Contents

1. Dedication

2. Status

3. Chapter One - Poison Control

4. Chapter Two - These Fields Sure Are Dead

5. Chapter Three - Like It or Not, the Answer Is Slime

6. Chapter Four - Scouting is Hard When You Can't See

7. Chapter Five - To the Grindstone

8. Chapter Six - Kill, Loot, Repeat

9. Chapter Seven - Last Resort

10. Chapter Eight - The Defiant

11. Chapter Nine - Unlock, Upgrade, Combine

12. Chapter Ten - To Skin a Cat

13. Chapter Eleven - Trellax

14. Chapter Twelve - These Fields are Significantly Less Dead

15. Chapter Thirteen - Welcome to Ilvia

16. Chapter Fourteen - The Haul

17. Chapter Fifteen - Disk Eye Pull

18. Chapter Sixteen - Side Quest

19. Chapter Seventeen - Get Your Goat

20. Chapter Eighteen - Decisions, Decisions

21. Chapter Nineteen - Water Damage

22. Chapter Twenty - Schooner or Later

23. Chapter Twenty-One - Taking in the Sights and Sounds

24. Chapter Twenty-Two - A Business Transaction

25. Chapter Twenty-Three - Leviathan

26. Chapter Twenty-Four - To the Victor

27. Chapter Twenty-Five - Pyrindel

28. Chapter Twenty-Six - Emissary

29. Chapter Twenty-Seven - Registration Aggravation

30. Chapter Twenty-Eight - Don't Get Hit

31. Chapter Twenty-Nine - Enter the Arena

32. Chapter Thirty - Headaches

33. Chapter Thirty-One - The Distraction

34. Chapter Thirty-Two - Tiny Black Spheres of Pure Malevolent Poison

35. Chapter Thirty-Three - Reenter the Arena

36. Chapter Thirty-Four - Alas, Poor Roric

37. Chapter Thirty-Five - Regal Advice

38. Chapter Thirty-Six - Re-reenter the Arena

39. Chapter Thirty-Seven - If It Wasn't Rigged Before...

40. Chapter Thirty-Eight - Mirage Dancer

41. Chapter Thirty-Nine - The Loser's Bracket

42. Chapter Forty - Re-re-reenter the Arena

43. Chapter Forty-One - Fatetorn Gaze

44. Chapter Forty-Two - Re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-

45. Chapter Forty-Three - I Spy

46. Chapter Forty-Four - Stumble Free

47. Chapter Forty-Five - Epilogue

48. Status

49. More from J.P. Valentine

50. Check 'em Out!

Guide

1. Contents

2. Start of Content

To my patrons, without whom none of this would’ve been possible.

STATUS

EVELIA GREENE

Manaheart

Level 38 Shatterfate Striker

Exp: 12715/25311

Health: 720/720

Stamina: 0/0

Mana: 2850/2850

Constitution: 72

Mana Density: 285

Intelligence: 12

Dexterity: 85

Strength: 108

Spirit: 0

Passive Ability - Haste

A quicker step is the difference between life and death. You run [MND/5]% faster.

Passive Ability - Surefooted

One slip up means death, and you’ve become familiar with high speeds and difficult terrain. Gain increased traction and stability, especially on moving objects. Circulate mana through your feet to adhere to surfaces!

Passive Ability - Mana-hardened

You’ve seen your fair share of battle, and your body has adapted for it. Gain increased bone density and resistance to impact injuries. +20% Explosion resistance. +20% Poison Resistance. Redirect mana within your body to reinforce particular areas.

Passive Ability - Ethereal Metabolism

Overcome the inefficiencies of flesh. Mana is the purest form of energy, and your body has learned to use it. Metabolize food directly into Mana. All bodily functions require Mana instead of Stamina.

Active Ability - Charge!

85 Mana

Put those feet to work. Whether ducking in or out of combat, a good Striker needs to do it quickly. Triple your maximum running speed for [MND/5] seconds.

Active Ability - Mana Rush

X Mana/Sec

The strength of a manaheart is determined by the energy that runs through their veins. You’ve learned to use that to your advantage. Gain [X\MND/20] Strength for the duration.*

Active Ability - Mana Burst

300 Mana

You don’t need to be a master spell caster to simply throw mana at the problem. Unleash a short-range blast of concentrated mana, dealing magic damage in an area in front of you.

Active Ability - Jet

500 Mana

Momentum is a tool just like any other, and you’ve learned to wield it. Massively increase or decrease your personal momentum or that of an individual body part.

CHAPTER ONE

Poison Control

“YOU’RE LIKE A fucking cat.” Eve laughed through the words as Wes finished his leg-shakingly intense morning stretch.

He drew back one of his extended hands to rub the back of his neck. “You spend a night sleeping on solid rock and see how stiff you get.”

Eve clenched her jaw in a futile effort to keep a straight face. “I’m sure Preston knows all about how stiff you got.”

Wes gestured to the still-sleeping healer. “Well yeah, he’s on the rock t…” He trailed off, letting his head fall forward in mock despair. “Gods-damnit, Eve.”

Eve fell back laughing at her own joke, the coarse stone of the cliffside digging into her back as her cackles echoed across the sky. In hindsight, releasing such a raucous noise into the unknown environment probably carried the risk of summoning dangerous predators, but all it managed was a cranky Preston.

“Stapf ihd,” he murmured, haphazardly shaking a dismissive arm in what was more of a flop than a true wave. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Wes grabbed his wrist, pulling the reluctant Caretaker to his feet. “If Eve’s gonna make uncomfortable jokes, you’re suffering through them with me.”

The Striker stood, taking a moment to massage the sore spot in her lower back. Just because she hadn’t slept didn’t mean she’d escaped the pains of spending the night on the hard stone. “So,” she changed the subject, “get anything interesting?”

Two pairs of eyes flashed azure in unison as the boys simultaneously remembered they’d had no normal night’s sleep.

Eve smiled as they took to their reading, nearly as eager as they were to learn what boons their new classes had granted. She absent-mindedly flickered her own status screen open and closed, the unsightly blue flashing in and out of vision far too quickly for her to actually read anything on it.

Eve could almost hear her mother warning her about the tick causing Mr. Potts’s seizures for the thousandth time. She sighed, putting the screen away for good. She didn’t think the flashing light would hurt her, necessarily, as much as she feared whatever else might while she distracted herself with it. The Dead Fields were supposed to be dangerous, after all.

More out of boredom than any sense of curiosity, she Appraised her newly promoted friends while they read through their skill upgrades.

Level 26 Caretaker of Ayla

Rare Tier 3 Class

Level 25 Disciple of the Devouring Flame

Epic Tier 3 Class

She wasn’t entirely sure what a Caretaker was, but she imagined it had something to do with the baby drake currently wrapped around Preston’s neck. Eve hoped the class would let him keep Reginald under control; a fully grown drake could someday prove a remarkable asset. Small as he was, the hatchling wouldn’t be killing monsters any time soon, but he had made it to level 5 somewhere in the past days’ chaos.

Wes’s new class worried her. Already he’d seemed on the brink of losing control, and a more powerful class could only exacerbate that. Dangerous as their adventure had been so far, finding an Epic class at tier 3 felt too easy. There had to be a price.

The Disciple’s eerie on-topic comment broke her train of thought. “Well, the good news is Whispers of the Devouring Flame is gone.”

“And the bad news?”

Wes grimaced. “It’s Teachings of the Devouring Flame now.”

Eve cocked an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“Hells if I know. The description just says ‘know them.’”

Preston exhaled sharply. “Useful as ever.”

“It sounds like the same skill just rephrased,” Eve reasoned. “Maybe it’s stronger?”

Wes nodded. “That’d be my guess.”

“Well, just—um…” Preston said, “try not to go insane on us.”

The mage opened his mouth to reply, but Eve beat him to it. “To clarify, he means don’t go any more insane than you already are.”

“Right, of course,” Wes replied. “I’ll just… maintain the level of insanity that led me to go adventuring with you.”

“Perfect.” Eve grinned. “So other than ‘marginally scarier vague wording,’ what upgrades did you get?”

“Oh, this and that,” he answered. “More fire, hotter fire, fierier fire, you know, the works.”

Eve tilted her head down and her eyes up to look at him with disdain. “Fierier fire?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you.” Wes gave in rather easily. “I have finer control of Flame Jet, natural fires restore my health too, and Burning Hand now works anywhere on my body.”

“So it’s called Burning Body now?” Eve asked.

“Well, no. It’s actua—”

“Burning Everything?” she interrupted. “Ouch, My Entire Skin Is On Fire?”

Wes sighed. “Cloak of Flame. It’s called Cloak of Flame.”

“Well that’s boring. What is that, six of your abilities that have ‘flame’ in the name?”

“Seven,” Wes admitted, “but to be fair, three of those are from the class name.”

Eve laughed. “You’d think the devouring flame would be more creative. There’s a bunch of words for fire out there.”

Wes shrugged, turning to the former Priestess. “Preston, just how many times does the name ‘Ayla’ show up in your skill names?”

No response came.

Eve looked towards the blond healer to find his eyes glazed over and his mouth subtly twitching. “Preston?”

Wes placed a hand on his shoulder. “You there?”

“Oh! I—sorry.” Preston shook his head, returning the focus to his eyes. “I was just… talking with Reginald.”

Eve blinked. “You were… what?”

Wes swallowed. “I thought I was the one who was supposed to go insane.”

“No, no, it’s my newest skill. Caretakers are basically animal healers, so I can spend Mana to talk to beasts. Look.” He smiled, lifting a hand from where it had rested on the drakeling's head. “Go lick Wes’s face.”

Reginald didn’t budge.

Wes snorted. Eve outright laughed.

Preston scrunched up his face in a remarkable combination of embarrassment and frustration. “Okay, just because I can talk to him doesn’t mean he’ll listen, but I swear it’s—”

Eve held up her hands. “It’s alright. We believe you.”

“You should’ve seen your face, though,” Wes added. “Looked like you could’ve jumped straight from licking to ‘Reginald, go bite Wes’s face off.’”

Preston glared.

Eve clapped her hands to refocus the conversation. “So, talking to animals isn’t exactly the burst of combat power I was hoping for, but it’s something. Maybe you can talk us out of becoming some monster’s dinner.”

“Speaking of,” Wes said, “I’m bloody hungry. Promoting to an Epic class really works up an appetite.”

Eve rolled her eyes at his casual reminder that his class was rarer than hers before actually replying to his statement. “Careful how much you eat. Gods know how long it’ll take to find civilization again, and I get the impression there won’t be much to forage down there.”

“Which gets me to my next point.” Wes dug through his pack for some of his travel rations as he spoke. “What’s our plan for getting home safely?”

Eve pointed at the narrow steps carved into the mountainside. “Unless you want to dig our way back through the collapsed dungeon, I only see one way forward. Down.”

Wes shrugged, speaking through a mouth full of hardtack. “Works for me.”

“I guess… um…” Eve stared down into the sickly haze that clouded the way ahead. “I guess I’ll go first.” A silent chorus of nods replied at the fresh reminder of their missing tank.

Eve grit her teeth as she took the first step. It was just fog, right? Intimidating as it felt to step into an unknown world obscured in mist, it wasn’t as if the clouds themselves could hurt her.

You have ingested an unknown poison!

Eve leapt back to the stone landing with enough vigor to elicit a noticeably effeminate scream from Wes. She landed on her ass.

“Fog’s poisoned.” She panted.

“It’s what?” Preston gaped. “Shit. Do you need healing?”

Eve paused, collecting her thoughts long enough to notice she felt no pain. In fact, other than her pounding heart, everything seemed normal. She exhaled.

“I… don’t know. My notification was… weirdly excited about it? Hold on.” She pulled up her status screen.

Evelia Greene

Manaheart

Level 38 Shatterfate Striker

Exp: 12715/25311

Health: 714/720

Stamina: 0/0

Mana: 1921/2850

Constitution: 72

Mana Density: 285

Intelligence: 12

Dexterity: 85

Strength: 108

Spirit: 0

Other than the marginal damage from spending the night in a less than ergonomic position and just now landing hard on the sheer stone, her health was untouched. She watched the screen as it ticked down a single point.

“I… think I’m fine. I guess I didn’t inhale enough to really hurt me…” Eve trailed off as her gaze turned to her mana pool. It plummeted.

1702/2850

“Shit,” she cursed. “Something’s happening.”

1587/2850

Preston raised a hand, a healing spell already prepared. “What’s wrong?”

1350/2850

Eve leapt to her feet. “My Mana’s draining.”

1218/2850

She snatched the second half of Wes’s breakfast from his grasp, shoveling the dense and dry biscuit into her mouth.

996/2850

“Hey, that’s mine,” the mage protested.

873/2850

She swallowed.

Eve held her breath. Her Mana continued to fall. She swore. She should’ve known it took time to digest food, magical race or otherwise. Still her reserves shrank. She tried not to think about what might happen should it hit zero.

“Eve,” Preston spoke up, “what’s going on? Where is your Mana going?”

“I don’t know,” she snapped. “It must be some kind of Mana drain poison or—”

A message appeared.

Compound broken down! Metabolizing into Mana…

“Ayla’s tits,” she cursed a third time. “Manaheart is the best race ever.”

Wes held up his hands. “Hey there, let’s not discriminate. All sentient races are worthy of our respect.” He shuddered. “Except gnomes.”

Preston gave the mage his best ‘now’s not the time’ glare before turning to check on Eve. “Is everything okay?”

“I just… metabolized the poison. My body’s turning it to Mana as we speak.”

The healer furrowed his brow. “So that giant loss was what, it figuring out how to do that?”

“Or keeping me alive while it did,” Eve said.

Wes counted on his fingers. “You barely need to sleep, you come with a built-in torch, and now you can just eat poison at will? Damn, I need to find myself some of that mystery serum.”

Eve pushed herself to her feet, dusting herself off as she did. “Maybe? Could be whatever’s in these clouds is pretty weak and I’d run out of Mana before breaking down anything more potent.”

“Still,” Preston said, “in controlled circumstances, you could potentially immunize yourself to a whole range of different poisons. That’s gotta be worth something.”

Eve scratched her chin. “I did already have poison resistance too. Maybe this is a part of it?”

Wes stepped in, “Either way, we certainly don’t have poison resistance.”

Preston nodded. “I could probably heal us through whatever damage it deals for a while, but I only have so much Mana. If we don’t manage to find a safe place down there, we’d have to come back up here until I recharge.”

“Maybe the clouds don’t reach the ground,” Eve offered. “Could be we just have to get through them and we’ll be in the clear.”

The healer moved right past her ‘in the clear’ pun with an argument of his own. “It’s the Dead Fields, not the ‘Normal Fields with a Dead Sky.’”

Eve shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to take a look. I can just head down alone to check if the haze stops before—”

“Or,” Wes interrupted, “we could use fire.”

Eve exhaled. “Everything’s a candle to a man with a lighter, huh?”

“Hear me out,” Wes said. “One of my passives lets me burn anything, so why can’t I just burn the poison clouds?”

Preston grimaced. “I—um—I see where you’re coming from, but I’m not sure I like the idea of just… burning it all.”

“I don’t have to burn all the clouds, just the ones near us.”

Eve refrained from bringing up his questionable control over his pyromania to instead voice a somewhat less insulting concern. “And what if the byproduct of burning the gas is just slightly less poisonous smoke?”

“I’ll burn that too.”

She pressed, “And what if the flames attract attention?”

“You glow brighter than they do anyway.”

Eve sighed. At least this way she didn’t have to venture alone into the mists. Brave as she might’ve been, that idea didn’t sit right with her. “You know what? Fine.”

Preston’s eyebrows shot up. Wes beamed.

Eve shouldered her pack. “Let’s set the sky on fire.”

CHAPTER TWO

These Fields Sure Are Dead

THE AIR BURNED purple.

Wes’s controlled inferno greedily consumed the noxious gas, surrounding the travelers in a ten-foot ring of ghostly lilac flames. True to his word, the fire mage managed to maintain his focus, keeping the blaze from growing too far past its intended purview. Eve got the distinct impression the healer tightly clutching Wes’s hand had something to do with that.

If anything, Preston carried the anxiety of the trio. The Caretaker’s gaze constantly flicked from the stairs ahead to keeping an eye on Wes’s flames to checking in on the young drake around his neck and back down to watching his step.

Eve could understand his concern. The stairway was only five feet wide, and the aged and crumbling stone didn’t exactly inspire confidence, given the unknowable height of the cliff. Eve supposed she preferred not being able to see the distant ground through the haze; at least this way she could pretend the drop was only a few feet.

Falling to her death was, of course, the least of her worries. With every step Eve remembered the griffin she’d Appraised last night. If anything remotely as high-level so much as looked at them, there wasn’t much she could do to stop it.

Well, she reasoned, there might be one thing…. Eve pulled up the description for her most powerful ability.

