The threshold between the southern gallery and the Senate of Skulls was marked by a line of crushed white chalk, drawn five hundred years ago to separate the living world from the assembly of the dead.
Ren Vale stood three inches before the chalk line, his boots rooted to the black iron flat stone slabs.
His left arm hung in its rigid horn-and-resin sling, the healing fracture aching with every pulse of his blood. But that physical throbbing was nothing compared to the violent, shearing storm raging inside his skull.
To confront the five hundred dead patricians of the Synod, Ren had pushed his summon manifestation to its total upper limit. Three autonomous selves stood outside the Speculum at the same time: Lord Ren, the Ash Emperor. Vane Vale, the Merchant of Guilt. And Necro-Scribe Ren, the Bone Notary.
The body penalty was terrifying.
Mental Friction—the second-phase warning of the Speculum—was tearing through Ren’s mind like three opposing tidal currents colliding in a narrow river mouth.
The sense bleed-through was intoxicating and painful in equal measure.
In his left ear, Ren heard the roar of catapults and the thundering crash of iron battering rams against stone gates. Memories of the Siege of Karst that belonged solely to Lord Ren, the Ash Emperor. His tongue tasted bitter ash and scorched horseflesh, and for a fleeting second, his fingers twitched with the ruthless urge to order an entire rebellious province put to the sword.
