Page 86 of Hell's Secret Omega

Those who want to leave eagerly pile supplies into packs—food, weapons, clothing. What waits for them is a long, dangerous walk out of Hell, across the bridge and into Earth’s wastes. Beyond that, vast uncertainty. Soldiers who’ve beento the battlefield two, three, ten times walk with a swagger, banding together in clumps. Those who’ve never left the Court trickle after them with less confidence. There’s sure to be further splintering of the companies on the road. What had Sabinus said?Spread across the human lands and steal their cities.

Somehow, watching the hall buzz with frenetic energy, Cyrus doubts his prophecy.

The company sets off once dawn breaks. Cyrus is antsy, unable to sleep. He shoulders his own pack and tries to attach himself to the tail of the group, but Claudius drags him to the middle.

“Front’s where you get swallowed by chimeras. Back, you get left behind in a sandstorm. Middle’s where to be.”

“How do you know? You’re a blacksmith,” Cyrus mutters, but he follows Claudius anyway, swinging the bow over his chest and falling into step.

Claudius gives the bow and quiver an odd look, but says nothing. Just like he’s said nothing about Cyrus’s obvious scent, so different from the others, or the fact that he’s no longer accompanied by either a rok or a shepherd god.

Cyrus spares a moment to be thankful.

The rest of the time he’s deeply focused on the tiny thread of the bond that still floats in the sea of his soul.

As long as the bond still exists, Mezor is alive.

Soon, maybe even any moment, the bond will flicker out and his mate will be gone. The thought makes him want to claw out his own insides. Maybe it’s better the bond is faint. He’ll survive when it breaks. But a not-so-small part of him doesn’t want to survive this.

The only thing keeping him going is knowing Mezor would be furious if he gave up.

The company winds through the mid-levels of the Court, then up the processional hallways. It’s the third time Cyrushas made the journey to the peak. Once as a victor of the tournament, a naive soul with no idea what the future held for him. Once as a prisoner. Now he’s free, though that freedom feels hollow. The wide, open halls lined with statues hold no beauty for him.

As they leave the upper levels behind, the hallway begins to spiral upward. Windows wink into existence on the outer wall, tall and narrow. Light from Earth’s dawn sparks against the dust hanging in the air. A hush falls over the demons. They fall into step. Light and shadows play over the company, leaving them in a limbo—an in-between realm. Not Hell, not Earth.

Cyrus reaches deep down, searching for proof of Mezor’s tenuous connection to life. It seems to grow fractionally stronger.

One foot in front of the other.

At the top of the processional walk, the path splits in two. One path leads back into the mountain—to the Hellspring. The other will take them to the bridge that spans the gap between the peak of Mount Hythe and the wastes of Earth.

The path to the Hellspring is dark. Cyrus pauses. Something niggles at him.

Claudius stops with him. “Still thinking about it? Leuther’s probably nothing but bones at the bottom of the lake.”

“Do you feel it?” Cyrus wonders, peering into the dark. Cold drifts out of the hall. A deep, bone-chilling cold.

“Feel what?”

He shakes himself. “Never mind.”

It’s not until they’re at the bridge, staring out over the grey nothingness, that it comes to him.

Hollows.

It takes all his will not to sprint back down the long path. If the hollows are there, the King is there.Mezor is there.

This changes nothing, he tells himself, but his every muscle pulls taut as a bowstring. His heart bursts into waking. Mezor is still alive, and he’s here, where Cyrus is. Surely it’s more than just coincidence. Surely fate has something to do with it.

Crossing the bridge will take three days. Fog gathers at the close end, obscuring much of the bridge from view. Amid the company there are murmurs that violent storms swirl around the middle and beasts lay in wait to hunt them while they cross. The bridge itself is made of glass that glitters with an inner light—“Seraphim glass,” says Claudius, nodding knowingly.

Cyrus is skeptical. “Angels made it?”

“They used it to escape Hell after the cataclysm. I’d recognize this stuff anywhere. Not much of it left in Mount Hythe—but I came across a few pieces as a blacksmith. It’s harder than steel and sings when you hit it. Some demons think it’s good luck. Others think it’s poison.”

“Which do you believe?” Cyrus asks, stepping onto the bridge. It hums faintly under his feet.

“Anything made by a creature with a soul can be luck or poison. Just depends who you ask.” Claudius shrugs.

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