Active Ability - Mana Rush

X Mana/Sec

The strength of a manaheart is determined by the energy that runs through their veins. You’ve learned to use that to your advantage. Gain [X\MND/20] Strength for the duration.*

She’d found in testing that the skill had a minimum duration of ten seconds, effectively limiting the amount of Mana she could put in to below a tenth of her total supply. Her body needed Mana to function, after all.

But a single attack didn’t need ten seconds.

The resulting Mana drain would almost certainly kill her, but she could, in theory, hit nearly fifteen thousand Strength for a second. That’d be plenty to take a griffin down with her. Eve shuddered. She hated the idea, especially less than a day after Alex had done essentially the same thing.

She swallowed. Much as the constant threat of impending death served to distract her from her grief, these moments of silence formed perfect opportunities for thoughts of the fallen warrior to slip through. Eve did her best to quash any flecks of hope that popped up. Survivor or otherwise, no level thirty-seven could survive a thousand tons of falling rock. No, it was better she make peace with Alex’s loss now so she could focus on her own survival.

Her train of thought came to an abrupt end as Eve’s forward foot sank nearly an inch into the stone. Realizing immediately that that was certainly not how stone works, the Striker looked down to find it was, in fact, not solid rock onto which she’d stepped.

It was manure.

She cursed, pulling her foot back to scrape her boot against the corner of the previous step. “Dead Fields, my ass. Last I checked, dead things don’t leave piles of shit behind.”

“It’s the fields that are dead, not the things in it,” Preston corrected. “What’d be the point of tier fours leveling here if there was nothing to fight? Didn’t you say you saw a griffin last night?”

Eve sighed. “Right, right. I just wasn’t expecting to see signs of life so… immediately.”

“If—um…” Wes added, “if that’s… fresh enough to make a mess of your boots, doesn’t that mean whatever left it is still in the area?”

“Unless it flies,” Eve said. She pointed up the sheer cliff face to her left. “Or lives up there and did its business over the side of the cliff.”

Wes frowned. “That sounds dangerous.”

Preston held up a hand. “Can we not discuss the mechanics of how the poop got there?”

“Alright, alright.” Eve stepped around it to continue on. “It’s just weird that a monster would come up onto the steps to… never mind.” For the second time her foot fell on something other than solid rock. “We’re here.”

“See?” Preston gestured to the dry, lifeless dirt that lined the ground in all directions. “Dead.”

“Yep,” Wes said, “these fields sure are dead.”

Eve sighed. “Alright, so if there’s nothing growing here, what do the animals eat?”

The mage shrugged. “Each other?”

Eve put her head in her hands. “You know, for all your Intelligence, you really say some dumb shit sometimes.”

Preston patted him on the back, speaking with a gentle—if condescending—tone. “If they all ate each other, there’d be none left to get shit on Eve’s boot.”

The others joined her on the flat ground, taking in what little of their surroundings they could. There wasn’t much. Beyond the dry brown dirt and the wall of stone behind them, the world was obscured in mist.

Eve considered asking Wes to broaden the scope of his lilac flames, but for every extra foot in visibility that strategy bought, it paid in increased risk. The Disciple’s control was still in question, and more flames meant a greater chance some beast might find them.

“Okay, so,” Preston wondered aloud, “where to?”

“Far as I can tell, we have two options,” Eve answered, “left or right.” She pointed back at the cliff face. “The mountains are our only landmark. If we move away from them we’ll wind up wandering in the mists for gods know how long.”

“I vote east,” the healer said. “I think there’s supposed to be a pass through the Teeth somewhere north of Ilvia. Shouldn’t be more than a week or two away.”

Wes shrugged. “Sounds good enough to me.”

Eve turned up her palms, wordlessly signaling her assent by taking the first step around the base of the stairs. In less than ten minutes the carved stairway had completely disappeared into the fog above.

Much as being on solid ground was relatively safer than being precariously perched on a cliffside, Eve only felt more exposed. The ring of purple flame around them gave the air a surreal flair as the lilac glow flickered across the companions’ faces. Every pop and crackle of the fire sent Eve’s heart racing as she scanned the mist for any sign of motion. It was exhausting.

Hours dragged on as they walked along the base of the cliff. At least, it felt like hours. Eve had no way to track the movement of the sun through the thick clouds. Wes’s stomach proved the most effective timepiece they had.

Eve based her estimate of midday at the time the bulky fire mage dug through his pack in search of lunch, even if neither her own stomach nor her Mana pool mandated she do the same. The party took a short break as the men ate, sitting on the loose earth and leaning back against the wall of stone.

They spoke little. Preston spent his attention feeding—and chatting with—Reginald, while Wes was too preoccupied keeping his flames from spreading to make worthwhile conversation. It was all the same to Eve. Less talking meant less chance of attracting a nearby beast.

It was in these slow, dreary hours that Eve began to truly appreciate Wes’s class. No doubt it took Mana to maintain his control over the fire’s natural desire to ignite the entire fields, but the burning fumes more than replenished it thanks to Gift of the Devouring Flame. The Disciple could theoretically cast forever.

Eve put that theory to rest approximately seven hours—and another meal—later, as the sky began to darken with the setting sun.

Thus far Wes had done a truly admirable job of ignoring the whispers and constraining the inferno, even if he needed regular reminders from Preston whenever he began to grow distracted. As the day passed, so shrank the time between such lapses. The true danger, however, didn’t rear its head until the final glimmers of daylight faded away, leaving the party lit only by the lilac flames and Eve’s glowing eyes.

Wes yawned.

“I think it might be about time to stop for the night,” he said.

Eve raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you could cast spells in your sleep.”

“He can’t,” Preston answered, rummaging through his shoulder pack.

Eve nodded. “So unless you both have suddenly become immune to poison gas, we’re not stopping any time soon.”

Wes paled. “Eve, I’m not a manaheart. I can’t just stay awake.”

“Then can you explain to me what our other option is?”

The mage swallowed. “Even if we just keep going, I’m going to lose control eventually. I can’t focus for a week straight.”

“Actually,” Preston said, “you can.” He pulled his hand from his bag, holding a small leather pouch carefully marked ‘Stamina.’ “Did you really think I’d follow you down here without a backup plan in case we didn’t shelter?”

Wes eyed the expensive potion. “I thought those were for emergencies.”

Preston furrowed his brow at the creeping fog and purple flames. “This is about as ‘emergency’ as it gets. It’s no substitute for sleep, but it’ll keep you going.”

Wes grimaced but nonetheless accepted the offered brew. He downed it in a single gulp.

While the Disciple made a show of sticking his tongue out at the vile taste, Eve turned to the potion’s source. “What about you?”

“I’ve got enough of these to last a week,” Preston answered, “but only if we save them all for Wes.”

Eve nodded. “So we can either stop every night so you can sleep or potion up both of you so we can keep walking.”

The Caretaker was already digging out another pouch. “We’re going to have to find shelter either way. If we walk through the night, it’ll happen sooner rather than later. Even if they keep him awake, I don’t trust Stamina potions to keep Wes from accidentally burning us all to a crisp if he goes a week without sleeping.”

The look that crossed Preston’s face as he too downed the concoction was enough to remind Eve how grateful she was for her new race. Even without alchemical interference she could go keep going for days. Running on Mana had its perks.

The adventurers continued on through the unchanging terrain, the dark of night overcome by their magical nature. Eve felt herself relaxing as the hours passed without a monster sighting.

Perhaps Wes’s flames warded off any beasts that might’ve been lurking in the mist, or the relative shelter of the mountains beside which they walked allowed them to skirt through the deadly land undetected. Eve didn’t think for a moment that it was the thick fog protecting them. Any predator of the Dead Fields must’ve had a way to hunt without reliance on sight.

Every once in a while, a terrible roar or agonized shriek echoed in the distance, reconfirming the danger through which they trod. Eve kept a hand on her mace, constantly stuck imagining what she might do to save her friends in the event of an attack. None came.

As hours turned to days, Eve’s fear shifted from monsters to the air itself. Though they passed streams and creeks and even a few shallow caves, not once did the companions come across a means to shield themselves from the toxic atmosphere without Wes’s unending focus.

Their time was running out.

With each passing hour Wes’s eyes seemed to sink further into his skull, his face growing gaunter and more pale with each step. More than once as they journeyed, Eve caught the fire mage staring at Reginald with envy in his eyes. At least he, curled up cozily around the healer’s neck, could get some sleep.

By their third day in the Dead Fields, Preston decided to follow the hatchling’s lead. For both his own sanity and in an effort to conserve Stamina potions, the Caretaker forwent his own dose of the brew in exchange of claiming what sleep he could while Eve carried him over her shoulder.

Wes offered to help, of course, but Eve decided it was better he keep his focus on his fire. Besides, she thought to herself with a quiet grin, I’m stronger than you.

For a time, she even considered carrying Wes as well, if only so she could run rather than remain constrained by his walking pace. She dismissed the idea the moment she realized the mage could only burn the poisoned fog so quickly. Walking it was.

It was during one such evening of travel that a series of shouts rang out over the gentle sound of Preston snoring in her ear. They ended with a fading whimper and great cry.

“Take that, ye slimy bastard!”

Eve and Wes shared a sideways glance before turning toward the source of the sound. She lowered Preston from her shoulder.

“Wha—” He blinked the sleep from his eyes. “Wha’s going on?”

“I think,” Eve replied, “we might’ve found some help.”

CHAPTER THREE

Like It or Not, the Answer Is Slime

THE SOURCE OF the noise led them away from the relative safety of the cliffside. Eve felt a pang of anxiety as she turned back to watch fresh fog roll into the space left by Wes’s flames and the wall of rock disappear behind it. The sound of grunts and footsteps ahead was their only compass, now. How easy it would be to wander in these mists for the rest of their lives.

A duality of emotions washed through her as the silhouette first came into view: relief at finding a guide mixed with apprehension at its outline.

It wasn’t human.

The thing scurried about on all fours around a large dark blob that Eve could only assume was the aforementioned “slimy bastard.” A string of unintelligible mutterings marked its sapience, if the relative size of the strange figure compared to the mass of the thing it’d killed wasn’t enough. When at last the shape stood upright on its hind legs, it reached only four feet tall.

“What’s that out there?” The high pitch of the shout contrasted sharply with the amount of grit in the masculine voice. “I’m warning ye, ye face Drathis, great hunter of the gray abyss!”

Eve froze. “We’re adventurers,” she answered. “We’ve um… got a bit lost.”

“Sounds like mimic bullshit to me.” A click rang out. “Don’t make any sudden moves. This thing’s loaded.”

“What thing?” Preston called out. “We can’t see you.”

Drathis let out an over-exaggerated sigh, stepping up to the very edge of Wes’s ring of fire. The lilac glow flickered over him. It wasn’t the layer of deep brown matted fur nor the pointed snout nor even the hairless tail that swayed menacingly behind him that drew Eve’s attention.

It was the weapon he pointed at them.

“Ah,” Preston said, holding up his hands defensively. “‘This thing’ is a crossbow.”

Eve tried to calm him. “Look, Drathis—”

He swiveled, jerking the tip of his crossbow towards Eve. “How do you know my name?”

Wes raised an eyebrow. “You um… kind of announced it. ‘Ye face Drathis, great hunter of the gray whatever.’”

Drathis growled.

“We mean you no harm,” Eve continued her attempt at an introduction. “We’re adventurers from south of Xandria’s Teeth. We got stuck out here and have been wandering in the fog for days.”

Wes rubbed his eyes. “We could need some help.”

Drathis blinked. “What?”

“Wes has been burning the poison away,” Preston explained, “but he’s about to pass out from exhaustion. We need another way to survive the mists.”

The oversized rat furrowed his brow. “I don’t think mimics can use fire magic.”

“Don’t mimics only copy inanimate objects?” Eve asked.

A crazed look crossed Drathis’s face. “Ye can never be too sure.” The air fell silent. Even the dim crackling of the ghostly purple flames seemed to quiet for the sake of the tension of the moment. The seconds dragged on.

From seemingly nowhere, Drathis lowered his crossbow. “Alright, that’s sure enough.”

Eve released a breath she’d certainly known she’d been holding—the constant need for oxygen made it difficult to hold one’s breath without knowing about it. “Thank Ayla.”

The dirty rag over Drathis’s mouth twisted with what Eve could only hope was the giant rat version of a smile underneath. “You’re just in time too. I could use some help with this pelsid.” He turned away, scurrying back towards his kill as he wildly gestured the adventures to follow.

With a shrug, Eve did.

As they approached, Preston made a point of reminding Wes to redirect his blaze around the massive blob. Drathis probably wouldn’t be too happy if they set fire to his prize.

A pelsid, as it turned out, was a giant slug. At over twenty feet long, Eve had no idea how Drathis had originally intended to harvest much at all from the carcass given the complete lack of any sort of cart or wagon he might’ve used for hauling meat. It wasn’t until he snatched up a pair of iron buckets from the ground that Eve realized his intent.

“Start scraping,” the rat barked. He seemed to think that wasn’t quite enough instruction, as he took a moment to demonstrate with a clawed hand. In a single motion, Drathis swiped a layer of dull green slime from the pelsid’s flank, depositing it into the bucket with a hideous plop. “Get to it!”

Wes hung back, too sleep deprived to risk his control of the flames over a bit of sludge. Eve and Preston shared a grimace before the Striker finally shrugged and stepped forward. It couldn’t be worse than the Lynthia sewers.

It was.

The pelsid carried the distinct stench of rotting flesh, a smell that only intensified as she reached out a reluctant hand to touch it. She scooped a handful of ooze into the nearest bucket. It was still warm.

Fighting back a wave of nausea, Eve turned back to glare at Preston. Like hells was she going to do this alone.

The healer rolled up his sleeves.

It took about four more swipes for Eve to fall into the rhythm of it—about as close to ‘used to’ the horrific stench and mucus-y texture as she was going to get. The bucket she and Preston shared was only half full when Drathis moved to exchange his full bucket for an empty one. Eve spotted four more still waiting for their share of the slime. She sighed.

“What do you need all this sludge for, anyway?” Preston asked.

Drathis’s squeaky yet gravelly voice carried from behind the giant slug. “You’re the one who was complaining about the mists.”

“I wasn’t complaining, I was…” Preston trailed off. “The slime helps?”

“How did ye think the pelsids survive out here? They absorb things through their skin. Without their slime, they’d absorb the poison too.”

Preston’s eyebrows raised. “It’s an antidote?”

“I didn’t say that.” Drathis set down yet another completed bucket, moving on to his third before Eve and Preston finished their first. “Stuff’s more toxic than the air.”

Eve’s eyes shot open as she jerked her bare hand away from the dead beast. “How toxic?”

Drathis scaled the carcass to peek over at the two adventurers. “Oh, relax. Don’t eat it and you’ll be fine.”

Eve took a moment to confirm she had no notifications about ingesting a new toxin before returning to her work.

Preston continued his line of questioning. “If it’s poisonous too, how is the slime supposed to help us with the fumes?”

“Same way it helps the pelsid.” Drathis slid back down to the ground. “By filtering the air. It takes some doing, of course, but if ye soak a bit of cloth in boiled and dried and reboiled pelsid slime, it’ll keep the mists from killing ye. Directly, that is. Won’t stop something from sneaking up on ye.”

“Ah, right,” Preston said.

With another swipe, Eve topped off their first bucket and moved to pick up a second. On her way back, she made a point of glaring at Preston for letting his conversation distract him from the task at hand. He sucked in air through his teeth in silent apology before getting back to work.

Despite having smaller hands, shorter arms, and claws more fit for slashing than scooping ooze, Drathis managed to finish his fourth and final bucket just as Eve and Preston topped off their second. At least they had managed to keep their clothes relatively free of the stuff. Drathis’s hardened-leather cuirass couldn’t say the same.

“Good, good,” the rat-beast muttered, handing off the collection of buckets to the adventurers.

Eve took them all. Her class had started out as a glorified pack mule, after all. Carrying Drathis’s slime was just a return to her roots.

“This way, this way.” Drathis took off into the mist, forcing the companions to scurry after him for fear of losing their only guide.

Eve took the opportunity to fully analyze their savior. Beyond the leather chest piece, the crossbow at his back, and the mask protecting his mouth and nose from the toxins in the air, Drathis was completely exposed. Eve wondered at his decision to go without pants in such a dangerous place, if only for the sake of protecting his fur from getting covered in grime. As it was, he looked an absolute mess.

Dirt and blood and pelsid slime practically coated him, giving his fur a glossy sheen that reeked more than the slug itself. Perhaps he preferred it like that. Rats were filthy creatures, after all, at least if those she’d fought in the sewers were any metric.

Eve shook the thought from her head, cursing herself out for stereotyping Drathis. He was no sewer rat. Instead, she opted to Appraise him like she would any other adventurer in the wild.

Level ?? Scavenger of the Wastes

Uncommon Tier 4 Class

Eve snorted, fighting to suppress her laughter. With a class name like that, maybe he had been a sewer rat at one point. It just sounded too much like ‘scavenger of waste.’ Far too much.

