The Third God Chapter 2: Two Steps Back

At that moment, more than anything, Orion wanted to kill those who deserved to die.

The three companions trudged onward, or rather two and one outside, with ash rising to their shins, wading through a charred, gray-black mud that hurt their throats and cracked their lungs. They had strayed far from the main routes, avoiding the risk of failing as subjects should they run into a patrol. Though there were roads and cities in the kingdom, and despite the abundance of fertile land, this region was merely a vast lake of ash, whipped into clouds and waves by dark winds. Nearby, two small, moody volcanoes stood. They could have been remnants of anything — forests, cities, rocks, or people. All reduced, undone, cleaned, made homogeneous by some absurd fire. The three raised their feet, fearing they might suddenly sink into some hidden depth. Legs ached, backs hurt. But Orion pressed on, covered in soot, unwavering, feeling closer and closer to whoever needed to die.

"That's enough," Darien said, rolling over in a coughing fit. "This is madness; you are madness. How many hours have we gone without stopping?"

Ingram halted and turned back, trying to wipe the ash from his mustaches, giving him an icy demeanor.

"It was your tip, boy."

"We don't know when—"

"Logo."

Darien steadied his chest with his open hand, searching for fresh air. "I didn't ask to come along," he panted.

"I could ask if you preferred your life the way it was," Ingram growled, a smile creeping onto his lips. "I could even say that you owe it to Orion. But the truth is, if it's a trap, brat, we'll drag you into the wolf's mouth too."

"I already said it's not—"

"Once a traitor, always a traitor."

Darien fell silent. Ingram Brassbones remained for a moment, his gaze fixed on Darien with eyes full of distrust. He was a dwarf, stocky and strong as a grenade, and the ash reached almost to his waist. Blonde mustaches framed a clean-shaven chin, a black hood concealed his head, and a rifle rested on his back. Pistols hung from his belt, and a large traveling bag housed his precious gunpowder, a tool for building and destroying.

The two paid attention, and Orion continued without losing a step. He hadn't argued, not even ordered anyone to shut up. He pressed forward, his thick beard covering his closed mouth, fine eyes squinting against the pinprick of ash, in a transcendental obstinacy. Ingram sighed, coughed, and followed.

"How could I have prepared a trap here?" Darien said, regaining the distance.

"I'm sure you can find someone to sell yourself to anywhere in the Kingdom."

Eyes burned with ash and contempt.

They were in Sckharshantallas, the Dragon Kingdom — which, Ingram had to admit, was as far from home as any of them had ever been, in any sense. A place governed by discipline and fire under the red dragon Sckhar, king of his race, worshipped as a god and one of the most powerful creatures in Arton. In Sckharshantallas, there was satisfaction, there was respect and love. There was even happiness, and wealth. The people lived in a comfortable iron cell, handcuffed with gold shackles, as long as they did not provoke the chains. The kingdom was an aquarium, a potted plant for its ruler — his domain, his toy, his property. The inhabitants supported and protected him as long as they remained interesting and ornamental. The nation, a member of the Kingdom, was merely the great lair of the Dragon King. Owner of everything he saw, Sckhar imposed rigid and arbitrary laws, but fair in his own way, as a lord might do within his castle, or a mother within her home.

"I bet it was all several farms until Sckhar got angry about something," Ingram said, falling into step with Orion.

The other did not respond, his gaze fixed ahead, devoid of emotion, marching to kill.

Covered in ash, Orion Drake didn't appear much different than usual. A man already gray, with long gray hair and a beard of steel, stone eyes and straight brows. His back was vertical and inflexible, supporting massive shoulders that bore the weight of the world. A knight by destiny, vocation, and birth, he was a land lord under the banner of the Crow, a member of the Order of Light, a general, a war hero, and a leader against the Storm. Bastard, bastard. He was without his son, kidnapped by his criminal father, and without his wife, who had left him. All the guilt in his life and others formed a hard lump in his chest. But his wall-like posture did not change, nor did his voice emerge.

All was kept inside until correcting his own and others' mistakes, until killing those who deserved to die. Even Ingram now showed signs of fatigue.

"The rogue is right about one thing, Orion," the dwarf said. "We've been walking since dawn. Soon, we'll no longer be able to see anything in this burned desert. Face forward; march."

"What do you say we rest for today?"

March.

