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For the moment, one thing stood beyond doubt. The Twisted Primarch had emerged into the Mortal Realm, and it had swallowed the Empire’s capital whole. Ketal had confirmed the result with his own eyes; what he could not yet grasp was the method. He lacked the precise sequence, the hinge and lever by which the Primarch had reached across and made the city into itself.
“When did it eat this place?” he murmured, more to fix the thought than to seek an answer.
The Empire was the strongest force on the Mortal Realm, yet it had fallen into a Primarch’s hand without any of its people realizing it. More troubling still, there had been no sign of the Twisted anywhere outside the capital.
Perhaps he had missed some trace, but when he set the ruin of Magna Rain beside the stillness of the Empire, the pattern suggested a being that had only just begun to widen its reach. That slowness was strange. By power alone, the Twisted could have eaten half the Mortal Realm in a week if it felt leisurely; that was the conservative measure, the sort of estimate one offered to calm another’s heart.
“The Tower Master left for the Empire two weeks ago,” Ketal recalled.
No word had come from him since. If Ketal set those facts together, he had to assume the capital had been taken at least two weeks earlier. He touched his jaw and thought in plain lines.
“Then there is a limit on it,” he decided. “Something binds its hand.”
He needed information. He could not fight what he could not name. He needed...
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