The other piece of information she noticed was the class’s rarity: Uncommon. However high-level he might’ve been, Drathis was probably weaker than she was, at least from a stat perspective. Not that it mattered—in their current environment, his survival skills were worth far more than a few points of Strength.

Just as Eve’s musings turned toward how the Scavenger had found himself in the Dead Fields, he stopped short.

Eve stumbled, bits of slime sloshing out from the buckets to land on her leg. She winced.

“Careful!” Drathis snapped. “We’re here.”

Lost in her thoughts as she was, Eve hadn’t noticed the stone cliffside come back into view, nor the twenty-foot pond at its base. “What’s here?”

Drathis snatched two of the buckets from her grasp, his shoulders slumping from the weight. “Follow me.”

He dove in.

Eve squinted at the water’s surface, watching as the giant rat disappeared into the depths. She turned back to give Wes and Preston an uncertain look.

The healer raised his eyebrows. “You first.”

Eve sighed, looking back towards the clear pond. She took a deep breath.

Reginald leapt in.

“Shit,” Preston cursed. “I must’ve said that to Regi too. Still getting used to this mental-link thing.”

“Can Reginald tell you if it’s safe?” Eve asked.

“Maybe?” Preston shrugged. “Depends on how far away he gets.”

“Can drakes even swim?”

Preston furrowed his brow in concentration for a moment before nodding his head yes. “He seems to be doing fine so far. Oh, he’s found the—” He trailed off. “Shit. Shit shit shit.” He jumped in.

Eve grit her teeth. “Can you make it?” she asked Wes.

He rubbed his tired eyes. “If it means I’ll get to sleep, I can do anything.”

They took the plunge together.

Frigid water rushed along Eve’s skin in a refreshing shock. It took less than a second for her Mana-infused body to overcome the chill, but she worried for Wes and Preston. Such was becoming a trend.

Her gleaming Mana lit the way through the submerged tunnel as she swam, following Preston’s frantic kicking ahead of her. About halfway through she spared a thought for the four buckets she still carried. Looking down revealed the slime still rested comfortably in the iron receptacles, dense enough to avoid being washed away. Unfortunately, the same could be said for the ooze that still clung to her hands and leg.

A minute later, she emerged into the cool of bioluminescent moss and the tense growl of a frightened drakeling.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Preston struggled to calm both Reginald and the crossbow-wielding Drathis. “Reginald is with me.”

“Well, why didn’t ye say so?” Drathis slung the crossbow over his shoulder, accidentally firing a shot into the ceiling.

“He… was visible around my neck this entire time.”

“Was he?” Drathis pulled back. “I thought that was a growth.” He shook his head. “Anyway, welcome to Hunter’s Den. I’m the hunter. This is my den.” He turned to where Eve was still pushing herself out of the water. “Ye can put the slime by the cauldron.”

As she deposited the buckets, Eve took the opportunity to survey Drathis’s cave. It was downright verdant. Moss lined the walls, joined by twisting ivy and even a few ferns in the soft soil around the water. There was probably more plant life in this single cavern than the entire Dead Fields.

Eve was okay with that. She’d rather missed plants. Seeing the same dead earth and barren stone all day every day had grown rather tiring.

Throughout the cave, she noticed a complete lack of any sort of ventilation. Given the poison outside, that was probably a good thing, though it did leave her to worry about the oxygen supply. Perhaps the sheer size of the cavern in conjunction with the quantity and diversity of its plant life could help overcome that particular danger?

Eve sighed. It worked for Drathis, but three additional sets of lungs meant that much staler air. At least it wasn’t actively poisonous.

While Preston helped Wes climb from the frigid pond, Eve took a moment to sit back upon the soft moss and rest her weary legs. Manaheart or otherwise, she had just walked for several days straight.

As chance would have it, her quest decided then of all times was the ideal opportunity to reward her for the combination of endurance, bravery, dumb luck, and willingness to scoop slime off a dead slug with her bare hands that had gotten them safely to Drathis’s abode. Eve smiled.

Legendary Quest Milestone Reached: Get Your Hands Dirty!

+16000 exp!

Much as she wondered why this was getting her hands dirty as opposed to fighting the goblins or visiting the gods-damned sewers, Eve accepted her milestone as it was. She’d take what she could get.

Besides, regardless of how it happened, for as long as she lived, she’d never grow tired of the notification that followed.

Level Up!

CHAPTER FOUR

Scouting is Hard When You Can't See

ABILITY UPGRADED!

Active Ability - Mana Burst

Variable Mana-cost!

Eve dismissed the notification. She supposed it was a fine enough upgrade; additional flexibility would always be welcome. The main issue was that she already had a variable-cost ability to dump her Mana into, and the surge of Strength from Mana Rush just sounded better.

She shook her head. Too many spells, not enough Mana. The thought was silly. She had access to way more Mana than anyone at her level ever should, especially considering how many ways she had to replenish it. Then again, most people regenerated Mana naturally. Hers drained over time.

At least she could eat. Of course, eating mid-combat probably wasn’t a good idea—cramps, distraction, or even busying up a hand delivering food to her mouth could all mean her demise, but as long as she had some snacks to wolf down and a quarter hour to digest, her supply would last.

The downside, she figured, was the same problem all endurance fighters had. Wes could be half starved and awake for a week straight and still cast at full power. If she missed a few meals she’d be dead weight.

On that note, she slipped a hand into her pack to withdraw the last of the dried meat she’d bought in Foot’s Garrison. Eve chewed through the tough jerky with little difficulty as her 114 Strength applied as much to the force of her bite as the strength of her arm. As she ate, Eve took the opportunity to check in on her companions.

They were already asleep. Wes, unsurprisingly, had passed out almost immediately upon their arrival at Drathis’s cave, taking no more than a few seconds to dry his wet armor with a flash of heat. The marginally less sleep-deprived Preston lay at his side, using the bulky mage’s arm as a pillow. Eve couldn’t imagine the armored appendage was particularly comfortable, but she didn’t question it. They looked too cute together like that.

That is, they looked cute until Preston let out an earth-shattering snore, spooking Reginald enough to send the drakeling scurrying away from the warm Caretaker to disappear behind a fern. Eve chuckled.

Across the lush cavern, Drathis scurried about a large black cauldron, emptying slime-buckets and sparking the fire to begin whatever alchemical process he used to turn the vile ooze into a cure for the poisoned sky. Eve watched him work for a time before her curiosity got the better of her. She approached.

“How did you figure this out, anyway?”

“Class knowledge,” Drathis replied without looking up from his work. He snatched a long stick from the ground, sticking it into the cauldron to stir the warming slime.

Eve scowled. “Class what-now?”

Drathis rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t be much of a hunter if I didn’t know how to survive in the wild. Did someone teach ye how to strike things?”

Eve didn’t comment that Drathis was a Scavenger, not a hunter. She’d let him have his fantasies. “Well… no,” she answered. “I just figured it out. It’s simple. Take weapon, hit enemy, repeat until dead.”

The giant rat shrugged. “Ye ‘just figured out’ how to cast your spells, then?”

Eve paused. Come to think of it, there’d been very little trial and error involved in learning new abilities. Sure, skills like Charge! and Jet took some getting used to, but she’d never had to learn how to activate them. She just knew. “Huh.”

Drathis patted her on the back. “Maybe you’ll learn something useful when ye get a real class.”

Eve paled at the statement, forcing herself not to snap back at her host. That’s rich coming from an Uncommon, she thought, ultimately deciding the better of correcting his faulty Appraise. Perhaps he’d be more willing to help if he thought her a weak Common-er. “I—um—sure,” she managed.

The brief conversation came to an abrupt end as both parties fell silent, Drathis for focus on his work and Eve for lack of things to say. She watched intently as he stirred the green slime, grimacing at the squishing noise it made. The experience grew only more unpleasant as the first bubbles began to form, filling the air with the pure, concentrated stench of pelsid. Eve’s stomach turned.

She backed away from the boiling cauldron, but the olfactory assault continued to spread until no refuge remained in the verdant cave. A quick check to her status confirmed there was nothing toxic about the fumes, but the scent alone made her regret eating that jerky. Eve looked back at her sleeping companions, feeling a pang of envy that they got to be unconscious while Drathis worked. She sighed.

It was then, under the influence of smell-induced nausea, that Eve came to a rather dangerous realization. If the pond water kept the poison air out of the cave, it’d certainly keep the stench in.

I might as well take a look around, she reasoned. Without the others I can just Charge! out of danger, anyway. She recognized the excuses for what they were, but between her watering eyes and rebelling stomach, better judgment fell by the wayside.

Grabbing her weapons and leaving her pack behind, Eve made for the exit.

As she hit the water, a part of her considered Jetting through it to shorten the swim. Shooting through the pond certainly sounded fun, but unnecessary Mana expenditures were probably unwise.

Popping up in the outside world, Eve took a moment to get her bearings before following the cliffside to the eastern bank. Preston had said the mountain pass was only a day or two away. With her Haste and Charge!, she should be able to reach it in a few hours.

She took off along the mountainside, immediately thankful she didn’t have to walk at the speed of Wes’s flames. Every breath sent poison into her veins, just enough for her body to break down into Mana to replace what she spent on running.

About ten minutes in, she realized her mistake.

In the thick haze of the Dead Fields, Eve couldn’t see the boulder until it was right in front of her.

She Jetted to a halt, extending both hands out in front of her to catch herself on the obstacle. They slammed into the stone.

Her heart raced.

Ayla’s tits, she cursed, that was way too close. A bead of sweat dripped down her brow as she tried not to think about what might’ve happened without Jet. She shuddered. Death by running headlong into a rock wasn’t exactly heroic. Then again, she supposed a stupid death might’ve been a fitting end to her similarly stupid quest.

Alright, Eve thought to herself, no running in heavy fog. Got it. She shook off her tense muscles and caught her ragged breath, taking the time to allow the adrenaline to drain away. Stepping around the would-be lethal boulder, Eve continued on at a brisk jog. Her Haste still kept her moving faster than most people could sprint, but without Charge! her speed would be far from deadly.

She hoped.

Eve kept an open ear as she progressed, listening closely for any hints of lurking dangers. Only the sound of her own footfalls echoed through the fog.

The hours blurred together as she jogged, the world too obscured to provide her any sense of distance or variety. Dreadfully boring as it was, Eve appreciated the dullness of her surroundings—it meant fewer distractions from the watch for threats.

The sky had already begun to darken with the falling night when the cliffside came to an end.

Eve nearly jogged right past the worn cobblestone road before she realized what she’d found. She froze, her eyes following the path as it led both left into the Dead Fields and right into the mountains themselves. It was more the bottom of a gorge than a true mountain pass, but even the ten feet of road she could see sloped upwards.

A wide grin crossed Eve’s face. She’d found it! Already her mind flooded with thoughts of home, of comfort. She could hardly believe it. For all Preston had opined on the danger of the Dead Fields, for all the creeping terror of the oppressive fog or the lingering threat of the airborne toxin, she’d found a way home.

For the first time since laying eyes on the Dead Fields, Eve wondered what she’d do once they made it back. She daydreamed of selling the massive dungeon core in her pack, of lying back in a soft bed, of buying a truly unreasonable quantity of strawberry scones. She let out a wistful sigh.

Before she thought to return to Drathis’s cave to tell the others just how close they were to returning to civilization, Eve took a careful stride down the southern road, thinking she’d at least confirm it wasn’t a dead end. It wouldn’t do to get everyone’s hopes up only to find the gully had collapsed and blocked the way.

What she found wasn’t much better.

Four steps into the jagged gorge, a blue notification popped into Eve’s vision.

You have entered the dungeon: The Fallen Pass! Fight well.

Shit. She took a step back. Shit shit shit. Her heart sank as she turned away to race towards the relative safety of the Hunter’s Den. Stranded in the Dead Fields or otherwise, she sure as hells wasn’t ready to take on another dungeon, not after how the last one went. She swallowed.

Maybe Drathis would know more, or Preston would have another idea for a way through the towering mountains. Eve could only hope so.

She didn’t know how long they could survive in the Dead Fields or if there was an alternate path south or even how strong the dungeon might’ve been, but at least her little scouting trip had provided one piece of crucial, if heartbreaking, information.

They weren’t out of the woods yet.

CHAPTER FIVE

To the Grindstone

“YOU DID WHAT?”

“Shhh.” Eve pressed a finger to her mouth, jerking her head towards the still-slumbering Wes.

Preston rolled his eyes. “You and I both know he’ll sleep through a stampede. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking Drathis stank up the cave with pelsid slime and I wanted to go looking for this pass you mentioned.”

“Without us,” Preston added. “You could’ve gotten killed.”

“I’m an adventurer, Preston,” she snapped. “Getting killed is always on the table. Having you and Wes along wouldn’t have helped if a level two hundred decided I looked tasty.” Eve stopped short of saying they would’ve slowed her down. While true in the most literal of senses, Preston didn’t deserve to hear that.

He caught on to her reasoning, nonetheless. “And without us you have a better chance of escaping.”

She nodded.

“Okay.” Preston shrugged and shook his head, visibly less than happy with the exchange. “What did you find?”

“There’s a pass there alright.”

The healer’s face lit up. “That’s great! We can head out as soon as Wes wakes up.”

Eve held up a hand. “One problem. There was a pass there. Or—well—there still is, but it’s a dungeon now. The Fallen Pass.”

Preston furrowed his brow. “Can we challenge it?”

“The Fallen Pass? Not unless ye’d like to die.” Drathis looked up from his stone-carving to chime in.

Eve didn’t question why the giant rat chose to spend his time adding to his growing collection of tiny stone animals. Maybe he’d once had a child to play with such toys; the last thing Eve wanted to do was bring up such memories. “What do you know about it?” she asked instead.

“It’s the trellac’s roost.”

The Striker continued, “What’s a trellac? Can we sneak past it?”

“If ye were a plant,” Drathis answered. “The trellac’s no ordinary monster; the beast hunts with her mind. One whiff o’ the thoughts in your head and she’ll be faster than a griffin on somebody else’s kill.” He spat.

“What about fighting it?” Preston suggested. “We have firepower to spare.”

Drathis jerked a clawed finger toward Wes. “Maybe if ye had three o’ him.”

Eve briefly choked at the idea of dealing with three Weses. Dear gods, no.

Drathis continued, “Like ye are? I’d warn ye away, but ye did say getting killed was on the table.”

“No, that’s not what I—I didn’t mean on purpose, I meant—” Eve exhaled. “Is there another pass?”

“Not unless ye can make it to the Broken Marsh.”

“That’s a no,” Preston said. “That’d be back the way we came, plus another month’s walk. Without Drathis’s survival skills and the supplies in this cave, our food stores wouldn’t last a week. We’d starve.”

“So it’s trellac or bust,” Eve thought aloud. “We can’t sneak past it, and we can’t fight it unless we find help or get stronger.”

Preston gave her a sideways glance. “What are you planning?”

A sly grin crossed her face. “Well, we did come north in the first place to level up. Just because we’re stuck further north than we intended doesn’t mean we have to stop.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Oh, but she was. “I’m sure Drathis can find us some things to kill, and with how high-level everything out here is…”

Preston’s expression went flat. “You just want to hit tier four.”

Eve’s smile widened. “I just want to make sure we all get home safely. If I just… happen to reach tier 4 in the process, all the better.”

Preston sighed, gently running a hand along Reginald’s back where the drake rested around his neck. Already the hatchling had outgrown his old roost in the healer’s hair. “Alright,” he finally said, “but on one condition.”

She cocked an eyebrow.

“Reginald gets a cut of the exp.”

Eve looked back and forth between the glorified veterinarian and his foot-and-a-half-long pet drake before extending an open hand.

“We have a deal.”

* * *

“This is the worst.” Wes tugged at the strip of fabric that covered his mouth and nose. “I can’t believe this is our best option.”

Eve rolled her eyes, her own face free of a former pant-leg soaked in Drathis’s slime mixture. Not being human had its perks. “The air is literally poison, Wes. You can handle a bit of stinky cloth.”

“I liked my fire solution better.”

Preston blinked. “You mean the one that forced you to stay awake for a week straight?”

Four days had passed since Eve’s little scouting trip, most of which she’d spent cooped up in Drathis’s cave while Wes slept. She hadn’t known it was possible to sleep that long, but apparently taking stamina potions to stay awake really wasn’t great for one’s health.

“I’d just need to keep it up long enough to hunt a bit and return to the cave,” the mage reasoned.

“No.” The sharpness in Eve’s tone put an end to Wes’s protest. “If we’re gonna be fighting, you can’t be distracted. Wasting focus on keeping the air clean could get us killed.”

“We’re here.” Drathis pointed.

The thing was tall.

A single, thin appendage loomed ahead of them, whatever body it supported obscured in the mist above. The leg itself was a foot thick, giving it a strongly unstable, spindly appearance as it must’ve been at least twenty feet long. The dark gray and wrinkled skin came to an end at a thin hoof which sank somewhat into the dry earth.

