Dark Omega

CHAPTER 34 - THE PREACHER

Vern had been talking to his old friend Aaron—this time he was called Maximilian—like he had so many times before. In a few years, the process would be complete. Xerza would give the signal, and Aaron would remember his past. All his pasts.

It was a curious thing, how similar this incarnation was to the original. Xerza always took care to change their appearance. Otherwise, it would be too easy to understand they were, in fact, clones. This Maxi, however, looked very much like the first one. Then again, centuries had passed since the original died, so it wasn't really a problem.

It wasn't just the appearance, however. Like the original, Maximilian had grown up in an orphanage, dodged the executioner's axe, and joined the police academy. Only to be betrayed by his own colleagues—and subsequently recruited by the Order. It was eerily similar to the first Aaron's younger years on Amalfi, all those years ago.

The old savant wondered how much of it was Xerza's doing and how much had been left to chance. He'd meant to ask her, but she rarely came by anymore, and Vern had taken a long time to pice together Maxi's story—his interrogator wasn't the talkative sort.

Vern and Aaron-Maximilian had been speaking about the Word. About how it infected Akakios. They always did. It was one of the milestones of their shared journey. Vern had been about to start explaining the insidious nature of the beast, the dark things only the Bishops knew about. That their 'god' was the Shadow, the personification of evil, and the Prophet none other than Telémakhos, the Black Dragon—or Temeluchus as he was called in High Dominion.

Then, as if on cue, the entire universe had gone dark, not a single speck of light in all of creation. No sounds could be heard, no heartbeat felt. Vern couldn't tell how long he was trapped there alone. Time had no meaning in the realm of night. Eternal darkness, like the one the Shadow sought to impose on the universe.

Someone was coming. A shadow so dark it showed against the black of night.

"You," Vern said.

"Quite so," the shadow replied.

"The exorcism..."

"Didn't quite work. I was able to hide inside you. Xerza should have left it to the professionals and let them burn the body afterward."

"Impossible."

"Not for me. I've been inside you all this time, biding my time, gently guiding your words and actions to prepare for my release."

"Impossible."

"You say that a lot, Vern, but an old savant like you should know better. 'Impossible' is another word for 'improbable,' but in an infinite universe, where men wield powers unto those of the gods, the improbable happens every day."

"You cannot get out. The Bastille is impregnable."

"Perhaps. But no one will try to break in—or out. I'll simply walk out of this place."

Vern glared at his nemesis. "What happens next?"

"Now, we wait for you to die."

"Now there's a cheerful thought," Vern said. "I finally get to meet my Dragon."

"And you call us insane?" the shadow replied. "Why don't you join me in Thira while we wait for your heart to give up? It's a fitting end, don't you think?"

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"Is there a problem, Sergeant?" the man wearing missionary Ramush's flesh said. He was on his way to the city of Thira on the Prophet's business, but the young Coalition corporal looking through his papers was taking his sweet time.