Rake grunted. 'You are not alone with those sentiments, Eldering One.'

'Do I follow in your steps, Lord? Do I seek out new battles, new games to play in the company of Ascendants? Are you rewarded in spirit for your efforts?'

'Sometimes,' Rake said quietly. 'But mostly, no, I am not.'

The hooded face turned to the Tiste Andii. 'Then why?'

'I know no other way of living.'

'I have no means of assisting you this night, Anomander Rake. I am manifest in this sanctified place, and manifest in a lone mortal's dreams, but nowhere else.'

'I will do my best, then,' Rake said, 'to avoid damaging your temple.'

K'rul bowed, then vanished.

Alone once again, Rake turned his attention to the street below. An apparition arrived. It paused to sniff the air, then began changing – veering. A Lord of the Galayn, and a Soletaken.

'Well,' the Lord of Moon's Spawn growled, 'so am I.' The Tiste Andii spread his arms wide, then rose upward. Kurald Galain sorcery swirled around him, blending his clothing, his massive sword, drawing all inward to the shape he now climbed towards. The veering was smooth, eloquent, as jet-black wings unfolded from his shoulders. Flesh and bone surged in size, changed in shape.

As he flew higher, eyes fixed on the stars, Anomander Rake became a black dragon, silver-maned and dwarfing even Silanah. His eyes gleamed silver, the vertical slits of the pupils dilating. His breath gusted in heavy grunts, the snap of his wings loud amid the deep groan of muscle on bone. His chest swelled to draw in the cold, dry air, and power filled his being.

Rake climbed ever higher, slipping through a stray cloud that scudded in darkness over the city. When he finally tilted his wings forward and caressed the surface of a wayward wind, he looked down on a city that glimmered like a mottled copper coin at the bottom of a pellucid pond.

Sorcery flared occasionally, centred mostly in the Estate District, and Rake sensed death within those emanations. He considered the message delivered by Serrat, courtesy of a foul mage he'd thought a thousand leagues away. Was the sorcery the work of these unwelcome intruders? He rumbled in frustration – he would deal with them later. Before him now was a battle. The Empress and her Empire had challenged him again and again, wilful in the desire to test his strength. Each time he'd withdrawn, unwilling to commit himself. Very well, Empress, my patience is at an end.

The membrane of his wings tautened, the joints creaking, as he grunted a straining breath. He hung almost motionless for a second studying the great city beneath him. Then, tucking in his wings, Anomander Rake, the Son of Darkness and Lord of Moon's Spawn, plummeted.