If Eve squinted, she could just make out the shapes of three more such legs in the fog. “What is this thing?” She paused. “Oh. Right. Appraise.”

Level ?? Skyswallower

Preston took a step back.

“That’s not an intimidating name at all,” Wes commented.

“There’s tiny creatures,” Drathis said, bringing two claws together to demonstrate, “living in the mist. They feed off the poison, and the skyswallowers feed off them.”

Eve instinctively covered her exposed mouth, stomach churning at the idea of breathing in a living creature. Then again, she hadn’t noticed anything thus far, and anything she had inhaled would’ve just turned to Mana. She removed her hand, noticing the air felt somehow grittier since hearing Drathis’s explanation. Eve shuddered.

“Are they dangerous?” Preston asked.

“Everything’s dangerous if you handle it wrong,” the rat answered. “The trellac herself wouldn’t take a herd o’ swallowers head on.”

Eve opened her mouth to protest Drathis’s chosen nickname for the skyswallowers before deciding the better of it. Drawing attention to it would just give Wes another opportunity to come up with a tasteless joke. She could practically hear him wrack his brain for ideas. “There’s a herd?”

“Aye.” Drathis nodded. “Must be a couple hundred in this one, spread out o’ course.”

Preston’s eyes widened. “How can you tell?”

The Scavenger shrugged. “Listen. They talk to each other.”

Eve strained, cupping a hand to her ear. Sure enough, a chorus of what could only be described as deep, unnerving groans echoed through the sky. “So how do we fight one without fighting the herd?”

“They’ll follow the food,” Drathis said, “and the food are drawn to light.”

Three sets of eyes turned to stare at Wes as he muttered to himself.

“Sounds like a girl I once knew? No, that’s not it. You named them after your mother? No, too mean.”

Preston cleared his throat.

Wes shook his head, redirecting his thoughts from the array of ‘swallower’ jokes. “Sorry, what?”

Eve sighed. “We need a light to lure one of these away from the herd.”

Wes spun an open hand with a flourish, conjuring a simple flame in his palm. It glowed purple under the influence of the mists. “A light, you say?” He paused, eyes drifting over the Mana lines along Eve’s neck. “What about you?”

Drathis coughed, raising a claw to the air. “Up there. They don’t eat with their shins.”

“Right. Just—um—tell me where.”

Directing Wes’s flame to the right location proved a somewhat more difficult task than Eve had expected. Between watching their quarry’s knees to determine which direction it actually faced, figuring out the right distance to catch its attention and not that of its herdmates, as well as maintaining—and restricting—the small blaze without being able to actually see it, Wes had his work cut out for him.

After an afternoon of traipsing back and forth with either too many or too few skyswallowers in tow—and several minutes spent running from an angry beast Wes accidentally singed—the Disciple successfully lured his first target.

They walked for nearly half an hour before Eve turned to their rodent guide. “Is this far enough?”

Drathis shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

The words didn’t exactly inspire confidence, but Eve had to admit the truth to them. It wasn’t like they had a way to test it. She looked up and down the four towering legs before her. “So how do we take it down?”

“Go for the legs?” Preston offered. “You’re the one with a mace.”

“I could burn it,” Wes said. “I’ve already got a flame in front of it.”

“I’d rather get it to the ground first,” Eve countered. “If we don’t immobilize it with the first hit, it’ll run back to its herd.” She drew her morningstar. “Any arguments?”

The men both shook their heads.

“Alright. Here goes nothing.”

Eve dumped two hundred Mana per second into Mana Rush, ballooning her Strength to well over three thousand. She swung. A hideous crack echoed through the mist as the steel weight of her mace crashed into the creature’s shin.

It bounced off.

Eve’s eyebrows shot up as she clenched to control the rebound. She’d known this thing was high-level, but truth be told she’d still expected the mace to pass right through. Everything else she’d fought had crumpled before it.

The skyswallower bellowed in pain, rearing back to take its weight off the wounded limb.

At least she’d wounded it. Eve pulled back for another strike, trying to choose which leg would make the best target, when the creature surprised her for the second time.

The skyswallower ran away.

Eve followed.

Though the thing’s clumsy, three-legged step slowed it down, the incredible length of its stride more than made up for its injury.

Eve Charged! Her Mana ticked down with every step as Mana Rush burned through it. She raced on.

Eve realized her first problem as she came up alongside the fleeing skyswallower: Its legs were moving targets. The haphazard way it ran to overcome the uselessness of its damaged limb added just enough chaos to its motion to stump the intrepid hunter. Eve wasted precious seconds watching it move.

It was her Mana bar, in the end, that forced her into action. Only a thousand left. Only a few more seconds on Mana Rush’s minimum duration.

She pulled back her mace, carefully tracking the motion of her quarry’s rear leg. She prayed.

Eve canceled her abilities the moment her weapon struck true.

Absent her temporary Strength, her fingers failed to keep a grip on the sturdy handle as it rebounded. The mace wrenched itself from her hands, spinning back to land with a thud on loose earth.

Another pained groan rang out, pulling Eve’s attention back to the creature above her. She looked up just in time to see the dark shape plummeting towards her.

She Jetted back.

The abruptness of the ability use sent her tumbling to the ground, but she’d take a bit of dirt over being crushed by a monster any day.

Eve panted as she righted herself, immediately thankful she’d both measured out and canceled her Mana Rush when she had. A quick status check confirmed the Jet had dropped her reserves into the double digits. She gulped.

Hurried footfalls rang out behind her, coming to an end as her companions caught up. Wes and Preston both began casting at once, the former to engulf the disabled skyswallower in flame and the latter to send a rush of golden light through Eve.

She shivered as Ayla forgave her for the stupidity to hunt a creature so beyond her level, as if she’d had a choice. The Striker scowled at the goddess’s ever-condescending mercy. Hells, she didn’t even need healing. The beast never hit her.

Eve dismissed that thought as she noticed a trickle of Mana return to her pool. “You didn’t tell me you could restore Mana.”

Preston faltered. “I… can’t.”

Eve shrugged. “Must be a manaheart thing. I was full health, so it absorbed the Mana from your spell.”

The Caretaker paused. “You really shouldn’t be able to do that. That’s not how spells wor—”

“Anyway,” she cut him off, pushing herself to her feet, “let’s go make sure this thing is dead.”

Enshrouded as it was in Wes’s inferno, the skyswallower’s cries had long since ceased. Still, it writhed about on the dead topsoil, struggling and failing to douse the flames. The smell was the worst part, clinging to her nose in a malicious combination of cooked meat and burning sulfur.

For a moment, Eve wished Wes hadn’t been so quick to set the thing alight, if only so she could’ve gotten a better look at its actual body before reducing it to ash. Ah well, she thought, I can always examine the next one. She was glad Wes had been there—she sure as hells hadn’t had the Mana left over to finish the beast off. Without his help, it might’ve summoned its herd before Eve could’ve recovered enough for a lethal blow.

It took another three minutes for the notification to finally appear.

You have defeated Level 89 Skyswallower: +11040 exp!

If she’d been drinking tea, Eve might’ve spat it out in comically overdramatic fashion. As it was, she simply cursed. “Ayla’s tits, that’s a lot.”

“Okay,” Preston admitted, his eyes blue with his own status screen, “maybe hunting here really was a good idea.”

Eve cracked her knuckles, smiling wide and breathing deep to metabolize more of the toxic mists into Mana. “Alright then,” she said. “Who’s ready to start grinding?”

CHAPTER SIX

Kill, Loot, Repeat

THE SKYSWALLOWER HERD proved itself a treasure trove of experience once the gang fell into the rhythm of the hunt. Each kill began with Wes luring a lone beast far enough away for Eve to safely strike.

They tried all manner of methods for stopping their prey from fleeing once Eve landed her first blow, from targeting different legs to sending Reginald in to nip at its ankles to Wes summoning a wall of flame to hold the skyswallower in place, but each time the creature charged through anyway, forcing Eve to give chase.

It was risky business.

If she let her quarry escape, Eve feared it might warn the herd, or worse, return with reinforcements. Her Mana Rush and the danger of accidentally running headlong into the herd—or a rock, which would be just as lethal at such speeds—gave an inherent time limit to the act of landing the second blow. Eve knew she’d eventually miss.

The key problem the party faced was that Eve’s Mana Rush was the only effective weapon they had against the high-level skyswallowers. Wes’s flames could certainly kill one, but their thick hides burned slowly, leaving plenty of time for escape. The party couldn’t allow a monster to deliver one of Wes’s fires to an area outside his range—who knew how far it could spread without his focused control?

Once Eve brought a target down, Wes finished it off in his fiery way while Preston addressed any injuries. Only once the flames died down did Reginald run in to feast on the charred remains while the party got to work harvesting any useable meat to return to Drathis.

The rat himself, who usually spent his days foraging or crafting supplies from what few beasts he could down himself was perfectly happy to accept the steady stream of food and animal parts the adventurers sent him. They never spoke of it, but Eve considered it their payment for his help.

That said, for all their size, the skyswallowers didn’t have much meat on them. The twenty-foot long spindly legs had some but mostly consisted of skin, bone, and sinew. Their actual bodies weren’t much better.

It took until their third kill for Eve to get a good look at one before Wes set it alight, and she regretted it.

It was hideous.

The creature was seventy percent mouth, a gaping toothless maw that stretched as wide as Eve was tall. The rest of it was confined to about two square feet of space, enough for a series of tightly-packed organs and the powerful muscles that controlled its legs, but not much else. While Reginald was happy enough to devour anything it could, Eve’s party only took what little of the muscle survived Wes’s flames. It wasn’t much.

Their first day’s hunt yielded four kills, just enough for Eve to hit level forty-one. The fifty percent Mana-cost reduction on Jet was certainly a welcome change, but the difference was less than two levels’ worth of Mana.

The more she leveled, the more Eve appreciated just how much Mana Density she was wracking up. With the way her abilities—especially Mana Rush—scaled, each point was worth a staggering amount of Strength.

On the next day, they managed five kills.

The bursts of quick and relatively easy exp were exhilarating, even as the task of taking down a skyswallower grew more and more repetitive. The main bottlenecks, Eve found, were the long process of luring one away from the herd, and the even longer process of consuming a meal’s worth of cave mushrooms and seared meat to refill her Mana between each kill.

She could eat while Wes fetched the next target, but they all had to stick together while they harvested each kill. Splitting up to multitask in such thick fog was far too dangerous a proposition. At least Wes’s method of finishing off the beasts didn’t leave much butchering to do, and with every monster they felled the party further optimized the task of claiming the spoils.

That only left the problem of the chase. Confident as she was in her ability to hit a moving target, Eve knew it was only a matter of time before one escaped. A bit of math told her she’d need to kill nearly two hundred of the things to reach level fifty. Two hundred was a lot of opportunities to slip up.

It wasn’t until the third day of their hunt, when she hit level forty-two, that a solution presented itself.

Ability Upgraded!

Active Ability - Mana Burst

Shape the blast to your will.

While the others slept, Eve spent the night practicing with Mana Manipulation to reshape the spell into a concentrated spike, and several hours blasting the cliffside to work out the proper balance between it and Mana Rush. The skill was useless if it left no Mana behind for a melee strike. By the dawn of the fourth day, she was ready to try it out.

The strategy itself was simple enough—take out two legs at once so the skyswallower couldn’t run away—in practice, not so much. It took Eve three attempts to actually hit both attacks at the same time, leading to a few high-speed chases pressuring her already depleted Mana pool. She called it a night when it dipped into the single digits. Such a close call was enough for one day.

When Eve finally managed the technique, it worked like a charm. She’d spent enough time butchering skyswallowers to know exactly where to strike to sever the tendons in its leg, and while the act still required an excess of force to get through the thick hide, she had firepower to spare.

Quicker takedowns meant she still had time on her Mana Rush to finish each kill herself, leaving the corpses—minus whichever section she crushed with her mace—far more intact than Wes’s method. The fire mage didn’t enjoy being relegated just to bait duty, but even Wes had to admit that charred meat didn’t taste particularly good.

With the change in tactics, Drathis even insisted on tagging along, citing an interest in the membrane the skyswallowers used to filter their food from the air. Eve had no idea what the Scavenger planned for the soft tissue, but as long as she didn’t have to crawl into their mouths to cut it out, she didn’t mind.

The days drifted by and the levels rolled in, quickly at first but petering out as exp costs grew and level differences shrank. Eve watched with glee as her stats climbed and her skills upgraded, grateful for every ounce of power she gathered. They’d need it.

Some nights she slept in Drathis’s cave, keeping her distance from Wes and Preston to allow them some semblance of privacy. Others, she trained. Manahearts, as she discovered, did in fact need sleep, just significantly less than the clearly inferior humans.

Eve whiled away the lonely hours training, planning, and letting her thoughts wander. More than once as she sat against the lush cavern wall did she let out a quiet chuckle upon the realization she was daydreaming in the middle of the night, thus rekindling the tired internal debate she had over the word’s true meaning.

Eve favored the idea that daydreaming was daydreaming regardless of the time, but the other side had some compelling arguments. That other side was, of course, also Eve, but more pedantic.

In the end, she settled on ‘fantasizing.’

The Striker couldn’t help but imagine the world of possibilities she stood to face upon reaching level fifty. Since her last promotion, she’d battled a drake, met two incredibly high-level humans, cleared two dungeons, survived the poison mists of the Dead Fields, and slaughtered scores of skyswallowers well above her own level. Come tier four, she was bound to have some interesting options.

Most of her daydreams, however, revolved around manaheart. Of all her achievements, changing her race to something completely novel had to be the most impactful. Hells, it even fit in with the theme of her current class. Shatterfate Striker seemed to be all about rejecting the hand one was dealt; if a race change didn’t qualify as that, she couldn’t fathom what did.

The subject of her unique physiology reminded Eve of another mystery: her secondary quest. Becoming a manaheart hadn’t been the end of it, but the current description proved less than useful.

Stage Three: Discover their Legacy.

She assumed ‘they’ were the Burendians, which left her the options of tracking down a scholar who might know more, or just exploring more ruins and hoping to find something useful. Neither, of course, was possible while they were stuck in the Dead Fields.

In contrast, she’d completely given up on her life quest. It seemed, at this point, less of a goal worth pursuing and more of a tool to gain huge chunks of exp every once in a while. At least, it had been.

With all the grinding she’d been doing, her exp requirements were rapidly outgrowing her milestone rewards. It was one of two reasons most adventurers avoided the tactic. The other was achievements. As impressive as her next promotion was sure to be, spending ten levels doing the same thing over and over again did little to contribute.

Once she’d exhausted all thoughts of classes and levels and quests, Eve’s thoughts turned towards home. As autumn rolled in, Nowherested must’ve been just gearing up for harvest. Eve could practically hear the hustle and bustle of the small town as everyone rushed to fix up their wagons and tools before reaping day.

She missed the little village. She missed her mother. She missed the stars.

Days turned to weeks torn between the stale air of Drathis’s cave and the oppressive fog of the fields outside. There was a comfort in the repetitive tasks, a sense of structure Eve hadn’t experienced since she’d first embarked on this grand adventure. It reminded her of home.

Three times over the course of the month and half they spent whittling away at the skyswallower herd did the adventurers face a greater threat. The pattern was the same each time.

Reginald would hear or smell or taste—Eve wasn’t quite sure how the hatchling’s senses worked—something in the distance, warning Preston through whatever connection they shared. The glorified veterinarian would then usher the party away from their work butchering the latest felled beast just in time for a horrific series of rips and crunches to follow them through the mist.

Eve never laid eyes on whichever creature so stole their kills, but she was happy to give up a fresh carcass here and there, as long as the thing never laid eyes on them.

She was almost grateful for the mystery predator. It kept them on their toes, never letting them forget where they hunted. The Dead Fields was no place for tier 3s, and every day they spent here could be their last.

Still, Eve had to admit that maybe the exp was worth the risk. Slow going as it might’ve been compared to those early days of fighting wolves and earning several levels from a single milestone, the adventures each racked up millions of experience points in exchange for the ongoing danger of a painful death.

Six weeks, three days, and precisely nine levels since the start of their grind, that danger reared its ugly head once more. Grinding to level forty-nine, training countless hours through the cold nights, unlocking upgrades to Jet, Mana Rush, Charge!, and every other skill in her arsenal were all well and good, but they were but stepping stones on the way to tier 4.

None of that would save her against a griffin.

* * *

Evelia Greene

Manaheart

Level 49 Shatterfate Striker

Exp: 418015/453608

Health: 1159/1160

Stamina: 0/0

Mana: 4491/4500

Constitution:116

Mana Density: 450

Intelligence: 12

Dexterity: 140

Strength: 174

Spirit: 0

CHAPTER SEVEN

Last Resort

EVE SWALLOWED HER mouthful of skyswallower steak, barely tasting the juicy morsel as she watched her Mana bar slowly replenish. She had to give Wes credit: He’d really stepped up his cooking skills since their arrival in the Dead Fields. She supposed cooking the same meal over and over again made it easy, just as eating the same meal over and over again robbed it of its luster.