"Orion!"

He stood still, eyes locked on his friend, almost as if he were an enemy.

"Is Black Skull dead?" asked Orion Drake.

Ingram snorted, biting his lip.

"Then we continue."

There was a castellan, a stablemaster, a captain of the guard, a huntmaster, and a falconer; even a keeper of the kitchens, a master of coin for treasures and expenses, and a chaplain for spiritual tranquility. But there was no fool. "The jester of this court is me," said Orion.

The herald covered his comment with a prolonged clearing of his throat. The lords and ladies in the throne room pretended not to notice, and Orion Drake kept his eyes immersed in the bare stone of the walls. As a lord, Orion seemed to be striving for the most devoid retinue and dominance. In his castle, the circular room from which he ruled was austere and miserable, simple chairs arranged around an unadorned floor. The walls were plain, without tapestries or heraldic symbols; not even the coat of arms of the Raven, the Order of Light, or the scales and sword of Khalmyr broke the continuity of the gray. What was called a throne was little more than another chair, the big lord sprawled like a lazy lion, the boards creaking beneath him.

"Master Rhyllo of the Woods," announced the herald. And, standing aside in an almost dance-like step, he gestured for the man to come closer.

A tall, inadequate man approached, wearing his best farmer's clothes, which were still shabby. A voluminous, fluffy hat twisted in his hands, the poorly shaved face of someone who never had to worry about it. He knelt in an awkward bow (Orion looked away in pure shame) and took in a huge breath, preparing himself. He opened his mouth, choked, coughed, stuttered indiscernible vowels, and turned redder by the second. The herald made encouraging gestures, but the man seemed ready to die from embarrassment.

More than a lord, Orion was a hero.

"Speak!" barked the knight.

Rhyllo dos Bosques seemed to unlock at the command. "My lands are being invaded, my lord," he said.

Orion straightened up. "Goblinoids? Bandits?"

"Well, no." He swallowed. "They are the children of Herlon Thulm, my neighbor. The fence demarcates our farms, my lord, but the boys insist on invading." Orion closed his eyes. Rhyllo dos Bosques continued. The boys were accompanied by a dog. The animal had mated with Rhyllo's dog, which was pregnant and unable to guard the farm. Cunning marmots took advantage of the vegetable produce.

"Herlon Thulm refuses to pay, my lord. He has a last name, and that's why he thinks he's better than me. The harvest is coming, and my produce has been devoured."

The worst thing, Orion thought, was the seriousness of it all. This was not an idle complaint. The man risked a winter of hunger, perhaps the death of a child. It was a monumental drama in a tiny world, and Orion didn't know how to resolve it. Should he send a battalion of knights to confront Herlon Thulm? Or perhaps groundhogs?

The castellan whispered to him that, in such cases, it was customary for the lord to do nothing. "Enough," said Orion. "Bring me the remains of whatever vegetable was devoured, Rhyllo Hood, and I will pay you as if it were the best vegetable in Arton."

The farmer burst into gratitude, bowing excessively as he left. Being a lord, Orion discovered, was much like a job. In his castle, he ruled sovereignly but was a servant to his meager people. As a soldier, knight, and even general, Orion had followed orders, no matter how absurd they seemed. As a lord, the same — the difference was his absolute incompetence.

The herald announced the next dilemma. A young couple entered the room, flushed with excitement and embarrassment. They struggled to keep their hands apart. They asked permission to wed.

To these two, in particular, Orion felt inferior.

"Permission granted," he said, and the day continued. Goats died of disease. Men wanted to build mills. Merchants asked for permission to sell. Flatterers found excuses to kiss his feet.

Orion knew landowners who didn't face the same problems. They didn't serve people, nor did they put effort into difficult decisions. They merely hunted, celebrated, discovered, or created some conflict to exercise their sword arm. Orion, unfortunately, had been cursed with something that forced him to do the job, a prison from which others were free — character.

Late in the afternoon, the hearings ended. Still, several outside, resigned, would return the next day. Orion walked past them with his eyes downcast, feeling like an indolent traitor. In their direction, only respect.

He dropped onto a long bench in front of a table in the servants' quarters. "The castle is too big, Ingram. The castle is too big."

Ingram Brassbones would have kicked his friend if he hadn't known the concern was genuine.

