The power cell hummed with magic, a fierce, buzzing light that resonated against Jamen’s skin the further he descended into the lower levels of the temple. It was beautiful.

And Jamen was here to kill it.

The guards and priests who normally kept the core protected from outsiders stepped quickly aside with one wave of Alena’s staff and a simmering hint of Jamen’s godly powers. Mahreth came to life inside him, speaking with his mouth and creating godlight in the air above his palm, and fear came into the guards’ faces.

As soon as she released him, he looked away. At one time, he was as awed by the power as they were. But now, he just wanted to get it over with.

Alena and her two acolytes – a brother-sister pair of swordsmen as deadly as they were loyal – entered the core first, clearing out the workers and making a big production out of Jamen’s arrival.

"Behold, the goddess’s right arm!" Alena projected her voice, letting it echo so loud it drowned out the buzz and snap of magic.

Artefacts and tools used to track and control the magic, to keep the workers safe from being overwhelmed, to distribute the magic in bits and bites to the villagers and surrounding towns, were littered around the cavern-like room. Columns and carvings of the great deeds of the gods lined the walls – this was a temple still – but the well in the center, the star-like pulse of power from the core of the world, the heart of Ellaster itself, spoke elegant volumes on the gods’ power without adornment or worship. It made the temple trappings around them seem as useless as paper streamers at a village faire.

"Give our Mistress room to do her work," ordered Alena, pointing the staff at those who seemed sluggish to obey.

Jamen stood still, quiet, savoring the way his hair stood on end, the strong scent of magic – a nebulous, fluctuating scent, at one moment a brisk burst of daydrop fruit, the next a heady woodsmoke, then again the sweet smell of peonies.

Jamen. The voice of his Mistress, the goddess of all Ellaster’s magic, spoke inside his mind. It’s time.

He stepped toward the edge of the safety railing and held out his hand for the staff. When Alena gave it to him, she let her fingers graze his arm, trying to meet his eyes. He kept them resolutely on the light of the magic in front of him.

The staff was smooth, carved of a naturally black wood with a raw, jagged crystal at its head. The wood seemed to grip the stone on its own, small tendrils wrapped around it like roots. The stone pulsed with godlight as it met his palm.

Though he held the spirit of the goddess within him, Jamen was no more magically inclined than anyone else. He could not perform great feats like those Touched by the gods, nor communicate with the magic, nor enter the trance-like state that allowed them to sense the heartbeat of the world. Instead, he held the staff out over the chasm, and waited until he felt his goddess stir with him.

She formed foreign words with his lips and drew on the strength within him. The staff grew brighter as she spoke, and the magic became agitated. It grew loud, swelling against the banks of the shaft, reaching up as though gravity were reversed and the magic were water trickling down a cliff face. Veins of magic brilliance stretched up from the pool and wrapped around the stone.

Jamen’s muscles twitched involuntarily, wanting to pull the staff back. Another well gone dark. Another town of hungry faces. But Mahreth surged forward, her voice getting louder as she tightened Jamen’s hands around the staff.

And at once, with a sound like fracturing glass, the magic grew painfully bright, then was gone. Jamen blinked the afterimage of the flash from his eyes and let his arms drop to his sides. His mind was quiet, empty with the sound of only his own thoughts.

"It’s done," said Alena.

But the statement wasn’t necessary.

The deep, empty hollow spoke for itself. The magic was gone. The heart was dead.