Even a master chef couldn’t make a meal taste good the hundredth time. She took another bite, grimacing at the necessity of it. The fifteen hundred Mana she’d gained over the past six weeks left her with a good supply even after their most recent kill, but it was always best to top up before reentering combat.

Wes sat beside her, enjoying his own lunch while Drathis went about harvesting the filter membrane from their latest hunt. Eve still hadn’t a clue what the rat-man was doing with them, but he’d gathered well over a hundred of the slimy organs so far.

A bit away from the fallen skyswallower, Preston threw a chewed-up bone into the mist, prompting Reginald to run after it, his spiked tail wagging enthusiastically.

Of all of them, the drake had changed the most. Over the course of a dozen levels or so, Reginald had grown to the size of a large dog, a fact the hatchling still struggled to accept—he kept trying to jump into Preston’s arms, failing to realize he was too big for such behavior. Preston didn’t seem to mind.

Eve finished her midday meal, pushing herself to her feet just in time for the lithe Caretaker to let out a cry of warning.

“Something’s wrong!” Preston shouted. “Reginald says—”

His words drowned in a crash of wind. From the mist above, a dark figure dove, landing hard atop the fallen skyswallower. An avian screech resounded through the air.

Level ??? Ironclaw Griffin

Panic raced through Eve’s mind as she Appraised the familiar creature, one she’d seen from a mile away all those weeks ago.

They weren’t ready. Not for this.

The beast sank its foot-long metallic claws into the carcass, releasing another birdlike roar at the gathered adventurers. It made no move to advance.

“It’s okay,” Preston said, his voice calming and level despite the rising tension, “griffins are scavengers, remember? It just wants the skyswallower.”

Eve nodded, taking a careful step back. No sudden moves, she reminded herself. Wes followed suit.

The griffin shrieked again, batting its forty-foot wingspan as it readied itself to take off.

“It’s leaving,” Wes muttered. “We’re going to be okay.”

For a brief second, Eve allowed her pounding heart to hesitantly calm as the griffin geared up to leave.

Then she noticed the wormlike hairless tail jutting from the dead beast’s mouth. Her heart leapt to her throat.

Drathis!

Drathis ran.

The griffin darted forward, snapping its deadly beak at the fleeing rat. It found only air.

Adrenaline coursing through her, Eve made the all too familiar call.

“Run!”

The adventurers burst into action, following Drathis’s four-legged form through the fog. Only the rhythmic gusts of forceful wind told of the griffin’s flight.

Eve didn’t Charge!, limiting her pace to keep behind the others. At the party’s back, she’d be the most likely target, ready to Jet away should the creature strike.

It didn’t.

Agonizing seconds passed as they raced through the mist, the adventurers growing with every step more hopeful they’d escaped pursuit and more uncertain of the beast’s location. The bursts of wing-swept air ceased.

The griffin dove.

Whether it aimed for the first target it saw or its feline half biased it towards the rodent, the beast shot through the air directly for Drathis.

It found a face full of fire.

Wes’s spell washed across the alabaster eagle feathers, a cascade of raging hellfire intent on consuming all in its path.

The griffin barely even blinked.

Eve wondered if the attack had dealt even a single point of damage. It probably hadn’t. Regardless of the rarity of his class or the fearsomeness of the Devouring Flame, Wes couldn’t face the strength of sheer levels. A terrible idea clung to the back of Eve’s mind at the thought, one she’d hoped to never use. If Wes couldn’t overcome the level difference, perhaps she could. She drew her mace.

At least the brilliance of the inferno had blinded the creature long enough for Drathis to dodge its strike. The spell had worked.

Until, instead of returning to the sky for another dive, the griffin turned its eye on Wes.

With a single beat of its powerful wings, it rocketed towards the muscular fire mage, swiping at his chest with brutal claws. The blow landed.

“Wes!” Preston cried as the Disciple flew through the air, landing hard on the dry earth. He stopped in his tracks, turning back to dart to Wes’s side. By the time Eve could scream at him to run, he was already on his knees channeling healing magic into the fallen mage.

The griffin lowered itself to the ground, running on four legs toward the desperate couple.

Eve Charged!

By the time she’d taken her second step, Eve had already made her choice. The beast was going to kill them both. Even if Preston managed to heal Wes in time, the pair had neither the speed nor the firepower to stop a charging griffin.

Eve did.

The decision came surprisingly easily. Even as her heart pounded and adrenaline pumped, her mind flowed clearly. Four thousand, two hundred Mana, split in three to give enough time to strike leaves fourteen hundred. The timing was going to be tight. She’d only have three seconds to land a lethal blow, and after that… well, it didn’t matter. If she didn’t stop it now, her friends would die, and there was no guarantee the griffin would stop at them.

The beast drew nearer.

Eve pulled back her mace.

The griffin opened its beak.

She activated Mana Rush. Instantly, a third of her Mana disappeared as her body coursed with over thirty thousand Strength.

Eve took her swing.

Weapon and skull alike shattered under the force of the blow, sending shards of steel and bone into the soft tissue beneath.

The griffin fell.

A cascade of notifications exploded in Eve’s vision. She dismissed them all. They didn’t matter. Another third of her Mana drained away, spent on an ability she couldn’t cancel. She knew what awaited her when it hit zero. It felt pointless. All this effort for such an abrupt end. Maybe it was worth it. Her friends were safe.

As the final second she’d allowed herself ticked by, Eve flipped up her class menu. She’d put in the work after all, she could at least die a tier 4. If only she’d had time to read the options.

She scrolled straight to the bottom.

The final points vanished from her Mana pool.

Eve slammed the upgrade button.

And it all went black.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Defiant

EVE AWOKE TO a world of blue.

Notifications stacked upon notifications crowded her vision, shining their unnatural azure light directly into her eyes. Her eyes shined back.

“She’s awake!” Wes’s voice echoed through the misty air as he caught sight of Eve’s Mana-glow.

There was a patter of hurried footsteps before a gentle hand landed on Eve’s shoulder. Preston’s. “How are you feeling?”

Everything hurt. A deep resounding soreness ached through her arms and back, culminating in sharp spikes of pain with every twitch of her fingers. She groaned.

“Figures,” the healer replied. “You really did a number on yourself. Manaheart or otherwise, you did not have enough Constitution to handle all that Strength.”

Eve blinked, the wall of notifications still blocking her vision of the former Priestess.

“Bones and tendons can only take so much stress,” Preston explained. “Your body basically tore itself apart, not to mention all the shrapnel in your hands. I healed you up as best I could, but even I have limits. Your natural regen will have to take care of the rest.”

She nodded.

Wes stepped in. “So what’d you get?”

“You don’t know?”

“Unless you managed to demote back to Common, Appraise is lying again,” the mage said.

A drop of panic welled in Eve’s chest for a moment before she realized the truth of the matter. She’d scrolled to the bottom of the upgrade list, after all. She should—in theory—have taken the rarest option. A voice at the back of her thoughts reminded her a Common tier four wouldn’t have kept her alive through the damage and Mana loss she’d sustained. Eve shuddered.

Too impatient to sort through the mountain of messages for the information she needed, Eve pulled up her status.

Evelia Greene

Manaheart

Level 50 The Defiant

Exp: 75907/635051

Health: 1459/1460

Stamina: 0/0

Mana: 11/5500

Constitution:146

Mana Density: 550

Intelligence: 27

Dexterity: 158

Strength: 191

Spirit: 0

Her heart pounded. Between leveling up and promoting to a new class, she’d gained a full hundred Mana Density. Eve swallowed. “I’m The Defiant. Looks like a Mythic from the stats.”

Wes cursed. “Gods damnit. I had six weeks—six glorious weeks—of having the rarest class on the team.” He sighed. “You deserve it, Eve.”

“Are you sure it’s Mythic?” Preston asked.

Wes interjected before she could answer. “What? Is Mythic tier four supposed to be impossible? She killed a bloody griffin.”

“No—I just—it doesn’t sound like a Mythic class. The Defiant.” The healer’s voice fell to a whisper. “It sounds Unique.”

Eve paled. “If you give me a moment, I can tell you. I’ve got more notifications than Wes has bad puns.”

“Right, right.” Preston stood. “We’ll let you read.” He pulled Wes to his feet before the fire mage could argue against Eve’s insult to the highest form of comedy.

Eve waited until the footsteps gave way to the whispered conversation the couple shared before diving into her messages. She began—more so because they were on the top and she was too sluggish to bother sorting through them all—with the classes she hadn’t taken.

Class Upgrade Available: Emissary

Common Tier 4 Class

Requirements: Courier, Envoy, or Diplomat base class. Travel beyond the borders of your home nation.

Through dedication and a fierce loyalty to your kingdom, you’ve worked your way up from delivering their letters to a seat at the table. Travel the lands speaking the word of your monarch and negotiating on his or her behalf.

+10 Mana Density

+10 Intelligence

+2 Mana Density/Level

+2 Intelligence/Level

Eve snorted. The description didn’t match her at all—fierce loyalty indeed! Hells, she may have started as a Messenger Girl, but she sure as shit hadn’t delivered a single letter. She noted with interest that while the class info didn’t fit, the listed stats showed Mana Density instead of Endurance. Eve wondered what that meant.

Unwilling to waste too much time on a class she’d—thank the gods—not taken, she continued on through the list. Perhaps the Common options weren’t worth reading. Approximately twelve notifications’ worth of skimming and scrolling later, the first of the Uncommons popped up.

Class Upgrade Available: Berserker

Uncommon Tier 4 Class

Requirements: Any combat base class. Charge into combat against an enemy above your level. Temporarily reach Strength beyond your level. Hit something so hard your weapon breaks.

For a Berserker, battle is everything. The rush of adrenaline, the exhilaration of mortal danger, the thrill of overcoming your foes with naught but the strength of your arm and the courage in your heart. You revel in it. Channel the rage within you to reach new heights.

+25 Strength

+10 Constitution

+5 Mana Density

+10 Strength/Level

+5 Constitution/Level

+4 Mana Density/Level

+1 Dexterity/Level

Eve shivered. Much as the Emissary description failed to match her, Berserker fit too well. Never once had she considered herself similar to the mindless battle-machines of anger and Strength, but she’d felt that rush, that exhilaration. She exhaled. At least she hadn’t taken it. Eve never wanted to know the sheer rage that so drove the Berserker battle trance. Besides, the stat distribution was bad for her anyway.

She moved on.

Eve scrolled past Battle Mage and Pummeler, Demolisher and Armsman. She skimmed past a dozen variations of Warrior alone, each requiring its own spin on the same list of combat feats. Eve paid them little heed.

Among the Rares she found Demon Slayer, courtesy of her victories in the Temple of Garaxia. It joined the likes of Brutalizer and Wardancer, two classes on opposite ends of the finesse versus pure might spectrum.

Weaponmaster’s presence flummoxed her, if only because it required victories with four different weapons and she’d only wielded three. It took her a solid minute to realize it must’ve counted the time she’d beaten a goblin shaman to death with its own staff. Eve giggled at that.

Similarly Rare was Culler of the Herd, a class seemingly specifically designed for those who’d taken the grindy path to tier 4. Its description promised all sorts of bonuses for repeatedly killing the same species of monster, something Eve hoped never to do again. Truth be told, she wondered how such a skill could ever be used—what use was a bonus against something she could already kill?

Epic presented two options. Spellbound promised synergies with her developing ability to manipulate the magic within her, though it seemed to deal primarily with Spirit. Curious as she was to learn how Mana in her soul would interact with that in her body, deviating from Mana Density as her primary stat seemed like a poor idea. The other Epic possibility was one she’d been expecting.

Class Upgrade Available: Shatterfate Obliterator

Epic Tier 4 Class

Requirements: Any shatterfate class. Kill an enemy more than twice your level. Overcome a dungeon beyond your level. Defeat ten opponents in a single blow with a blunt weapon. Reject your fate.

The further you stray from your given destiny, the stronger your resolve grows. No challenge is too great, no foe too threatening, no path worth walking that you did not pave yourself. You chart your own course through the rocky seas of life, and any that aim to control your passage shall face the full force of your might.

+40 Strength

+20 Constitution

+9 Mana Density

+5 Dexterity

+1 Intelligence

+20 Strength/Level

+10 Constitution/Level

+7 Mana Density/Level

+3 Dexterity/Level

Eve was unsurprised to find the natural progression of the Shatterfate line led to Epic. Finding a Strength class came as some surprise, but she supposed it fit her fighting style better than anything else. She had to wonder if there even were Endurance-based classes at such a high tier. Such things seemed reserved for laborers.

Of course, she didn’t actually use Endurance, but thus far she’d only seen classes converting the stat rather than anything built around Mana Density. She opened the one and only Mythic option.

Class Upgrade Available: Heiress of the Ancients

Mythic Tier 4 Class

Requirements: Legacy of the Precursors Secondary Quest. Manaheart, Enlightened Construct, or Mana Elemental race. Unlock the Mana manipulation skill. Wield the very power that gives you life to conquer your foes.

A living being of Mana itself, you represent the pinnacle of an entire civilization’s greatest work. Though your progenitors have faded to the annals of history, you carry their torch into the infinities of tomorrow. All shall see and all shall know and all shall remember. Wield your inheritance for the glory of lost Burendia.

+70 Mana Density

+11 Constitution

+10 Intelligence

+5 Strength

+4 Dexterity

+50 Mana Density/Level

+15 Intelligence/Level

+10 Constitution/Level

+3 Strength/Level

+2 Dexterity/Level

“Ayla’s tits, that’s a lot of Mana.” Eve let out a whistle, her mind racing with daydreams of the things she could do with five hundred Mana a level.

With the way Mana Rush scaled with both Mana Density and per-second Mana spent, Heiress of the Ancients would get very out of hand very quickly. Of course, she’d still run into issues of too much Strength tearing her muscles apart, but maybe Mana-hardened would upgrade to help make up for that. A girl could dream.

As it was, Eve dismissed the message to find one final class promotion filling her vision.

Class Upgrade Available: The Defiant

Unique Tier 4 Class

Requirements: Forge your own path.

Faced with a class you didn’t like, you fought to change it. Faced with a foe of incredible might, you defeated it. Faced with a destiny unworthy of your fortitude, you shattered it. Through strength, through cunning, through fortune good and ill, you have overcome challenges a lesser being would deem impossible. You have discovered the truth. It isn’t might or wit or luck that defines greatness, but the insurmountable will of those who refuse to be conquered. Stand tall. Stand stalwart. Stand defiant.

+60 Mana Density

+20 Constitution

+8 Dexterity

+7 Strength

+5 Intelligence

+40 Mana Density/Level

+10 Intelligence/Level

+10 Constitution/Level

+10 Strength/Level

+10 Dexterity/Level

Eve read it again. She checked and rechecked everything about it, from the cryptic requirement to the vague if inspiring description to the stat gains themselves. True to her guess, the totals matched up with those of a Mythic. That felt wrong. Unique was supposed to be rarer than Legendary. Why were the stats only Mythic? Eve didn’t know. There were a lot of things Eve didn’t know.

She had to imagine the two Unique individuals she’d met—the Man of the Mists and the Lady of Whispers—had been stronger than this. They’d seemed so… unfathomable. Then again, Eve had little doubt they weren’t tier four. Perhaps at the higher tiers Unique classes were more powerful. She supposed it didn’t matter in the moment.

Nice as Heiress of the Ancients would’ve been—especially with its greater focus on Mana Density—The Defiant held all sorts of promise. Sure, it didn’t directly reference her race change, but she did still have the secondary quest. That left Legacy of the Precursors as another potential avenue for advancement, one Eve was all too eager to pursue.

Clearing her notifications, the former Striker looked up from her reading to find Wes and Preston staring at her. Wordlessly, Wes offered a skyswallower steak to quiet her grumbling stomach. She had a lot of Mana to restore.

The allure of a hot meal was more than enough to convince Eve to put off diving into her new skills for the time being, especially given the visible curiosity that strained her companions’ faces. Impatient as she was to try out her latest promotion, she could spare a few minutes to put food in her belly and share the news with her friends.

“It’s a shame,” Preston eventually remarked as Eve dug into her second full meal. “That Heiress class sounds like it has better stats for you.”

“You’re missing the point,” Wes interjected with a mouthful of cave mushroom. “The Defiant is better for one reason and one reason only.”

The healer cocked an eyebrow. “Because it’s Unique?”

“Nope.” Wes winked. “Because it sounds cooler.”

For all it’d taken and for all she still ached, Eve couldn’t help but crack a smile and let loose a laugh at the silly comment, even though the act sent bits of partially chewed steak flying through the air. Besides, he was right.

It did sound cooler.

CHAPTER NINE

Unlock, Upgrade, Combine

HER BELLY FULL and her companions’ curiosity sated, Eve sat back against the mossy cave wall to continue her reading. Ready for anything, given the events of the day, she pulled up the first skill upgrade.

Abilities Combined!

