A golden throne. A figure on it, too bright to see, too dark to name. A figure in a box. A box that is a golden throne. A golden throne that is just a box. A man that is no longer a man. Something once human kept alive by the throne that surrounds him, seeing all, knowing all, reading the future and trying to forget the past. A mind isolated. A dark place. An old pict, the image of a son who was everything and nothing, and no way of knowing if the image was made before or after, because he looked the same before and after, and because time was crumpling like paper, and perhaps the before had been the after all along.

A wheatear. A birthplace.

Something untouchable. Someone too afraid to ever touch.

A man limping away into blackness, utterly alone, his back turned, carrying on, step after step, for a reason he can no longer remember.

A fire.

An ancient city on the edge of a desert. Everything golden with the haze of dust. A shadow city beyond it, a twin. One place that was two, two that were one. An extimate metropolis.

A city of learning. A city of knowledge. A place of Cognitae.

A City of Dust.

Another king. Another throne. All in yellow. Fire and dust.

Eight waiting. Eight points. Eight shots.

Blood. Inheritance.

The King beckons. Cyclopean daemons, too vast to comprehend, kneel at his throne in chains and fealty, whispering un-words.

Chirring like insects.

Like ticking clocks.

Like cackling light.

Like crackling fire.

‘You’re here now.’

A voice.

‘Isn’t this where you want to be? Where you’ve been walking to your entire life? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?’

Eisenhorn opened his eyes. Dust fogged his vision. His mouth was full of sand.

He was face down.

He hauled himself up, spitting and coughing, trying to clear the dust from his throat. The light around him was golden and fogged with powder. A haze.

‘The city’s right here,’ said the voice. ‘You’re at the gates.’

‘W-which city?’ Eisenhorn could barely speak.

‘The City of Dust,’ said the voice. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m right here too,’ said the voice.

Eisenhorn looked up. The figure looked down at him.

‘Hello, little thing,’ said Cherubael.

‘Why are you here?’ asked Eisenhorn. ‘How–’

‘You called me,’ said Cherubael. ‘I came because you called me.’

Eisenhorn tried to stand. The daemonhost reached down to help him.

‘Don’t touch me!’

Cherubael looked hurt.

‘But… you called me,’ he said. ‘To help you. That’s what you always do. That’s why you made me. In the end, you see, I’m the only friend you’ve got. Which says a lot, I think you’ll agree.’