When the tide reached Emuel’s ankles, the warm blood began to seep through his britches. He looked behind him to the temple doors, wondering whether he could escape before the Swords could cut him down. The blood quickly rose to his waist and something within the crimson flood brushed up against his thighs. Looking down, Emuel realised that there were things swimming in the scarlet pool. Beside him, he saw something black and scaled curl around Ignacio’s wrists. His friend didn’t blink, didn’t make a sound as he was pulled beneath the surface. Nobody else seemed to notice Ignacio’s passing. In fact, nobody but Emuel was reacting at all to the horror that surrounded them.

Another member of the Swords was dragged under, and another. Soon Emuel was the only person, besides Albrecht, left standing. The blood had reached his chest by this point and Emuel realised that even if the creatures didn’t get him, he would surely drown.

The room swayed. Below the surface of the blood, Emuel could see pale lights, bobbing like lanterns; he thought that they looked like faces. So enraptured was he by their glow that he didn’t react when the blood finally closed over his head. When he took his first breath, letting the warm liquid pour into him, the lights danced around him like a multitude of stars, and he was torn apart.

Clearly the ritual had been a failure. Not only were the Llothriall and her crew nowhere in the immediate vicinity, but now most of Emuel’s companions lay dead on the sand, while the rest had seemingly vanished into thin air.

As far as he could see, he had two options: he could remain where he was and wait for his supplies to run out, or he could strike out into the desert and hope that there was more to this place than an endless expanse of sand.

Emuel chose the latter option, gathering up what little usable equipment he could scavenge from the detritus that surrounded him.