Zephaniah pulled the map from the metal tube; she held it up, comparing the symbols etched into the glass above the door with the pattern on the skin. They matched. “This is the library,” she said, craning her neck to look at the top of the pyramid. It was topped with a cap of solid gold. “The proportions are wrong,” she said suddenly, stepping back to look at the doors. “The handles are set too high and the doors are unusually tall.”

Prometheus nodded. “And the steps are too shallow,” he said.

“This city was not built for creatures like us,” Zephaniah added.

“But for whom… or for what?” he wondered.

“The Ancients?” Zephaniah suggested.

“Not them: they resembled us to some degree. Legend has it that this city was created for the Earthlords.”

“What did they look like?”

Prometheus shrugged. “No one knows. None survived the last battle, and all record of them was erased from history.” Pulling two short double-headed axes from his belt, he stepped up to the door of opaque black glass and pushed hard, expecting it to be stiff with age.

It swung silently open.

Prometheus quickly stepped inside and put his back to the wall, waiting until his eyes had adjusted to the gloom. Zephaniah remained outside and pulled a coiled metal whip from around her waist. If there was anything inside, she didn’t want to get in her brother’s way, and it was her duty to protect him.

“I’m not sure this is the right place…” Prometheus’s voice echoed. “There are no books here, just statues. Hundreds-no, thousands of them.”

A flicker of movement at the edge of the forest caught Zephaniah’s attention. A branch had shifted slightly, moving against the wind rather than with it.

“I think we’ve got company,” she said quietly. And then her nostrils flared as she caught the distinctive smell of anise, the odor of her brother’s aura. “Prometheus?”

“Statues,” he repeated, his voice growing fainter as he moved away from the door

“Prometheus…”

“They look like they’re made of clay…”

The smell of anise was stronger now, and when she glanced over her shoulder, Zephaniah caught the dull red glow of her brother’s aura from within the darkened building. But how was that possible? For the past few days neither of them had been able to bring their auras alight. Gripping the whip tightly in her right hand, she backed in through the open door, then turned… and stopped in horror.

Prometheus was standing in the middle of an enormous room. His axes had fallen to the ground and his arms were stretched straight out, his head thrown back. His aura was ablaze, streamers of fire coiling off his skin, his hair and beard crackling with static. Liquid fire puddled around his feet, and his outstretched fingers and thumbs spat tiny lightning bolts. His eyes burned like red-hot coals.

And he was surrounded by statues.