Surefooted and Mana-hardened have combined!

Okay, she hadn’t been ready for that. Hells, she hadn’t even known it was possible for skills to merge. Already a smile stretched across Eve’s face. Combined abilities meant an open spot for a new passive. She read on.

Ability Unlocked!

Passive Ability - Defiant Body

The will can only be as steadfast as the shell that houses it. You have cultivated both. Gain increased bone density and sinew strength, resistance to impact, explosive, thermal, and slashing damage. Maintain control of your every motion. Gain increased traction, resistance to uneven terrain, resistance to immobilizing and destabilizing effects.

Eve exhaled. The skill seemed mostly just a combination of two old ones with a few small changes. Defenses against immobilizing effects would certainly be nice, though she couldn’t recall ever actually being immobilized. Other than by the Lynthia city guards, of course, but she doubted an escape attempt would’ve gone over well in that situation.

The other difference she noticed was the lack of poison resistance Mana-hardened had once granted, but she supposed her Ethereal Metabolism took care of that now. Eve didn’t doubt the other assorted resistances would be stronger across the board—she was tier four now, after all. She wondered if they scaled with Mana Density.

Deciding such a concept would be tricky—and painful—to test, Eve dismissed it for the time being to move on to the next message.

Ability Upgraded!

Passive Ability - Haste

A quicker step is the difference between life and death. You run [MND/4]% faster.

Eve had to read the upgrade twice to notice the change. Scaling by a quarter of her Mana Density instead of a fifth wasn’t exactly life changing, but it was certainly nice. At her current Mana Density, the change meant an extra twenty-seven percent movespeed, and each level would be worth ten percent instead of the old eight.

Happy as she was for the upgrade, Eve couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment as she closed the message. The skill was neither new nor flashy, two things she’d expected from a Unique class. She sighed.

The third notification she opened elicited more of a smile.

Ability Unlocked!

Passive Ability - Defiant Mind

Wield the unmatched will of The Defiant. Your mind is your own. Gain immunity to fear, pacify, and loss of control effects. Gain increased reaction speed. Unlock access to the Fatetorn Gaze general skill.

“What in the—” Eve muttered. Since when did passive abilities grant general skills? She did a quick scan of her remaining notifications and skill list but found no other mention of Fatetorn Gaze. So I don’t have it but I’m able to learn it? Eve wondered. She hadn’t gotten a message informing her she could learn Mana Manipulation when she’d first become a manaheart.

Eve shook her head, mentally adding it to her growing list of uncertainties. Beyond the cryptic bits, Defiant Mind was a definite win. Hells, if the ability was just increased reaction speed she’d have been happy. She needed it, if only to avoid death by accidentally Charging into a wall. She grinned.

Noting no changes to Ethereal Metabolism—which made sense; it was tied to her race, not her class—Eve pulled up the first of her actives.

Ability Upgraded!

Active Ability - Defiant Charge

100 Mana

Face your foes head on. None shall stand in your way. Triple your Constitution and maximum running speed for [MND/5] seconds.

The increased cost was laughable in the face of the four hundred maximum Mana Eve now gained each level, but the Constitution boost was no trifle. She’d have preferred it tied to her Mana Rush—if only for the sake of the Mana-cost scaling—but she’d take any extra survivability she could get. Maybe it’d be enough to withstand another huge burst of Strength.

The skill’s name, on the other hand, left a sour taste in Eve’s mouth. Defiant Mind and Defiant Body she could understand, but just slapping the word ‘defiant’ onto an existing skill? It didn’t even make sense. The last thing she wanted was to wind up with a dozen skills that all sounded the same. She glanced up at Wes. At least he had a bunch of synonyms for fire. All she had was… defiant.

Moving on to her final skill change, Eve let out a sigh of relief to find the name unchanged.

Ability Upgraded!

Active Ability - Jet

X Mana

Momentum itself bends to your will. Massively increase or decrease your personal momentum or that of a single body part in any direction. Velocity change and cooldown scale with Mana cost.

Now this was a variable-cost spell Eve could get behind. Instead of another outlet for massive amounts of Mana, the upgraded Jet granted flexibility. Hells, dumping her entire pool into the skill would be suicide. Splat. She shuddered.

What really caught her attention was the cooldown scaling. Eve doubted it would be more efficient to cast the spell for nearly nothing several times in rapid succession, but the idea of dropping small amounts of Mana to make micro adjustments to her motion mid-combat sprung to mind. She’d have to practice. Getting a feel for the Mana scaling would take work.

Shutting the last notification, Eve took a moment to review her skill list, confirming that Mana Burst and Mana Rush had been unaffected. Similar to Ethereal Metabolism, she imagined her class had little bearing on the skills. They were manaheart’s domain.

Shaking her head and pushing herself to her feet, Eve turned to meet Wes and Preston’s expectant stares. “Good changes, but nothing too exciting. I’m definitely stronger, but I don’t feel Unique.”

“Probably because you’ve got the stats of a Mythic,” Wes answered.

“So if I’ve got the stats of a Mythic, and abilities that sound more at home on a Mythic, what does Unique even do?”

The Disciple shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe it’ll change. If Uniques just follow the Mythic progression, wouldn’t Legendary still be better?”

“Maybe it is,” Preston said, “or maybe not all Uniques are created equal. Maybe it’s tied to your quest, or your specific class, or any number of other factors. Unless you have another Unique at hand to chat with, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

Wes and Eve shared a sideways look.

The healer continued, “Stats or abilities aside, I can already think of one reason your class is Unique. I can’t see it.”

Wes nodded.

“Right.” Eve furrowed her brow. “You mentioned that. But Shatterfate Striker was the same way—why wasn’t it Unique?”

Preston turned up his palms. “More powerful?” he offered.

“What do I show up as?”

“Emissary,” Wes said. “Common tier four.”

“That was one of my options.” Eve nodded. “I think it’s the progression of the Courier line.”

“Maybe that’s it,” Preston suggested. “Instead of showing up as a normal Striker, we see you as what you would’ve been without all this fate-defying nonsense.”

“You should’ve taken it.” Wes grinned. “You could’ve been a gods-damned master of running away.”

“Please,” Eve waved him off. “I’m sure Emissaries have something way more dignified. Noble Escape or some bullshit.”

The mage turned to Preston. “Yeah, no way she was meant to be an Emissary. ‘Noble’ and ‘dignified’ are not on the menu.”

Eve gaped. “I can be dignified!”

“Ah, yes, ‘or some bullshit.’ The most dignified manner of speech.” Wes laughed.

She rolled her eyes. “Go back to playing with fire. Maybe you’ll burn yourself.”

Preston exhaled. “Anyway,” he refocused the conversation, “it’s probably good you don’t Appraise as Unique. That’d draw a lot of attention once we get back to civilization.”

“But I like attention.” Eve smiled. “Besides, I’ve already been kidnapped once, and that was without this class.”

“That was when you were a Striker,” Preston said, “rather than a potential threat to someone else’s authority. Or a chance for some plucky adventurer to prove themselves.”

“What about the companies?” Wes asked. “Wasn’t the whole point of this expedition to level up enough to impress a mercenary corps? You’ll have a hard time impressing someone as an Emissary.”

Preston shrugged. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Remember, we’ve gotta actually make it home first.”

“To that end,” Eve changed the subject, “whatever happened to that griffin?”

“It’s outside,” Wes answered. “Drathis made us drag it all the way here. He’s out there figuring out how to carve it up as we speak. What do you have in mind?”

“Well I broke my mace on the griffin’s head, and if we’re going to fight this trellac thing, I’m gonna need a weapon.” A wide smile spread across Eve’s face. “I wonder how strong griffin bones are.”

CHAPTER TEN

To Skin a Cat

“YOU SURE YOU don’t want to wait back in the cave?” Wes asked as he magically dried the others from their swim through Drathis’s pond. “What happened to the whole ‘everything hurts’ thing?”

Eve grimaced.

“No, it’s best she keeps moving,” Preston answered for her. “Get the blood flowing, work tender muscles, all that.” He turned to her. “I can give you some calisthenic exercises if you’d like.”

Eve and Wes both stared.

“What?” the healer asked. “Praying isn’t the only thing we did at Ayla’s cathedral. There were lessons too.”

“And creepy rituals.” Eve pointed at him. “Don’t forget the creepy rituals.”

Wes perked up. “Oh, right! I’ll bet the Temple of Garaxia wasn’t even the first time you’ve lain on an altar.”

“No, but it was the first time I’ve been tied to one.” Preston shuddered. “Actually, come to think of it, I’d take the cultists over the creepy old ladies any day. At least they let me wear clothes.”

“Uh… Preston?” Eve said. “The cultists were trying to kill you.”

“Well, yes,” he admitted, “but at least they were nice about it. Alvin even made me tea. I hope he’s alright.”

“He’s fine, Preston.” Wes patted the healer on the back. “He left way before we did, and he would’ve known a way out that wouldn’t leave him stranded in a poison wasteland.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about Alvin,” Eve added, “worry about us. We’ve still got a trellac to fight.”

Preston shrugged. “Hard to be worried when that name means nothing to me. What even is a trellac?”

“Your worst nightmare, boy.” Drathis’s voice echoed menacingly through the fog ahead. “It’s smarter, stronger, faster, and more devious than ye can imagine. It’ll sense your thoughts from a mile away like a beacon in the night, homing in with its deadly fangs to kill ye before ye can even blink.”

“Well… right,” Preston replied, “but what actually is it?”

“Your doom.”

“No, no, I get that part. Trellac scary. Got it.” The Caretaker exhaled. “I’m asking what kind of monster it is.”

“A deadly one.”

Preston rubbed his eyes. “It’s okay if you don’t know. You can just… say you don’t know.”

Drathis said nothing.

With a quiet shrug, Eve continued forward long enough for the giant bipedal rat to come into view. He leaned over the griffin’s head, carefully plucking alabaster feathers from around its neck and depositing them in an orderly pile behind him.

“What’re those for?” she asked.

“Fletching,” he barked in reply. “Do ye know how askew bolts fly with only leaves to guide them?”

“Huh,” Eve simply answered. She wondered how exactly he intended to make fletching out of feathers bigger than his entire crossbow, but she knew the futility of asking. He’d just snap back “class knowledge” without actually explaining anything. Eve still wasn’t certain class knowledge was actually a thing, especially given her class required she figure everything out herself, but she didn’t press the issue. She shook her head.

Ignoring the overdramatic Scavenger for the time being, Eve took her first good look at the dead griffin.

The thing was huge.

Easily forty feet from head to tail, it dwarfed even the drake they’d fought east of Lynthia. White feathers covered the entire front half of its upper body—except the patch around its neck Drathis had already plucked—while a thin coat of golden fur protected its rear end. Similarly, the beast’s front legs ended in the taloned claws of an eagle, albeit a massive one, while its back feet matched those of an oversized cat.

It wasn’t the size of the corpse, however, that sent chills running down Eve’s spine. It was its condition. Barely a scratch marred the griffin’s skin, its only wound a small dent in its skull where shards of her shattered mace still lay. She’d hit thirty thousand Strength, destroying her body in the process, all for a dent. For all she knew, the beast would still be alive if her mace hadn’t broken into shrapnel. She shivered.

Wes apparently shared her line of thought. “What level was this thing, anyway?”

A cursory look through her notifications found the answer. “Three twenty-six,” Eve said. “Three question marks.”

Wes whistled.

“I’ve got to give you credit,” Preston said. “What you did there was brilliant. I never would’ve thought to cancel a skill early with a class promotion like that.”

Neither would I. Eve kept the thought to herself. She didn’t want to tell them. What would it accomplish? There was no use hanging over their heads a fact she’d just as soon forget herself. It was easier this way. Easier to pretend it was all part of the plan, that she hadn’t charged in with the intent that only Wes and Preston would make it out alive. She swallowed, muttering under her breath, “thanks.”

“So.” Wes clapped his hands, shattering the hidden tension in the air. “How do we want to harvest this thing?”

Without looking up from his work, Drathis jerked a clawed finger towards a steel file that sat on the loose dirt behind him. “Claws first. Start at the knuckle so you’re not trying to cut through the iron itself.”

Rather than asking how Drathis had come by metal tools in the desolate wasteland, Wes stooped over to grab the offered item. He got to work.

Eve and Preston watched as he toiled for the first few minutes, the file pressing ever so slightly further into the avian knuckle with every pass. It was slow going. After a solid quarter hour of overseeing the repetitive labor, Eve finally brought herself to ask, “Why don’t you just burn through?”

“Same reason I didn’t burn it to death when it first attacked us,” Wes answered. With a flick of his wrist he set the wrinkled skin alight. A plume of brilliant flame engulfed it, casting orange light and oppressive heat into the surrounding air. “Watch.” A minute passed.

Eve furrowed her brow. “Nothing’s happening.”

“Exactly.” Wes explained, “Just because I can burn anything doesn’t mean it’ll burn quickly. It’d probably take a full day just watching the fire to stop it spreading to burn this talon free. Filing’s easier. Not to mention if I get it too hot, it’ll just melt.” He knocked on the metallic claw. “It’s an ironclaw griffin, remember? Iron melts.”

Eve nodded, not quite understanding the rules for what burned and what melted under the influence of Wes’s flames but deciding it wasn’t a rabbit hole worth jumping down.

Preston changed the subject. “You said you wanted to make a club?”

“Right,” the Defiant said, gesturing to the underwhelming dent in the beast’s head. “If it weathered my attack so well, its bones have gotta be strong. Should make for a good replacement.” She drew one of her daggers.

“Start at the hindquarters,” Drathis ordered. “Ye won’t be wanting a bird bone.”

“Why not?”

“They’re hollow. Lighter weight to make for easier flight,” the rat-man explained.

“Wait—but—” Eve faltered. “Why are the bones in the front lightweight but not the ones in the back? Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose?”

Drathis gave an over-exaggerated shrug. “Take it up with whatever god invented griffins. I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear ye think they don’t make sense.”

“She, actually,” Preston corrected.

Eve and Drathis alike turned to stare at the thin healer.

“Raelin is the goddess of beasts,” he said. “Griffins are Her domain.”

“…Right,” Eve replied, “which is why you, a veterinarian, are affiliated with Ayla.”

“Well—that’s more—” Preston sighed. “I don’t fucking know. The Stones gave me Ayla, so I guess I’m stuck with Her.”

“It’s ‘cause yer human,” Drathis said. “Can’t think a goddess of beasts would be too friendly with your lot, what with all the hunting.”

“Says the self-proclaimed ‘great hunter,’” Preston retorted.

“No, no, he’s right.” Eve smiled. “This Raelin must be smart enough to know humans are clearly inferior.”

Preston snorted. “Please. We can’t all race change into the magnum opus of an entire dead civilization.”

“Entirely on accident,” Wes added with heavy breath.

“Alright, well, I’ll make sure the next Legendary serum we find explodes all over you two instead.”

“Perfect.” Preston grinned. “Gotta keep things fair, after all.”

Wes groaned. “Speaking of fair—” he stood, holding the metal file out to the healer—“it’s your turn.”

As Preston got to work and Wes took his break, Eve set her sights on the griffin’s hind leg. As far as possible clubs went, the femur seemed the most likely candidate. Running a hand along the feline limb to find the joint, Eve reversed her grip on her dagger and plunged it in.

It pierced less than an inch.

Ayla’s tits, this thing is tough, she cursed to herself. Pulling back, she swung again, putting the full force of her nearly two hundred Strength behind the weapon. It sank an inch further. Eve sighed.

She pulled her hand from the hilt of the dagger. It stayed stuck in the beast. Shaking her head, Eve pulled up her status to do a bit of math. A hundred Mana per second should give me a good fifty seconds before I have to stop, she reasoned. I hope that’s enough.

Her muscles protested with a wave of rolling agony as Mana Rush sent over twenty-five hundred Strength coursing through them. She grit her teeth. Preston had said she should work them, after all. Carving a griffin counted.

Between the surge of Strength and her Defiant Body keeping her firmly planted on the dry earth, the knife glided cleanly through the monster’s flesh. As she cut through to reveal the sturdy bone, Eve felt a renewed sense of appreciation for the blacksmith back in Lynthia. When she’d bought them, she never could’ve imagined the simple daggers would have to withstand such tremendous forces, but they held up admirably.

By the time her Mana fell low enough to require a break, Eve had accumulated a respectable pile of indelicately slashed-up griffin meat. She wondered if it would taste any better than skyswallower.

Drathis had other thoughts. “Look what ye’ve done!” He spat. “An entire leg’s worth of hide gone to waste.”

Eve’s eyes widened. “You wanted to skin it?”

The Scavenger leveled an incredulous look. “No. I wanted ye to skin it.”

Eve cursed, realizing her mistake. Griffin hide must’ve been worth a fortune, assuming she could bring it home safely to sell it. Better yet, it’d make for three hells of a suit of armor. She did need a set that channeled Mana better, after all. “Shit. You’re right.” She shook her head. “I guess it’s good I only carved up the leg.” They still had a good few hundred square feet of hide untouched on the griffin’s lower body.