"Sometimes I get tired just thinking about visiting you, Orion. Stop this litany."

"Don't you see? The castle is too big. This is the servants' wing."

"You shouldn't be here."

"This is the servants' wing! I have other wings, just for me."

"That's the way things are, Orion."

"Just for me, understand? Bedrooms, corridors, rooms. Each one bigger than the peasants' houses. And they don't resent it, Ingram. Why?"

"You are the lord. You are a hero."

"I'm thinking about banning that word. All these wings, just for me, no one else."

"And that's where you should be. This is the servants' wing."

"Why would I deserve so much?"

"They don't want you here, Orion," Ingram whispered pointedly. "Don't you see? Your place is there. As long as you are here, they cannot talk freely, nor laugh among themselves, nor do what they shouldn't do. Leave these people alone!"

Orion seemed to have been struck by an arrow.

"That's crazy, Ingram."

"Think what you want. The peasants, the servants, everyone else knows and accepts their roles. Maybe they are a bunch of idiots, preferring to spend the day fertilizing the land rather than seeking their fortune. But they are in their places. You are the one who is displaced."

Orion chewed a hunk of bread, washed it down with beer, and stood up. "I'm going to finish the meal in my room," he announced.

"Yes, my lord," someone said.

The boots of the dwarf and the knight echoed in the empty corridors.

"Your beard is deplorable, you neurotic human. It looks like an old badger sat on your face."

Orion forced an amused look.

"You can't say anything. Soon you'll make the dwarves of Doherimm proud."

Ingram ran a hand over his face. The bristles sanded his skin.

"We are two relaxed old men, Orion."

They walked.

"No sign of Nadia?" Orion asked, sitting on a bench inside the room.

Ingram shook his head. Nadia, Ingram's companion for a few pivotal months, was a succubus, an envoy of Tenebra, the Goddess of Darkness. Tasked with seducing Ingram into a cult, she ended up falling in love. Her body had been destroyed in a bizarre accident, and it was impossible to know when she would return to Arton.

"One day, my friend," Orion said.

"Or never."

They talked about the world, about everything that was insignificant. It had been months since Ingram's last visit, and neither of them had found a map for life's absurdities. "I'm thinking about going after Vallen again."

Silence. In the last year, it had become a frequent journey. Orion had hunted his father, the Laughing Knight, who had kidnapped Vallen, his son. First with certainty, then with obstinacy, and then with excuses. The trail didn't exist, and keeping the fury burning was difficult.

"If you decide to do this, I'll go with you, Orion. Like always."

"Thanks."

"Any new leads?"

"No."

It was just something to do.

Perhaps in another time they would have spent the night talking. As it was, the words didn't last long, until Ingram closed himself in one room and Orion in another, each nursing their uncertainties.

In the morning, Orion returned to the castle after riding and exercising before the sun rose. The peasants were already crowding, and the small nobles orbited like greedy butterflies. Everywhere, couples. They sought blessings for newborn children, requested permission, or announced family loyalty to the lord. Proud or humble, they were together, and Orion felt walled in by his own isolation, witnessing an overwhelming intimacy just out of reach. He hurried to the throne room, breakfasting as he went. The herald announced the first audience.

A man presented the remains of devoured vegetables. It was not, however, Rhyllo dos Bosques. The day before, word of the lord's generosity had spread across the farms. Farmers saw the chance to sell their products without incurring travel costs, dangerous roads, or labor. The number of farmers waiting outside suggested a marmot invasion. The castellan was polite enough not to point out that he had advised against the decision.

Orion didn't say anything for a long time.

"Choose," Darien said, tossing a coin into the air.

It spun, the face of Tibar, the Lesser God of Commerce, winking in the moonlight. Darien caught it midway and pressed it between his palm and the back of his hand.

"Choose," he repeated.

"It's not the procedure," Miltham said. "You took the lead on the last call; now it's my turn. You stay at the door of the establishment and monitor the area around me."

"'Establishment'?"

"And don't forget that," Miltham added, pushing the whistle toward Darien. He looked at the object as if it were something from another world.

"If there is any risk, blow it and wait for reinforcements."

"I know."

"If everyone follows the procedure, there will be no problems."

"I know."

"There is no place for heroism in the Roschfallen militia."

"Believe me. I know."

Miltham placed his hand on the handle of the mace, assuming an air of authority.

