Lornyc is good at keeping secrets, because secrets can get you killed.
Lornyc thought it was bad enough that the Cerulean Cult had made him a living god, but now they’ve set loose an entity that is tearing through the dimensions with the potential to cause chaos. He wouldn’t have thought it his problem but the guardians of the multiverse, the Valen, have decided otherwise.
Along with Methian and his own Valen Caveer Guards, Lornyc faces a race through multiple alternative realities if he doesn’t want to be extinguished.
Previously published, this second edition has been edited and reworked for release.
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Halm Grosvenor closed the door to shut out the bickering of the novices. He leant against his office wall, enjoying the first peace he’d known all morning. Not that the bickering wasn’t good. In fact, some of the younger men were exceptional—they’d really embraced the spirit of the Solemn Squabble—but a man could only bear so much. He still had a vivid scratch on his forearm where he’d stepped in to stop things getting physical between two enthusiastic women who had been in a heated debate on the merits of Katramanian wine.
The pile of letters on his desk threatened to topple, and Halm knew he had a long afternoon ahead sorting through them. He had no cause to complain. The membership was growing by the hour with new followers desperate to join their calling, to worship The One—he who would ignite the orbs. And the donations! He couldn’t get his head around the numbers yet, but he knew they’d never seen anything like it. The Holy Profit would have been very pleased.
Halm pushed off the wall, removed his large blue hat in the shape of a ball, placing it onto its stand on the sideboard. He gave it a fond pat, plucking a strand of his own blond hair from its surface, and, smiling lovingly at the hat, gave it one final stroke.
He poured a glass of water from a jug on his desk and sipped to relieve the dryness in his throat from the dust that hung in the air from the ongoing building work. Although he wouldn’t say anything to the other priests so they wouldn’t accuse him of being negative, Halm was surprised at the progress being made. At this rate, the builders might be finished by the end of the week.
Humming under his breath, Halm lifted the lid of the teak box that sat on a pillar in the corner of his office and flicked a feather duster over the most sacred item owned by the Cerulean Cult. Not even the Scroll of Direction, handwritten by the Holy Profit himself, was as important. Taking a second to enjoy the view, Halm sighed, happiness spreading through him as he closed the box. He moved around his desk, almost tripping over the hem of the ceremonial gown he had worn every day since his appointment, even though his second-in-command had told him, somewhat snottily, that it was supposed to kept for special occasions.
Sitting at the desk, Halm ignored the stack of unanswered letters and instead focused on the important invite he had to send. He sucked on the end of the pen as he tried to find the right words. Coherent sentences refused to form. He grimaced as he reread his first attempt, then crumpled it into a ball, and threw the offending item into the bin. Several hours passed before he put down his pen, pleased with the wording. Now all he had to do was hope The One would agree to attend the Sanctification Ceremony. If he didn’t, Halm didn’t have the first clue how to break the terrible news to the congregation.