Preston collapsed next to the partially cut claw, panting as he dropped the steel file to the ground. “Fuck this. What are these talons even good for, anyway? They’re just iron spikes.”

“Not just iron,” Drathis corrected. “When they break the fourth tier, these kill-stealing bastards reinforce their claws with whatever metals they can find. Swallow ‘em right up. ‘Round here that means platinum and ar-iron.”

Preston sat up. “Did you just say…” He squinted. “How much ar-iron?”

The rat shrugged.

“Gods below,” Wes cursed under his breath. “We’re gonna be rich.”

“Not anytime soon, we’re not,” Preston said. “We’ve barely filed through half an inch and my arms are already killing me.”

“Then take a break.” Wes held out a hand. “We have time. There’s platinum and ar-iron in there. I’ll file all gods-damned day if it means getting these talons out.”

“And we still have to skin it, harvest the bones, pick out any organs that have alchemical value, clean any sinew that’s useful, butcher the meat for food.” A sly smile crossed Preston’s face. “If only we had a party member with enough Strength to cut through griffin skin and an easy way to regenerate Mana.”

Wes turned to stare at Eve, already digging through his pack for a handful of cave mushrooms. “You’ve gotta get that exercise, after all.”

Eve paled. “I—um—I take it it’s too late to go for the calisthenics instead?”

Preston simply grinned. “There’s a lot of work to do.” He tilted his head towards Wes’s offering of food. “Better eat up.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Trellax

IT TOOK THREE days in all for Eve to break down the fallen griffin. By day the others toiled alongside her, their unstrengthened hands still useful for gathering up and packaging materials. By night Eve carved the beast alone, working and taking her frequent meal breaks by the pearly light of her eyes.

Eager as she was to dig out her new club, properly skinning the creature’s feline half was the first priority. Only once enough of the hide had been removed for Wes, Preston, and Drathis to begin the drying process could she move on to carefully harvesting meat and sinew.

It was slow going. More than one potential bowstring or strand of rope was lost to a careless swipe of her dagger, forcing Eve to redouble the care with which she worked.

The claws, by contrast, were easy. A few quick cuts to the knuckles was all Eve needed to free the foot-long curved spikes of precious metal. Preston practically cackled as she handed them off to him, only for his look to rapidly switch to shock as they immediately plunged to the earth, too heavy for his paltry eight Strength. Wes laughed.

As exhausting as the harvesting process was, Eve had to admit the exercise helped. By the time she’d completely broken down the massive carcass into its usable parts, her muscles no longer ached with the pervading soreness that had so haunted her since her promotion.

The new weapon and the hundreds of gold worth of crafting materials were no trifles either.

Once she’d freed and cleaned her chosen femur, converting it into a functional mace was as simple as cutting off one end and wrapping it in leather to form a grip. Trimmed down, the bone club reached just over four feet long—just enough to be unwieldy at her hip. Drathis helped craft a strap to tie it to her back.

Distributing the loot was easy enough. The adventurers would take as much back south through the Fallen Pass as they could carry, leaving the rest to Drathis as payment for all his help.

Wes took over carrying the dungeon core from the Temple of Garaxia to spare room in Eve’s pack for all sixteen iron claws. Preston’s comparatively smaller shoulder bag stretched with the remainder of their supplies, from food to potions to a coil of rope should they have need for such a thing.

Drathis even went to the effort of stitching additional straps to the outside of Eve’s bag so she could tie off rolls of griffin-hide like the pack mule she was always destined to be. Wes was sure to point that out on more than one occasion.

The Disciple himself didn’t waste the downtime either, spending most of it developing a way to make griffin meat remotely edible. It made for an interesting puzzle, as the lean muscle of the high-level beast was near impossible to chew.

After several nausea-inducing failed attempts, he settled on soaking the meat in Drathis’s earthy ‘moss vinegar’ before setting each steak individually over a pile of smoldering stones. Wes spent his hours carefully monitoring the makeshift coals to prevent a true flame from forming, which mitigated his propensity to lose himself in the whispers.

Eve worried for him. While Preston’s presence seemed to help keep the mage focused, it didn’t escape her attention how he avoided setting fires at all. There’d be no more burning coppers for a joke or cozy nighttime campfires in their immediate future. Eve could only hope the whispers hadn’t gotten worse in the twelve levels he’d gained since their arrival in the Dead Fields.

Preston, meanwhile, seemingly glowed with the levels he’d gained. With each passing day his connection to Reginald strengthened, all the more punctuated by the drakeling’s ever-increasing size.

For her part, Eve couldn’t wait until he was big enough to be ridden. Who didn’t want to ride into battle on a gods-damned dragon? Sure, Reginald didn’t have wings, but a girl could dream.

The end of all the harvesting and cleaning and organizing and packing left three adventurers, their backs heavy with loot, graciously bidding farewell to a giant rat who was having absolutely none of it.

“Once ye get back,” Drathis called over his shoulder from where he worked at his cauldron, “I want ye to help me untangle this intestine.”

Preston sighed. “Drathis, the entire point is we’re not coming back. We’re going home.”

“And even if we weren’t, there’s no way I’m helping untangle that intestine,” Wes added with a grimace.

The Scavenger completely ignored him. “And if ye do manage to kill the trellac, be sure to bring me its liver. I hear they can make a tonic to raise yer Intelligence.”

Eve once again looked around the empty cave. “Heard from where?”

“Class knowledge,” Drathis huffed.

She rolled her eyes. “You can still come with us.”

He didn’t reply.

Eve sighed. “Goodbye, Drathis. Thank you.”

Sharing a shrug with her companions, Eve turned away from their rodential host, wading into the pool of water that marked the cavern’s only exit. Wes and Preston followed.

They left Drathis much as they’d found him, save for the heap of organs, bones, sinew, and feathers that’d no doubt birth a generation of tools and weapons for the strange Scavenger.

As Eve began her swim, she couldn’t help but spare a few final thoughts for Drathis, for from whence he’d come and why he so opted for solitude. She supposed she’d never know.

The party journeyed on.

They walked in silence, the familiar cliffside ever present to their right, guiding the way through the oppressive mists. Eve kept her eyes forward. Even now, nearly two months since their arrival, she still found her heart racing if she stared too deeply into the gray abyss.

They passed the boulder Eve had so nearly killed herself against Charging in the fog. She hoped her new class’s improved reaction time could prevent such dangers in their coming encounter. What was she without her speed?

It wasn’t until they’d nearly reached the pass that Preston finally broke the hanging silence. “So—um—” he muttered, “what are the odds we can actually kill this thing?”

“Does it matter?” Eve answered simply. “It’s not like we have much of a choice. The skyswallower exp is dried up, and it’s just a matter of time until some other predator manages to find us. We can’t count on getting lucky like we did with that griffin.”

“We’ll be fine,” Wes said, smiling beneath his cloth and pelsid-ooze mask. “We’ve got an Epic and a gods-damned Unique on our team. Worst case scenario, I can flood the pass with fire and Eve can run us out of there.”

“Assuming the trellac isn’t faster than she is.”

Wes patted the healer on the back. “Then she’ll kill it in one hit with a swing of her mace and a bajillion Strength. Easy.”

Eve wasn’t sure how she felt about Wes talking her up like this. It had taken more Mana than she could’ve survived without a promotion to stop the griffin. She couldn’t do that again. Either way, the Disciple’s tactics did succeed at their intended goal.

“I guess you’re right,” Preston sighed. “Maybe I just need to relax.”

Wes’s eyes widened. “Did you… did you just say you needed to ‘trellax’?”

“No, I—”

“Trellax,” Wes laughed. “That’s brilliant.”

Eve scowled. “No, Wes. No it isn’t.”

“Sounds like you need to trellax,” Wes snapped back.

Eve didn’t know what was worse, Wes’s insistence on the dumb pun or the quiet snort of laughter she heard from Preston’s direction. She groaned.

At least Wes had managed to lighten the mood, even if he did so in his own agonizing way. He and Preston continued passing variations of the pun back and forth as the party traveled, up until they at last arrived.

The mirth ended where the pass began.

Eve drew her mace as the worn cobblestone came into view, the old road slicing cleanly through the familiar mountains. Wes followed suit, unstrapping his staff. Preston placed an absent hand atop Reginald’s head, more to comfort himself than the hound-sized drakeling.

Eve took the lead. “Welp, here goes nothing.” She stepped in.

You have entered the dungeon: The Fallen Pass! Fight well.

The others kept close behind as Eve walked the gentle slope, her feet navigating the uneven terrain of the cracked and broken cobblestones with natural ease. Wes and Preston lacked her grace, but Reginald had no trouble keeping steady.

With every step Eve’s hair stood more on end, her heart rate gradually quickening as they progressed through the road-turned-dungeon. She gripped her club with white knuckles, constantly scanning the obscuring mists for any dark shapes or darting figures. None came.

Seconds passed, then minutes. Still nothing. Silence ruled the foggy sky, itself a stifling presence in the face of imminent danger.

Eve had to strain to hear Preston’s hopeful murmur. “Maybe it’s out hunting, or something else has already killed it.”

“I’d rather fight a trellac than whatever can kill a trellac,” Wes whispered back. “Maybe it moved somewhere el—” He froze in his tracks. His breath hitched. His voice shook, carrying a quiet desperation Eve had never seen in the muscular Disciple. Terror. “We need to leave.”

Eve furrowed her brow. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s out there,” Preston muttered. “Eve, we can’t fight this thing.”

“What are you talking about?”

Wes panted with the shallow breaths of mounting panic. “You can’t feel it? Eve, we need to go right now.”

“Feel what?” Eve asked.

Even Reginald shied back, whimpering as he pressed himself against the cliffside.

Wes and Preston turned to flee, their faces pale and their eyes wide. Eve stopped them. “What’s gotten into—”

And then she heard it.

It spoke not through the air but in her mind. Its question rang through her thoughts, rife with the same quivering fright as she saw in her companions. It was a boy’s voice, a child’s voice.

Why do they always run?

Eve turned to the others. “Did you hear that?”

Wes frantically shook his head, still eyeing the way back.

Interesting, Eve thought. She called out into the mist, “Are you doing this to them?”

I don’t know, the childlike voice answered.

“Can you stop?”

I—I don’t know.

Eve could’ve sworn she heard a sniffle accompanying that last message. “Are you alright?”

Another sniffle. No.

Eve looked back at Wes and Preston. “I’m going to go find it. Stay here.”

They simply nodded, their fear-addled brains desperate to accept the confidence in her tone.

Eve took a step forward. It was a risk, she knew, but her companions were useless in their current state, and the terror in the mysterious voice matched that of her friends too well. Maybe it was under the same spell as the others. She called to it, “I’m coming to find you.”

You aren’t afraid?

Eve silently thanked the gods for Defiant Mind. “This fear isn’t real. It’s just magic.”

A-are you sure?

She took another step. And another. Immune as she was to the magical fear, her heart still raced as she imagined what she might find.

Eve came upon a bend in the road, following the old pass as it swayed to the left.

I’m here.

She froze, jerking her head back to scan her surroundings. There, huddled down tight in a corner, was a feathery form. She’d almost walked right past it. “Are you hurt?”

I don’t think so.

“Let me see you.”

Movement slow with trepidation, the creature carefully rose. It stood no more than four feet tall, its head adorned in a mess of brown ruffled feathers in place of hair. In place of arms, two feathered wings wrapped around its torso as if to fend off an encroaching chill. Its legs matched those of a hawk, feathered to the knee and wrinkled, gray skin beneath. They ended in talons.

Eve’s eyes, however, weren’t drawn to the monstrousness of its body, but to the humanity of its face. His face.

Tears fell from yellow eyes, running over boyish cheeks and down a hairless chin. By Eve’s reckoning he looked no older than nine.

Level 4 Trellac Hatchling

Are you a hunter? Mama warned me about hunters.

“I’m not a hunter.” Eve filled her voice with as much comforting softness as she could manage. “I’m Eve.”

I’m Art.

Eve smiled gently. “Pleased to meet you, Art. Is your mama here?”

She’s gone. He sniffled. Hunters got her.

“What about your papa?”

He’s lost. I can’t find him.

“You’re here all alone?”

He nodded.

She shivered, her mind suddenly conjuring images of the urchin child back in Lynthia to whom she’d given her mother’s sweater. “You must be so frightened.”

He nodded again.

“Maybe we can help you. My friends are back there. They’re frightened too.”

Everyone runs away from me.

Eve paused for a moment to think. “I… I think they’re scared of you. I think you’re sharing your fear with them just like you’re sharing your thoughts with me.”

How do I stop?

“I don’t know,” Eve answered earnestly. “I’ve never met a telepath before. The easy answer is to stop being afraid.”

How?

If only I knew, kid. Eve kept the thought to herself. She hoped. Aloud, she switched tactics. “By remembering everything is gonna be okay.” She held out a hand. “That we can get through this. Maybe we can find your papa.”

Art eyed her offered hand for dragging seconds before he anxiously extended a taloned hand of his own and took it. But what if we don’t?

Eve bit her lip, hesitant to make any promises she couldn’t keep. “Then we’ll keep trying. What matters is you’re safe. We’ll protect you.”

Secondary Quest assigned: Lost and Afraid

Help the trellac hatchling find his papa.

Eve reserved her reaction to the notification for later. She needed to stay calm.

The young trellac wiped his eyes with the back of his winged arm, nodding to Eve’s words. The tension remained.

Eve listened, straining her ears to hear Wes’s panicked panting still echoing through misty pass. It wasn’t working. She cursed, wracking her brain for ideas of what to say to comfort a frightened child. Only one came to mind.

Fighting not to speak the words through gritted teeth, Eve spoke. “You know what my friend Wes would say?”

What?

“He’d say you need to trellax.”

A grin blossomed on Art’s face, spreading wide for precious seconds before he erupted into laughter. It was like music, echoing joy through the dismal mists of the fallen pass, until whether by psychic influence, the mounting hope that she might make it home safely, or the unfettered purity of a child’s laughter, Eve couldn’t help but crack a smile of her own.

“C’mon,” she said, “let’s go meet the others.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

These Fields are Significantly Less Dead

THE MOMENT THE first of the viridian treetops came into view, Eve stopped short to marvel at the sight. “Trees,” she muttered. “Actual trees.”

“Um… yes?” Preston said. “Were you expecting something else?”

“Well, no—I just… I guess it feels too easy. After all this time to just… walk home.” Eve shrugged.

“We have your class to thank for that,” the healer replied. “We never would’ve got past Art without Defiant Mind. I just wish we could’ve gotten exp for clearing the dungeon.”

Eve smiled, her pack still bulging with the dungeon core they’d found, its guardians long scared off by the trellac’s fear. “I guess befriending the final boss doesn’t count as clearing the dungeon.”

As one they both looked back at Wes, who carried the young hatchling on his shoulders.

“And what do we say if a stranger sees you and goes ‘aah, a monster!’?” the Disciple asked.

You don’t look so hot either, Art telepathically repeated the quip.

“Or?” Wes prompted.

Aah, an asshole!

Wes grinned. “Perfect.”

Eve scowled at him. “Should you really be teaching him to swear? Isn’t he…” She gestured vaguely, unwilling to say “too young” in front of the hatchling.

Wes held up his hands defensively. “I’m not teaching him to swear,” he said. “I’m teaching him the all-important ability of scathing wit. Swearing is just… a byproduct.”

“Right,” Eve said flatly. “Because you’re the authority on scathing wit.”

“Just like you’re the authority on swearing.” The corner of Wes’s mouth tilted up in a smirk. “I’m not teaching him any words he wouldn’t have picked up listening to you and Preston anyway.”

Eve made a point not to vocalize the string of obscenities that ran through her mind, knowing full well they would only prove Wes’s point. Her restraint did little good in the presence of the telepath.

What’s a ‘hellfucking smartass?’ The innocence in Art’s voice sent Eve’s face white.

Wes laughed, holding up an open hand towards the young trellac. “So now you slap your hand into mine. It’s called a high five.”

Lacking a palm to speak of, Art tapped the back of his taloned hand onto Wes’s. Childish laughter echoed through the air.

Eve put her head in her hands. “A telepathic Wes. Just what I fucking needed.”

Letting out a chuckle of his own, Preston continued on down the worn road. The others followed.

It wasn’t long before the party reached the peak of the mountain pass, exposing the forest canopy that stretched out below them.

“I think,” Preston declared with excitement in his voice, “we’ve come far enough.” With a near-ceremonial reverence, he pulled the cloth mask from his face and took his first unfiltered breath of fresh air.

Wes followed suit. “This is amazing. I never have to smell pelsid ooze again.”

“Don’t worry,” Eve commented. “Once we get back to Lynthia you can smell the sewage instead.”

Wes scrunched up his nose. “Don’t remind me.”