They said the hot months were the worst — people went mad, punching, breaking, stealing, and killing everything in their path. They claimed that nights with a full moon were the worst — a common folklore among the militia of any large city. But in those four months as a Roschfallen militiaman, Darien had reached the conclusion that the worst nights were those with sudden, unseasonable cold, like this one.

Everyone was used to the heat, and at the mere suggestion of winter, they holed up at home or in taverns. Any place with four walls, a roof, and a fireplace became crowded; men rediscovered their taste for strong drink, and soon, fights broke out. Others lacked the courage to leave the house, and prolonged coexistence with their wives and children ended in flying pans and plates, leading to work for the militia.

In four months as a militiaman, Darien was frightened to know all this. It was terribly banal and insipid knowledge, and worst of all, valuable. No matter how much he tried to resist, a kind of common sense insisted on creeping into his head, and he began to get used to that life.

"If in doubt, blow the whistle," Miltham said.

"Who knows, maybe we can solve this one ourselves? You and I can handle half a dozen drunks."

In response, Miltham blew his shrill whistle, glaring at Darien with stern eyes and full cheeks. He turned and entered the tavern.

Inside, the usual chaos. One or two drunk workers had made an unfortunate comment about a nation that, as luck would have it, was the birthplace of another customer's great-aunt. The two, irritated by the weather, quickly went through the formalities and efficiently resolved the misunderstanding that had led to the fight. The other customers were grateful.

"Enough, gentlemen! That's enough!" shouted Miltham in his best commanding voice, elbowing his way through the confusion.

Darien stood at the entrance, observing, as was protocol. He watched his partner get into the crowd, give orders, grab a big pink guy, and get thrown back. With a tedious sigh, Darien looked outside (the dark, icy street) and blew the whistle.

Militiaman in non-lethal danger, couples nearby coming to the rescue, controllable disturbance, medium force required.

Once again, Miltham advanced against the knot of bodies, only to be repelled once more. He fell onto the counter, spilling a huge jug of lukewarm beer. He apologized to the tavern keeper, who began counting the loss he would claim from the militia captain. Miltham's lip was swollen and oozing, and Darien grabbed the handle of the mace, preparing to run to help.

"Stay there, Darien!" shouted his partner. "The whistle. The whistle!"

He dropped the weapon, leaned against the frame, and blew the whistle again.

Miltham, Darien's partner during those four months of patrols, sore feet, domestic disputes, and cats stuck in trees, was the picture of everything a young militiaman should be. Proud of several generations that preceded him, his dream was to become captain, like his grandfather. It had never occurred to him to leave Roschfallen, the capital of Bielefeld. It had never occurred to him to try knighthood in the Order of the Light, delve into a dungeon in search of treasure, hunt a monster, or run away with a noblewoman through the woods. It had never occurred to him to stop shining his boots or forget his whistle — according to him, a militiaman's greatest weapon, much better than the mace.

Miltham wasn't exactly an idiot; he demonstrated intelligence, even creativity. Therefore, Darien did not understand how his partner could enjoy so much of that.

"In the name of King Igor Janz, everyone stop!" Miltham shouted.

Darien blew the whistle: militiaman in direct confrontation, numerical disadvantage, situation worsening. The two customers who had instigated the chaos now joined forces. One held Miltham while the other slapped his cheeks loudly.

"I'd like to be there in the middle, wouldn't you, colleague?" said a thin, sudden little man, appearing next to the door.

Darien almost recited some militia rule but let his shoulders slump and nodded. "Me too."

"And why aren't you?"

The guy indicated his own right foot, horribly crooked, in a rounded shape that wouldn't fit into any boot.

"And you, why aren't you here?" Darien asked, indicating the whistle.

The boredom was interrupted by a feast.

Rare light broke through, and Orion smiled. That afternoon, Bernard Branalon, the Gallant Pachyderm, Earl of Muncy, and the lord's oldest comrade had arrived at the castle.

"What the hell, Orion!" Bernard exclaimed, a mouthful of chicken in tow. "There is no decent cleavage in this castle. You should pay more attention to the servants." Sir Bernard winked at a buxom young servant, who laughed in return. Orion bared his teeth in a wooden mood. Ingram wore the solemn air of a planner. Perhaps a bombastic presence would drag his friend from the depths.

