Lacrimosa, his wife of silver scales, beautiful and deceiving. Agnus Dei, the red dragon who'd attacked her in the ruins of Requiem. Kyrie Eleison, the cub, the boy who'd gored her leg with his horn.
"I will kill them," Gloriae vowed, urging the nightshades onward. "Destroy the world if you must. But destroy them with it. I command you."
As they hissed and howled, Gloriae sensed that she commanded nothing of their actions. They were humoring her. So be it, she managed to think even with her soul splintered across countless of these beings. So be it.
"So long as the Vir Requis die, I've done my job."
Slumped in the throne back at Confutatis, the body of Gloriae twitched, clenched its fists, and smiled.
DIES IRAE
Dies Irae awoke to pain.
He tried to open his eyes, but only one would open. His left eye blazed in agony, and when Dies Irae brought his fingers to it, they touched bandages. More bandages covered his arm, which hurt too—the pain of fire.
What had happened? He could not remember. He could barely remember his name. Grunting, he moved his head, though it shot stabs of pain through him, and looked around. He lay in a Sun God temple. Candles covered the floors and walls, a golden disk shimmered behind an altar, and priests in white masks moved about, chanting.
"Lord Irae," spoke one priest, kneeling above him. The man wore all white—white robes, a white hood, and a white mask. "The Sun God has woken you."
Dies Irae struggled to push himself up on his elbows. The priests had placed him upon white marble tiles. Dies Irae grunted. Couldn't they have given him a bed? But Sun clerics had always been an odd lot; powerful, yes, but strange of ways.
"How long was I unconscious?" Dies Irae asked. It felt like a long time. His memories were still fuzzy. He remembered riding out on Volucris, the prince of griffins, but little else.
The priest bowed his head. "Seven days of glory, your lordship, and seven nights of tribulation."
"Seven days!" Dies Irae said, feeling the blood leave his face. He struggled to his feet. The cleric watched silently. When he was standing, Dies Irae found that his knees shook. He had to lean against a column. A servant brought him a bowl of soup, and Dies Irae wanted to wave it aside, then changed his mind and took the bowl. He drank deeply. Hot beef broth.
"Seven days," he repeated softly. What in the Sun God's name had knocked him out so soundly? He frowned, and the movement made his left eye scream in pain. He felt blood trickle down his cheek, and he tasted it on his lips.
The taste brought the memories back. They hit him like a blow, so hard he dropped the bowl. It cracked, spreading broth across the floor like blood.
Benedictus.
His brother.
"Yes, you did this to me, brother," Dies Irae whispered. "You thrust jagged metal into my eye. You burned me. You—"
Dies Irae froze.
He reached for the amulet that would always hang around his neck. The Griffin Heart. The tamer of griffins.
It was gone.
The weredragons had taken it.
Rage blazed in Dies Irae, stronger than the pain. Dies Irae swung his left arm, the iron mace arm. He knocked down a candlestick. When a servant ran to lift the candle, Dies Irae swung the mace at him too. The mace hit the boy's head. Dies Irae heard the crack of the skull, a beautiful sound. He had missed that sound. The boy fell to the floor, head caved in and bleeding.
"They took the Griffin Heart," Dies Irae said, turning to stare at the priest.
The priest nodded.
Dies Irae stared silently, trembling. Then he marched to the doorways and burst outside. He was barefoot and clad in temple robes, but he didn't care. He had to see Gloriae. He had to see his daughter.
Outside the temple, more pain awaited.
The city lay crumbled and burning around him. In the twilight, Dies Irae saw nightshades flowing across the skies, toppling forts and towers. Three nightshades flew toward a towering, gilded statue of himself, of a young Dies Irae with two arms and both eyes. As he watched, the nightshades toppled the statue. It fell and crushed a house beneath it.
Dies Irae laughed.
He wanted to rage, to scream, to kill. But he only laughed.
The priest stood behind him, silent. Dies Irae addressed the man. "I'm wounded in battle. One week later, my griffins are gone, the weredragons have escaped, and the nightshades have fled the Well