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snow and dark with challenge as he paused at its base to gaze at its peak. It was said that Shiva the destroyer lived at its summit—but then again, it was also said that Buddha made this place his home.
    The reality was far more frightening. This mountain symbolized the divine because the truth slept, vanquished, deep inside. But Moros could feel Chaos even now, a vague muddiness ebbing his will, an uncertainty chipping away at his resolve, a confusion pricking at his sense of mission—the Blade of Life waited within, he hoped, and that was what he had come for. It was the only reason he would ever venture so near the resting place of this ancient enemy.
    “I’d best get this over with,” he muttered, appearing briefly in the real world to let the wind whip his hair. He’d changed into a plain T-shirt and leather pants, all the easier for scrambling over rocks. He closed his eyes and pictured an image drawn in one of his faded scrolls, a door carved into a rock face, etched with ancient symbols—the entrance to the old battleground where his mother had finally cornered Chaos and bent him to her will. Before long, he stood in front of it, his thoughts having carried him through miles of solid rock to where the gods had hollowed it out.
    He laid his palm against the damp, cool stone, running his fingers along an image of his mother, her eyes blazing and her mouth set, wielding a thin blade against the god who had subjugated the world, kept it from being what it was meant to be. As in the ancient texts, here Chaos was half man, half monster, horns jutting from his massive head like a bull’s, several sets of arms sprouting from his body, all with massive hands reaching out to crush the goddess determined to slay him.
    Because no text included images of what lay behind the door, Moros couldn’t simply will himself inside, so he stepped into the Veil and pushed his way through the barrier of rock. It was thick and suffocating, crushing him in an unwelcome embrace. But a moment later he stumbled out the other side to find a massive, soaring tomb. In the always-gray Veil, he could easily make out the sheer face of rock split down the middle, rising as high as a mountain itself, with a small plateau about several hundred feet up.
    He could also easily feel the evil presence within. Even safe within the Veil, he could hear it breathing, and with every intake of air, Moros felt his thoughts scattering, as if Chaos were sucking away his reason, his memory. Raw fear ran through him. Could Chaos sense him here? Was the god already growing stronger as the fabric of fate frayed?
    Not wanting to spend one extra moment here, he staggered toward the ancient tomb. He had to reach that high plateau—because sitting on its edge, barring the entrance, was a carved stone casket. It probably held the weapon he’d come for. His mother had pulled a curtain of rock closed and left the Blade of Life there, ready to be used again if the need ever arose.
    Moros imagined plunging it into Eris’s chest, and savage joy quickened his steps. With the Blade, he could kill all of them. And even if they succeeded in awakening the sleeping god in his mountain tomb, Moros would have a chance of defeating him. He then reached the edge of the Veil, for this tomb existed in one of those hidden pockets, a realm within the realm that could never be reached from the real world. He ran his palm along the dull, slippery surface and then stepped through, right at the base of the rock face. The soaring chamber was filled with an eerie green glow, emanating from somewhere deep in the mountain above him.
    Stale air rushed past him like it was trying to pull him up the cliff, toward the crack in the rock and then through it, right into the jaws of his enemy. Steeling himself, Moros began to climb the sheer, rough rock, his mind focused on the Blade. His bare fingers found every handhold as he pulled himself higher, his breath rushing sure and strong from his lungs.