Bernard Branalon was a great man in every respect. Tall, preceded by a legendary stomach, each arm a battering ram, and a forest of a beard. He loved chivalry, children, and women. If he laughed loudly and never stopped joking, it was because of his unbreakable spirit. A year earlier, Bernard had seen some of his many children corrupted by the Storm, infected by symbiotes, involved in the massacre that nearly overthrew the Order of Light. He had killed one of them with his own hands. His jokes slipped into vulgarity from lack of custom, a whole year of mourning. He would never use girls like a tyrant, but he no longer knew how to charm them as he once did.

"What do you think about hunting tomorrow, Orion?"

A shrug; it didn't matter.

"We have to do something! I'll organize a lesson. A little general brawling clears the spirit and lifts the spirits."

"We'll have formalities in the next few days, my friend," Orion replied. "After all, if a count visits, the nobles will swarm."

Bernard exhaled in disgust. "Well, have a party or something prepared for them. We'll listen to the unfortunates complain and cajole for a few hours, and then we'll go do something else. What do you say?" Nothing.

Ingram kicked him.

"I hate you, you annoying human."

"A lesson, Orion! How about that?"

Even the others became entangled in embarrassment. The previous year, during a tournament, much of the misfortune had begun. Orion's father, the Laughing Knight, had competed, and Orion himself had cheated to kill him in the joust. Just before the tournament, he had taken the young traitor Darien as a squire. Soon after the tournament, Vanessa left for the first time.

"Okay," Ingram said. "Let's talk about what we're all thinking. Do you want to go on another journey, Orion? Want to hunt the Laughing Knight? I'm with you."

"And me, of course," said Bernard.

Orion spent a while poking holes in the table with his fork. "I don't have any new leads," he finally said.

"To hell with that!" Bernard banged the table. "Let's look for an oracle, then. Or a spy, it doesn't matter. Let's get into some dungeon, fight some monster."

"You don't have to do this for me."

"No more feeling sorry for yourself!" shouted Bernard Branalon. "You need to do something. You can't stay—" he searched for something to say, shaking the hand that pointed at his friend. "—like this. If he wanted his son dead, he could have killed him sooner," Ingram said. "What are you afraid of? Let's go!"

Eyes down, Orion was not afraid of fate.

"You're afraid of the path," Ingram said.

On the way, he could meet Vanessa.

"I've known you and Vanessa since you were two prickly peeps hiding behind the stables," Bernard said. "What could be better than finding her again in the middle of a search? Fight together, kill the Laughing Knight together? Recover Vallen together?"

"It won't happen like that," Orion replied. "Vanessa is right. It was my fault." Ingram covered his eyes with his hands.

"Well, I'm going to tell you something, Sir Orion Drake," Bernard's voice was quiet, low. He stood up, pushing back his chair. "It was your fault. Vanessa is right. If you had stayed with your son at Castelo da Luz, none of this would have happened. The High Commander ordered you to be a general, and you just said you were a bastard, that you didn't deserve it. I didn't say you couldn't, who had obligations to Vanessa and Vallen. And you're doing the same now."

"Bernard, enough—"

"If I had stayed at Castelo da Luz, none of that would have happened. You would have defended Vallen. I wouldn't be taking care of him. Camille wouldn't be taking care of him. I would be watching my own children. Do you want to blame yourself? Fine, it's your fault. But do something instead of regretting it."

"Bernard, enough—"

"You coward."

Walk.

Orion's fist connected with Bernard's lips, sending the Gallant Pachyderm stumbling back several steps.

"You're right. He arrives."

Bernard let out a roar, overturned the huge banquet table, and threw himself on top of Orion. They rolled on the floor, amid screams from the servants and protests from Ingram. Bernard mounted a knee on Orion's chest, delivering a thunderous punch that made his head bounce off the ground. Orion struck his opponent's ribs again and again until Bernard relented, allowing him to free himself from his weight.

Still kneeling, Orion staggered to his feet and kicked Bernard in the bearded jaw. Bernard grabbed him around the waist, throwing him onto a chair that shattered. Orion raised his head in confusion, only to receive a sharp elbow to the nose. Another blow was coming, and he drove his fingertips, hard as iron, against Bernard's throat.

Branalon coughed, seeing red, and squeezed Orion into a bear hug. Orion felt the air leaving him, his ribs creaking, and he wrapped his hands around Bernard's neck, thumbs searching for his Adam's apple.

