“You aren’t the first,” said the Emperor. “But—listen to me. I will do what I haven’t done in ten thousand years and renew your House.” (How did he know about that?) “I’ll safeguard the Ninth. I will make sure what happened at Canaan House never happens again. But I want you to come with me. You can learn to be my Hand. The Empire can gain another saint, and the Empire needs another saint, more than ever. I have three teachers for you, and a whole universe for you to hold on to—for just a little while longer.”

The King Undying had asked her to follow him. All she wanted was to be alone and weep.

“Or—you can go back home again,” he said. “I have not assumed you’ll agree with me. I will not force you or buy you. I will keep covenant with your House whether you come with me or stay at home.”

Harrow said, “We can’t go home again.”

There was a vague reflection of her in the window, interrupted by distant space fields pocketed thick with stars. She turned away. If she saw herself in a mirror, she might fight herself: if she saw herself in a mirror, she might find a trace of Gideon Nav, or worse—she might not find anything, she might find nothing at all.

So the universe was ending. Good. At least if she failed here, she would no longer have to be beholden to anybody. Harrow touched her cheek and was surprised to find her fingertips came away wet, and that the Necrolord Prime had chivalrously lowered his gaze.

She said, “I will have to go back eventually.”

“I know,” said the Emperor.

“I need to find out what happened to my cavalier’s body. I need to know what happened to the others.”

“Of course.”

“But for now,” said Harrow, “I will be your Lyctor, Lord, if you will have me.”

The Emperor said, “Then rise, Harrowhark the First.”