As the flames raced ahead of them, leaping from shelf to shelf through the Library passages, Dione keened. The grief of a God is a powerful thing, and for Dione, the tomes of the Library were as much his children as the Imperials who tended them. The screaming sobs tore at the air, and the Kwisinian soldiers looked askance at each other, without understanding.

Each sob wrenched at Dellyx’s heart. He’d not planned this. He’d not expected the fire to gain such traction so fast. The books were old and dry and dusty, and they burned easily, like soft logs. He hoped it was worth it.

They passed Librarian patrols, some of whom fought against the fires, with little care for their own safety. Some had been driven mad by the crying on the wind, and sat and screamed themselves in response. Some tried to attack the Kwisinian party, and were shown the mercy of a sharp axe.

Inwardly, Dellyx retreated. This was sheer wanton destruction. This had ripped the heart from his people, and ground it into the ground. The soul of the Empire was the library, and now it lay in flames. Soon it would lay in ashes. And still they pressed on, protected from the conflagration by the Battlemages.

At the centre, they reached the Great Temple of Dione. The mighty shelves that made up its exterior facing were already aflame, alive with crackling heat. The Kwisinians fought their way through the last vestiges of the Bookguard, mindlessly guarding their charge as it burned to the ground.

Within the Temple, Dione lay at the centre, heaving his great, wracking sobs. The Chief Librarian stood over the God, switch in hand. As the party entered, the Librarian turned, eyes wild with madness, and he crowed with triumph.

“Ah, the burners, and little Dellyx. Face your God.” With a flick of the switch, he whipped Dione upright. “They burned the books. They destroyed the Library.”

The silver nimbus was marked by traceries of red, like chains about the God’s body. His eyes rolled and his head hung limply, but still he faced the party, guided by the hideous scourge of the Librarian.

The Kwisinians raised their axes to a man, but Dellys moved through them, silently, firmly pushing down the leader’s weapon. He had been grief-stricken, but it was as though he had moved through to the other side, where the roaring storms of sadness never touch, and there is only the steely resolve of the utterly emotionless.

“Enough, Dione.”

The God flinched back, and the Kwisinians nudged each other in awe. Here was a man who could stand against the gods themselves. The whip cracked, and Dione was redirected towasds Dellyx.

“Listen, Dione. Listen now, like never before. Because as the whispers of the books die, perhaps you can start to hear your children again. They have cried out to you, again and again, and you have not heard, engrossed as you were with your books. I have heard you sob as our Library burns, but do not let your advocate destroy your people. Do not let yourself be led, like a dumb ox or mule. Step up, and rebuild. And see why this has happened.” Dellyx’s voice was fervent, zealous, and it burned like the Library, pulsing with belief.

Such belief as Dione had not seen in centuries. Dellyx reached out, and took the God’s hand, and led him through the storm.