Ember climbed the ladder for what felt like hours, although in reality, it was probably no more than a minute. The rough wood dug into his hands as he went. There were no torches on this narrow ascent, just darkness above and the faint light below. The sword was gripped awkwardly in his right hand as he climbed. Every now and then, the edge tapped against his waist, and he flinched. It was cold. Very cold.

  His vision blurred as he climbed. Dizziness struck him constantly, and it took everything he had to move up each rung. At some point, his only thought was the feeling of wood on his hands, deciding to focus on that and the pain, then his thirst.

  After a few minutes, his head bumped against the top, and he started banging on what he hoped was a trapdoor. In his mind, he couldn’t help but worry that there was no one up there. That cyclops had said it’d been decades, at least, what he assumed was a cyclop, since it had been put down there. So what if nobody was up there?

  His heart stuttered at that thought, but he shook his head and kept banging. “Please, please, let there be someone up here. Please,” he muttered, his voice raw and lips cracked. His desperation bled through as he hit the door harder, his blows getting weaker, and the grip on his sword starting to slip. Finally, he heard the scrape of something against the wood above him. After several moments, it opened.

  Light flooded into the dark passage, and Ember had to close his eyes at the sting. After a few seconds, he cracked them open and saw a man staring down at him. The man wore white, elegant robes with a gold sword emblazoned on the front and gold clasps at the cuffs. He wore a white mask, and across it in a cross formation were two golden swords. Not a single bit of skin was visible besides his neck.

  The man stared at him. “Who are you?” he asked. His voice seemed young, but old at the same time. The mask gave it a strange, echoing warble effect.

  “Who am I?” Ember stuttered. “Who are you? What is this place? Where am I? How did I get here?”

  The man held up his hand. “Calm yourself.” He helped Ember out of the tunnel. His eyes went to the sword Ember held, and a small gasp escaped him.

  “You have pulled it. The sword within the crater.”

  Ember didn’t acknowledge the comment. He looked around and froze, his thirst and mental condition completely sapped away.

  At least a hundred people were on their knees, heads bowed to the floor. All of them wore the same robes, though none had gold—only silver or bronze. Their masks matched, and the swords on them were also silver or bronze. The silver-masked ones were closest to the raised dais they stood on. His mind tried to comprehend the abrupt change in location, and his skin crawled as he looked at the bowed people, children among them.

  The room itself looked just like the cathedral where he’d first found the sword: elegant white marble, a raised dais, and the pedestal where the sword would have rested, between Ember and the man in front of him. It was a stark contrast to the almost pure-black marble of the cathedral where he’d first appeared when he pulled the weapon. The torches burned with warm flame, and moonlight poured through a large glass roof. A cold wind blew through the open doors beyond.

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  The man dropped to his knees, clasped his hands in front of him, and bowed. “Oh, holy one,” he said. “Our Messiah. Our chosen one. You have finally arrived.”

  Ember just stared at him, trying to comprehend the sheer amount of strangeness being forced on him. “Messiah?” he said aloud. He laughed, the sound tinged with hysteria.

  Am I in a cult?

  “Of course,” the man said. “You have pulled the sword from the stone. The scriptures say the one who pulls it will be our Messiah. Our leader.”

  Ember’s mind reeled, his dry tongue struggling to make words. “Hold on,” he said. “What was that down there? That hallway? What was that? And who are you?”

  The man was silent for a moment before responding. “I am Jeremiah, the current leader of the Cratered Sword Order. What you just traversed was an artificial, man-made dungeon built by our forebearers, who discovered the sword centuries ago.”

  “The monsters?” Ember asked.

  “They were placed there to prevent the unworthy from approaching the weapon.”

  “Then what about the people in the room? In the sword room? They’re frozen to death. What about them?” By this point, his mind was clearer than it had been in hours.

  “Of course,” Jeremiah said. “They weren’t worthy to pull the sword. So naturally, they must repent for their soiled hands touching the holy relic.”

  “And death is the answer?” Ember’s voice jumped half a pitch. “You’re insane! What is wrong with you?”

  The man remained bowed before him. “Such is the way,” he said.

  “You’ve gone down there before? Have you been down there?”

  “Of course,” Jeremiah replied. “Every year, the religious leader must take a pilgrimage to the sword and then return.”

  “So you know there are just bodies down there—frozen and rotting corpses?”

  The man was silent for a moment, then said, “Such is the depth of our worship.”

  Ember stepped back. “You’re insane. You’re crazy. I can’t believe this.”

  What the fuck happened? Where am I?

  He looked at the people still bowed and then at Jeremiah. I’ve never been one to be selfless, but even I think letting people freeze to death and leaving the rotting corpses of monsters to poison the air in that tunnel is wrong.

  The man stayed crouched. “And now,” he said, “that you have pulled the sword, it is your destiny to lead us as our chosen one, to bring us to the promised land.”

  Ember shook his head, the sword trembling in his grip. “I don’t want anything to do with you people. You’re fucking crazy.”

  Jeremiah went rigid. “Then you won’t lead us?” he asked hesitantly.

  “No.”

  He knew he probably shouldn’t be so outright, but after what he’d seen and experienced, and knowing these people were directly responsible, he wanted nothing to do with them.

  The room stilled, only the sound of the flaming torches filling the silence.

  “I see,” Jeremiah said. He stood slowly. “Then it would seem our messiah is a fake, and he’s not the one to lead us to the promised land.” He paused. “And must be purged.”

  Ember’s heart dropped, and a chill crawled up his spine. He turned. All one hundred people were now staring at him, their emotionless masks terrifying.

  “Purged?” he stammered. “What do you mean by that?”

  The religious leader stepped forward. “Well,” he said, “the scriptures speak of a messiah who will come from the depths themselves and will lead us—to become something more than what we are. But you are not that messiah, clearly. And so, we must extract the sword from your grip and purge it of your essence.”

  The man nodded. “It is only right.”

  “Only right? What—” Ember tried to speak, but nothing came out, only squeaks. His mind was blank.

  Jeremiah started walking toward him. “Do not fear, fake messiah. We will put your body to good use fertilizing our gardens.”