One shot.

With fright, they both let go and collapsed in different directions. Tiny pieces fell from the ceiling, Ingram holding a smoking pistol in his hand.

"Will the kids stop, or will I have to make them both dance?"

They looked at each other through a haze of pain.

They dragged the last belligerent, still without a destination, too drunk to get home alone. Miltham had a black eye that was swelling at an alarming rate and a broken nose for the first time. He breathed through his mouth with a horrible wheeze, and Darien imagined the pain he felt, but the militiaman glowed with contentment. A broken nose was a baptism in the militia; no one would trust a guard with a straight nose. And the resolution of the quarrel through protocols had filled Miltham with civic reaffirmation.

"Let's leave this poor guy in a gutter out there," Darien said.

"We know where he lives."

"Goblins be damned, we are patrolling the region. Nothing will happen to him."

"The gentleman is a citizen of Roschfallen, Darien," Miltham said smugly. "We are here to serve you."

The gentleman stirred, his arms draped over the shoulders of the two militiamen. He looked around with a puzzled expression and let out a huge belch, which soon turned into a light stream of vomit. He smiled and fell asleep again.

Darien continued supporting the man while Miltham knocked on the door of the indicated house. "At least I kept you with him. You can't smell it."

"I'm the militiaman responsible for this call, Darien. Take care of the citizen."

A matron, tall and plump like a giant baby, answered the door, pillow marks on her face and a long nightgown that didn't cover enough.

"My husband."

"Good evening, ma'am. Your husband was involved in an altercation and, being drunk, was unable to return home alone."

"What did they do?"

The woman ran, swaying, to Darien, snatching her man.

As Miltham continued the necessary explanations to end the call, the woman noticed the reds and purples on her husband's face. He opened his wet maw and began raining blows on Darien, each hand a plank of flesh.

"Madam!" Miltham exclaimed. "We're just bringing your husband to safety."

"That's what the militia does!" the woman screamed. "Beat up hardworking family men when there are necromancers and sszzaazites everywhere, in the palace corridors!"

"Madam, we do not raise a hand against your husband. He was involved in an altercation in the tavern, being quite intoxicated."

"And now they bring the drunken, violent piece of junk for me? I must deal with this because the militia is too busy taking bribes and making deals with demons!"

Darien's head rang from the impacts of the hands. He raised the whistle to his lips. "No, Darien," Miltham said. "There is no need to call for backup in this situation." Meanwhile, the drunk remained sprawled and relaxed on the cobblestones. He opened one eye, saw Darien's situation, and smiled at him.

"Ah, the women."

And then he turned off again.

"It doesn't work like that," Ingram said. "You beat each other; now, go back to being friends."

"I'm not a child, Sir Bernard," he said, preparing his luggage. "I may have exalted myself, but nothing I said was a lie. I taught Orion Drake how to drink. I welcomed him into my home when no one would look him in the face. And I told him a hundred times that he should act differently. If you want to be with your friend, go for it. He can look for me when he's changed."

"Sir Branalon—"

"Don't get me wrong. I love Orion. Not as a brother, or even as a son. I don't know how to explain it, but this bastard makes me proud. He could be High Commander of the Order of Light, and he is one of the finest men to ever be born in Arton. But it's impossible to stay close to him."

Ingram fell silent.

"If you are in danger, I'll be the first to protect you in the shield wall. I'll throw myself in front of him for any number of arrows. But don't ask me to live with him."

Bernard said goodbye to Ingram and the staff and left.

"Another one left."

Emerging from the sea of ash, the three companions managed to see a city in the distance. It was difficult to discern, as the vision was deceiving. Sleep had taken its toll; two days and one night late. There had been a kind of doze as they walked, a trance-like state in which the mind disconnected from the body. More than once, hallucinations had occurred, fragments of dreams. But:

"Do you see that?" Ingram asked.

It was real. The spires of a city rose on the horizon, beyond a vast plain flanked by mountains. And, emerging from the city, more than the vision, there was a restlessness, a growing discomfort. The impression of insignificance, an instinctive fear that didn't arise from within: it was projected, as real and palpable as wind or heat.

"Do you see that one?" Darien asked.

They did.

From the middle of the spires, two slender, winged forms of dragons ascended.