "Find love, if you can," he said, gentle, fatherly. "It will help ease your pain."

With a quiet nod to Marduk, he turned toward the blades of white light scything the surface of the sphere. Marduk longed to stop him, to reason with him, to force him to reconsider, to ask him to remain, his advisor, but as Akara moved toward the light, his steps certain, calm, Marduk divined Akara knew there would be no place for him in a world where the darkness roamed free.

Akara came to a halt, his fragile form a mere hairsbreadth from annihilation. Marduk sank to his knee and bowed his head, reverent, his heart tight, as the wisest of all Uribi's sages took the final step between life and death.

A surge of light washed over him. Marduk lifted his arm as it streamed past, blinding, cold, bathing him in waves of liquid brilliance, drowning the chamber in the light of one of the greatest souls ever to have existed. He squinted into the sphere. The blades of light pulsed, feeding on Akara's sacrifice. He wondered if there would be an explosion of light for him—or nothing but darkness. No. There would only be darkness. Hollowness eroded him. He rose, sorrow clawing at him, tears choking him. Total alienation saturated him.

A dull rumble rolled through the silence of Akara's dying light, sweeping out from beneath the sphere. Beneath his boots, the colossal ashlars of the chamber's floor juddered. The crack which had earlier occupied his focus widened and deepened. A silting of dust sleeted down between him and the sphere, as fine as a silken curtain. From within the passageway, the grind of an immense fracturing. A dense thud shook the chamber's foundations, followed by another. The tremor intensified, dragging Marduk sidewise into its grip. He staggered toward the sphere as the ashlar beneath him began to tilt, easing its weight into the crevice opening beside him. Another rain of pebbles and dust showered down, slamming into his head and shoulders. His eyes watering, he pushed his way toward the sphere, its light slashing hard and fast, chaotic, angry, caught in the turmoil of the shuddering chamber.

He reached the glaring curve of its seething meniscus and lifted his gloved hand toward it, as Akara had done, sensing the prison of light's immutable power, its existence reaching out from beyond the realm of his own reality. He hesitated, as another shear of ashlars collapsed behind him, both testing his will to follow through, and hoarding the last heartbeats of his existence to himself. The reticulated black metal sheathing his fingers glinted back at him, bearing bleak, jeweled beads of light. Beyond the hurtling, churning web of light, the dark within reached out to him, resonating with the part of himself he had never been able to overcome. A tendril moved within the light, it slithered toward him, huddling close to the barrier, calling to him, willing him to go on, to breach the distance. A shudder rippled through the sphere. Time slowed and the blistering sears of strafing light came to a halt. The chamber dimmed. The quake's tremors faded. A wall of silence surrounded him, broken only by his ragged breaths, loud in his ears. The tendril gathered its shorn remnants together, reforming into another shape, a male, wearing identical armor to his, bearing the same height and build, and its hair tied back at the nape of its neck, just like his own. His shadowy twin lifted its hand and reached toward the barrier, its fingertips only a breath away from Marduk's.

Its faceless features turned to him. The voice, familiar, seductive, the one he knew so well scathed the edges of his mind.

There is so much more for you than this.

Visions poured through him, a tsunami. Memories of a future tantalized him. He glimpsed two breathtaking women he would love beyond all reason. Their names came to him, from across the abyss of time and space. Zarpanitu. Ninsunu. His heart ached with longing for them as he tasted the bliss of the love they would share. He would not be alone after all. Worlds spread away before him, thousands of them. His power would be limitless. Even gods would not withstand him. He pulled his hand back and with a roar, thrust his hand through the barrier and claimed his destiny.