The voices echoed through the cavernous interior of the Crescent, softly spoken but clearly audible. Book’s halting, agonised tones were easily recognised as he stumbled his way through a recitation of Risen scripture. The other voice was surprising in its humanity, lacking the unnatural resonance Pilgrim expected.

“Yes,” it said, faint with reflection. “That was it. Tell me, are you a good man?”

“I-I…serve the Church of the Risen…”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

The scream was the loudest yet, a familiar high-pitched shriek that only came from burning. It lasted long enough for Pilgrim and Seeker to make their way from the entrance and into a matrix of diagonal pillars. He gestured for her to stop at the sight of an expanse of bare stone ahead. It lacked any features. No statues, no throne for the Mad God to sit upon. Just a long avenue empty save for the two figures in its centre. Above them rose the complex mesh of beams and pillars that kept this impossible structure in being. Pilgrim assumed the way even softly spoken voices echoed effortlessly through it all must be a deliberate artefact of its design.

To Pilgrim’s surprise, Book was on his feet rather than lying in a crumpled state on the floor. From the way his sagging, terrorised features stared at the black-robed man standing a few feet away, it was clear he was being kept upright by virtue of another’s will. Book’s arms were outstretched, smoke rising from the swirling red marks in his flesh, the scent of charred meat pervading the air with sickening sweetness.

“The First Advisory of the Second Risen,” said the man in the black robe after a moment’s contemplation. He was tall but not excessively so, his frame athletic but not mighty. He wore a peppercorn beard on a face that appeared to be that of a handsome man in early middle age, his black hair streaked with silver swept back from a smooth forehead. His robe was plain and he wore no regalia of any kind. “I always liked that one,” he added, flicking a hand at Book.

“A w-wise man…” Book choked as he coughed the words out, spittle flying from his lips as he tried not to retch at the stench of his own burnt flesh, “doth not look…” He paused, swallowing hard, features bunching in terrorised anticipation, “…look to gods for succour or…s-salvation…” He tried to speak on but his terror overtook him, leaving him shuddering as piss flooded the floor around his feet.

“No salvation from gods, eh?” the man in the black robe repeated, lips pursed and eyebrows raised. “I can’t say I disagree with that one. In fact,” he stepped closer to Book, frowning as he inspected his face, “I think it so important it should be inscribed upon your very skull, my faithful friend.”