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face of Death was hidden - but Mihn could feel His eyes, white-hot on his skin.

    The throne had iron braces hammered into its side, which held hundreds of sceptres, orbs and other royal accoutrements. Carelessly scattered on the stone floor below was a carpet of skulls and weapons, some shining with unnatural power, others ancient and corroded.

    Offerings for the dead , Mihn realised, tributes for the Final Judgment of those lost . He paused. W eapons thrown into lakes to find their way here, just as I was.

    All around the edge of the room were statues, some the size of a white-eye, others half again as large. The smaller appeared to be powerful men, lords and ladies, while the larger were Gods and their many Aspects - but so huge was the room that it still looked desolate despite the hundreds of figures. The interior was empty, adorned only by a massive square flagstone in the very centre of the floor, as black as Death’s own robe and echoed in every formal courtroom throughout the Land.

    He looked past the statues and noticed rounded protrusions jutting out from the wall. Distantly he could make out a low hum, deep and threatening. As he looked closer a shape moved at the top of one, darting out from an opening to rise up and disappear from sight - a black-winged bee, Death’s chosen creature.

    Now indistinct grey shapes moved slowly around the room. As Mihn tried to observe them, to make out a face or form, he realised they were being drawn inward towards the square in the centre: the spirits of the dead, making their reluctant way towards judgment.

    Mihn struggled to his feet, his balance again failing momentarily as he glanced up to the apex of the room and his senses failed to comprehend the room’s unreal proportions. The slap of his palm against the stone cut through the quiet and made him wince, but not even the Herald at his side appeared to notice. The eyeless, expressionless Herald stood tall beside him, giving the impression of watching over the entire room. Mihn wondered whether each drifting shade also felt the Herald at their side, or whether his not-quite-extinguished mortality made him a curiosity.

    No time to waste , Mihn reminded himself. Daima’s words of wisdom echoed in his mind: ‘ Don’t tarry - don’t think about what you’re doing. The Gods love a bold man and this isn’t a place for second thoughts.’

    He set off towards the black square, the Herald at his side still walking in perfect time. As he reached it Mihn caught a slight movement in his peripheral vision, a flutter of wings arcing down from the dark reaches of the hall’s roof: a stream of bats attending their master. Mihn had been to many places where the bat was sacred to the locals, considered the keepers of history and guardians of secrets. The bats were his messengers, the black bees his fearless warriors. The bees were impossible to fight, driven by a selfless will. They appeared only rarely in myth, but they were known to be remorseless when they attacked.

    As Mihn entered the black square a great weight fell upon his shoulders, dragging him, head bowed, to his knees. The presence of Death surged all around him, like black flames leaping from the stone. Dread filled Mihn’s stomach as the touch of that power drove the breath from his lungs. An excited chatter and click of bat-song raced all around him, assailing his ears before suddenly breaking off. He recoiled from the oppressive silence that replaced it, realising what would come next.

    ‘Mihn ab Netren ab Felith,’ Death intoned, His voice as deep and penetrating as the greatest of temple bells. ‘For what purpose do you come here? You stand between the lands of the living and the dead. A witch and one of the Chosen stand in your shadow, yet you kneel for judgment.’

    Mihn opened his mouth to reply, but the words would not come. He forced himself to swallow and breathe, ignoring the cold taste of ashes in the air. With an effort he managed to raise his