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From Gaskell’s hip, a streak of black lightning ran in reverse. Gaskell waved the sword he’d drawn at the stone statue as if threatening it.

“Such must be the case, O Sacred Ancestor. State it plainly. Tell me we were resurrected to slay D, not reborn to be slain by him. No, I shall prove as much soon enough—once Rocambole has carved out D’s heart and lopped off his head. The man has gained three lives. Not even D is a match for him. By now, he’ll have taken the last—absorbed a fourth life—and become a fearsome, invincible swordsman.”

At some point, his tone had become desperate. Was this the voice of one of the generals feared as the most ferocious in history?

He kept his silence for a moment before crying, “Sacred Ancestor!” His words were nearly a prayer.

Above him, he sensed a movement. Looking up, Gaskell gasped.

The statue’s hand came down, its worn fingers still tightly grasping the stone slate. As if to say, Read it.