For her part, Eve reveled not in the freshness but in the openness of the air. Unafflicted with the need for pelsid slime to filter the toxic fog, her grip with the Dead Fields wasn’t in terms of stench but of claustrophobia. No longer did the oppressive sky leave a stale taste in her mouth. No longer did the world’s beauty obscure itself behind a curtain of mist. For hells’ sake, she could see further than the bridge of her nose! Eve smiled.

She surveyed the sea of conifers before her, grinning maniacally at the concept of trees. She’d missed trees.

For all the splendor of the emerald view, Eve found her eyes drawn not to the forest itself, but the areas bereft of foliage at all. Other than the usual clearings and strange ruined stone tower she was certain was some kind of dungeon, only one feature stood out.

“That must be the Ilv.” Preston pointed at the winding absence of trees which could only be the famed river. “You can even see the tributaries.”

Sure enough, if Eve looked closely she could just barely make out the gaps in the forest that signified the mountain streams on their way to join up into the Ilv. “We made it further east than I thought.”

“It makes sense,” the healer said. “We were walking for days before we found Drathis.”

“Right,” Eve replied under her breath. “It’s just… hard to know you’re traveling if you don’t see your surroundings change.” Quietly enough to escape the others’ notice, she continued, “So much for going home.”

“Sounds like we have a destination,” Wes spoke up. “Follow the river until we get to Ilvia.”

Eve nodded. “Easy enough. I’ve always wanted to see the Great Crossing. Maybe we can find a boat heading back to Lynthia.”

“Or Pyrindel,” Preston said. “We’ve been to Lynthia. Besides, all the mercenary guilds worth talking to are based in the capital.”

“You just don’t want to go back to Ayla’s cathedral,” Wes laughed.

Preston snapped his fingers. “You’re damn right I don’t. I’ve had enough religious ceremonies and weird priestesses, thank you.”

Eve furrowed her brow. “You… you do realize there are cathedrals to Ayla in every city, right?”

Preston blanched.

Wes chuckled. “You could just… not show up at the cathedral.”

“Yeah, whatever happened to the whole ‘I’m keeping in the church’s good graces so I always have a place to stay wherever I go’ thing?” Eve asked.

“That was before we looted enough ar-iron to fund a small army,” the former Priestess answered. “Now I can afford a room.”

“Ah yes, the height of luxury,” Eve laughed. “A room.”

Wes rubbed his lower back, sending Art rocking wildly back and forth atop his perch. “Honestly, yes. After two months sleeping in a cave with a giant rat, I would kill for a real bed.”

“We did kill,” Eve said. “We killed a lot.” She counted on her fingers. “Almost two hundred skyswallowers, twenty-odd cultists, a Disciple, and one massively over-leveled ironclaw griffin.”

“Sorry, let me rephrase.” Wes smirked. “I would kill you for a real bed.”

Eve snorted. “I’d like to see you try.”

Wes shrugged. “Last I checked, you can’t outrun being on fire.”

“Oh, didn’t you know? Defiant Body makes me fireproof.”

Wes crossed his arms. “No it doesn’t.”

“It makes me just as fireproof as your Forged in Flames makes you mace-to-the-head-proof.”

Wes raised an eyebrow. “So… not at all.”

Eve flashed a malicious grin. “Exactly.”

“Girls, girls,” Preston interrupted. “Stop fighting. You’re both pretty.”

“Yeah.” Wes grinned. “But I’m prettier.”

Eve held a finger to her cheek. “You’ve got pelsid ooze on your face.”

“Son of a—” Wes managed to cut himself off before swearing yet again in front of Art. He wiped his face on his sleeve, once again nearly sending the young trellac tumbling off his shoulders.

“Anyway,” Preston said, gesturing a sweeping arm over the road forward, “on to Ilvia.”

Eve nodded, taking the first step back down the sloping mountainside. Hesitant as she was to give up the open view for the tight space of the dense woods, Ilvia called.

The forest itself wasn’t as intimidating as Eve remembered. After the constant threat of unstoppable death looming in the impenetrable mists off the Dead Fields, the shifting shadows and rustling leaves lost their teeth. There were no griffins here.

She knew, of course, the northern woods were not to be trifled with. Many a deadly beast lurked beneath the gloomy canopy, but The Defiant carried herself with hard-won confidence.

Art helped. The telepath more than once proved his use as a living alarm system, alerting the party whenever he sensed aggressive thoughts from a nearby animal.

His assistance, unfortunately, came at the cost of Wes and Preston’s comfort. Comfortable as the adventurers were in the dark woods after their experience north of Xandria’s Teeth, Art lacked their confidence.

Every snapping twig and glimmer of movement in darkness made the trellac shiver, an emotion he inadvertently shared with Wes and Preston. Wes, in an attempt to calm his own magically induced jumpiness just as much as to help the child, spouted a near-endless stream of consciousness, filled with whatever dumb jokes, silly anecdotes, and other distractions he could conjure up.

Eve kept watch by night, spending the hours practicing her Mana Manipulation to control her glowing eyes and neck. She’d long discovered the necessary balance to sufficiently light up her surroundings without waking the others, but as her Mana pool continued to grow, the more restraint it took to maintain it.

Most of her effort she spent on splitting her focus, trying to practice the essential skill of doing other stuff without reverting to her full brightness. She had to imagine the citizens of Ilvia would have questions if they saw a living magelight walking around.

Eve also devoted no small number of hours to cycling Mana through her eyes in various ways, hoping to discover the ‘Fatetorn Gaze’ her ability description had mentioned. Her search was driven more by curiosity than any hope the general skill would actually be useful—general skills had been a bit hit or miss so far—but there was no cost to picking it up. She had time to kill, after all.

On their second day in the gloomy woods, the party finally reached the western bank of the Ilv. Even this high into the foothills leading up to its mountainous source, the river flowed with more water than Eve had ever seen. She knew it would only grow as they traveled south. The crisp, cool melted snow made for remarkably fresh drinking water as it surged over earth and stone, running fast and loud in the narrow channel allowed it by the confines of the trees.

As they followed the waterway south, the adventurers found themselves time after time crossing over brooks and streams and even smaller rivers that each contributed to the Ilv’s powerful flow, until not even the mighty roots of the ancient conifers could contain it.

Three days into their journey along its banks, the Ilv surpassed thirty feet in width. Five days in, it reached fifty.

Even as the tributaries grew fewer and further between, the mighty river continued to stretch, paying for its newly claimed territory in speed and force. By the time the trees themselves began to thin as the party neared the forest’s end, the Ilv had transformed from a raging torrent to a lumbering giant, stretching over a thousand feet across as it ambled along the gentle grasslands.

With their exit from the woods came the first glimpses of civilization as more and more of the wild fields gave way to farmland. Eve had known, of course, that the vast majority of the populace lived in the eastern half of Leshk—thanks to the security of Pyrindel and the fertility of the river valleys—but seeing it was something else.

The party kept their distance from the farms as much as they could, forgoing the chance for fresher food to avoid awkward questions about the drake and trellac that traveled with them. Presumably the city would be more familiar with adventurers.

Still, even if she didn’t have a chance to see the farmers themselves, the sheer acreage of land that had been tamed for the purpose of agriculture staggered Eve. As the days passed and they journeyed on, Eve saw more cultivated grain than wild grass.

The mounting excitement of their trek came to a head ten days south of the mountains, when the first glimpse of a towering structure appeared upon the horizon. Eve was the first to notice it.

“Is… is that what I think it is?” She squinted at the two granite monoliths on either side of the chasmic river, unable to make out any details beyond their enormous size from such a distance.

“The Great Crossing,” Wes mouthed. “We made it.”

Eve subconsciously quickened her pace along the soft loam of the riverbank, dreams of a hot meal and a soft bed and a windfall from sold loot forefront in her mind.

Preston hastened to catch up. “Sure as hells looks like Ilvia to me.”

“Good,” Eve chirped, a budding smile on her face as at long last their return to civilization was within reach. Even then her thoughts turned back to the only other city she’d visited, the only benchmark she had by which to imagine the world they were about to enter. Only one thought bubbled up.

“I hope it doesn’t stink.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Welcome to Ilvia

THE RIVER CITY of Ilvia didn’t loom upon the horizon so much as it seemed to spring about them, the farms and stables and upstream docks gradually appearing more and more often until the countryside disappeared entirely. Eve didn’t even notice when the soft earth of the riverbank gave way to hard cobblestones.

A walled city though Ilvia was, its position nestled safely in the Leshkian heartland left its denizens little reason to huddle up behind the ancient fortification. Nowadays what remained of the old stone barricade only served to distinguish those who lived within from those who didn’t.

As the trading capital to all of Leshk, real estate in the inner city went for a pretty penny. Only the wealthy, establishments catering to the wealthy, and those institutions older than the outer city itself found space within the coveted district.

Much to the residents’ chagrin, the adventurer’s guild fell under that third category.

So it was that three dirt, sweat, and grime-coated adventurers accompanied by a waist-high drake and a trellac hatchling found themselves traipsing through the fine thoroughfares, garnering a number of curious and disdainful looks from the well-dressed passersby.

Eve glared right back at them.

“I can’t believe nobody’s stopped us,” Wes commented as they passed yet another bored-looking city guard. “We wouldn’t have made it one step into Lynthia without some watchman asking to see Reginald’s paperwork.”

Preston shrugged. “Maybe Ilvia is just more adventurer-friendly?”

Eve snorted, jerking her head towards a group of wealthy merchants sneering at them. “Tell that to them.” She shook her head. “My guess is you,” she said to Preston. “Caretaker of Ayla’s a beastmaster class. Given your level, they probably assume you already have a license.”

Wes held up a hand. “Hey, let’s be consistent. This is Preston we’re talking about. Beastmistress.”

“You know what?” Preston bristled. “Maybe my real quest is to get strong enough to punch a goddess. Should only take… oh a few centuries of grinding and I can pay Ayla back for making me deal with you two.”

Wes furrowed his brow. “W-wouldn’t it be easier to exact your vengeance on us?”

“Please,” Preston scoffed. “That’d be too boring. Do you have any idea how easy it is to not heal somebody? Besides, by the time I catch up to you two in strength, you’ll both be long dead of your own stupidity.”

Eve frowned. “I’m sorry, who was it that got captured by cultists?”

Preston shook his head. “No, no, I give you two maybe a year before you try and fight some level two-thousand abyss lord or some shit and end up a small red splotch in the dirt.”

“C’mon,” Wes protested, “we’re not that dumb.”

“Really?” Preston cocked an eyebrow. “‘Cause Eve’s already salivating over how much exp that abyss lord would be worth.”

“Level two thousand…” she muttered to herself before shaking the daydream from her head.

“Okay, okay,” Wes admitted, “maybe we’re a bit too open to taking risks, but it’s worked out so far, hasn’t it?”

Not for Alex, it hasn’t. Eve stopped herself from speaking the thought aloud, unwilling to ruin the party’s jovial mood. Art had other ideas.

Who’s Alex? the trellac’s voice echoed through their heads.

Eve cursed. “Damnit, Art, what did I tell you about reading people’s thoughts?”

Wes, Preston, and even a number of passersby on the street all took on a cowed expression as Art’s shame leaked. Don’t reply to things that aren’t said aloud, he rattled off. People don’t like to be reminded how bad their defenses are.

Preston sighed, taking over with softness in his voice. “It’s not about defenses,” he reexplained. “Most humans aren’t telepathic, so mental communication makes them uncomfortable. Especially if you read their private thoughts.”

But how am I supposed to know which thoughts are meant to be private?

“They’re all private,” Wes said. “That’s the point.”

Humans are weird.

“Yep.” Eve stuck out her tongue. “They really are.”

A childish laugh resonated through her mind, sending grins across the faces of Eve’s companions and the wealthy onlookers at once. “We really need to do something about that,” Eve muttered to herself. Eventually someone would realize the trellac was manipulating their emotions, and Eve did not want to deal with that disaster.

The conversation came to an end as the adventurer’s guild hall came into view.

The rundown wooden structure stood out among the fine brick and marble boutiques that flanked it. The chipped paint, crooked door, and single, broken window were more than enough for Eve to identify the building without the aid of the faded sign. “Jobs must be scarce out here, huh.”

“Too many people, too few monsters.” Wes turned up his palms. “That and I’m sure the merchants here can afford the mercenary companies instead of cheaping out on adventurers.”

Echoing his shrug, Eve stepped forward, swinging open the thin wooden door to the Ilvia guild hall. The interior was all too familiar.

Two desks flanked the common area, one for food and alcohol and one opposite it for guild services. The floor between was crowded with chairs and tables, most of which sat empty given the early afternoon hour. One didn’t.

Three men and a woman sat together at a corner table, already downing their first ales of the day. Their eyes all went blue as they Appraised the newcomers.

“Woah there,” the tallest of the men said, a warrior-type with a ridiculously large great sword at his back. “You’re supposed to drop the cattle off and then collect the payment.”

Eve blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, your Excellency,” the drunken fighter replied. “This isn’t the king’s court. We talk straight here.”

Eve paused, creasing her brow as she visibly looked herself up and down. She raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like I’m from the king’s court?”

“Just pay your guards and go back to your fancy inn,” the rude man continued. “You can play dress up with your noble friends later.”

Eve grit her teeth. She took a step forward, only stopping as Preston placed a hand on her shoulder. Only then did she realize she’d been gripping the hilt of her dagger.

“Leave them,” the healer said. “They see you as an Emissary, remember?”

“That’s no reason to be a dick,” Eve muttered back.

“Speaking of dicks…”

“Wes,” Preston hissed. “Later.”

“Not you.” The Disciple rolled his eyes, raising an arm to point. “Her.”

Trying not to laugh at the exchange, Eve followed his gesture with her eyes, only to audibly curse as they landed on an all-too-familiar face behind the clerk’s counter.

“Well, well, well, looks like our Common-er is moving up in the world. Back from kissing some noble’s boot?” The pure, unbridled snark in the guild clerk’s voice grated on Eve’s nerves.

“What are you doing here?”

The clerk sat back in her seat. “I work here.”

Eve scowled. “You work in Lynthia.”

“I do,” the woman replied, as if that explained anything.

As Eve went through a chorus of cursing, sighing, and grumbling about rude receptionists who could be in two places at once, Wes took over.

He started with showing off the dungeon core from the Temple of Garaxia, leveraging it as proof they’d completed the job they’d originally set out to do. The hundred silver reward, while paltry for the risk involved, was plenty to pay for two rooms, baths, meals, and enough drinks to forget the stench of pelsid slime once and for all.

Eve dipped out the moment the clerk handed the set of room keys across the counter, leaving Wes behind to inquire after places to sell their vast supply of loot. The less time she had to spend dealing with the guild clerk, the better. Getting a head start on that bath was an added bonus.

She had to fill the tub herself, of course, but with her Strength the act of hauling hot water from the fire up to her room was little more than a moment’s distraction, one that was well worth it. It took the better part of an hour for Eve to rid herself of nearly three months’ worth of grime, compounded by the time spent scrubbing her armor as clean as she could get it.

Once finished, she left her gear to dry and put on her least-damaged blouse and the skirt she hadn’t worn since leaving Lynthia. Eve could get used to this. It was nice to wear clothes like a normal person rather than the same suit of armor day in and day out. Maybe they could stick around Ilvia for a bit. Once the loot was sold, they’d certainly be able to afford it.

Pocketing the thirty silver she had left after paying for the room, Eve made her way back down to the common room. As far as emptying the now-tepid bath, she didn’t bother with the buckets, simply carrying the entire tub downstairs over her head and dumping its contents into the gutter. It drained quickly, no doubt passing through whatever sewer the city had and into the river.

Eve smiled. She couldn’t express her joy at finding a city with a functional sewer. She could actually breathe.

Stepping back inside, Eve sidled up to the bar opposite the loathsome receptionist, finding its keeper much more amicable. He had beer.

The Defiant bought a full round, as well as putting in an order for whatever dinner the kitchen was serving that night, before turning to find her companions. She almost tripped over Reginald’s sleeping form as she made her way to the table. “Where’s Wes?”

“Still bathing,” Preston answered without looking up from the paper on which he furiously scribbled.

Eve raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“Beastmaster application,” he replied. “Sooner or later someone’s going to ask for paperwork.”

“Makes sense.” Eve nodded. “Don’t want to end up paying a fine if you can—” She cut off, knocking Art’s hand away from the handle of Wes’s flagon. “That’s not yours.”

But I wanna try it! the hatchling protested.

“No you don’t,” Preston said. “Believe me. My da let me try ale at your age and I spit it right out.” He shuddered.

But I—

“No ale for you.” Eve spoke with finality. “You’re too young. Not to mention you’ll get the whole city acting like drunken idiots.”

Preston’s eyes widened. “Well if you put it like that…” He slid the tankard towards Art with a sly grin.

Eve took it from him. “As entertaining as that would be, no. I’m pretty sure the guards would consider that an attack on the city.”

“Since when do you care about following the law?”

“Since I got caught breaking it and got fined.”

“Fair enough,” Preston conceded, looking back down to his application.

Eve sipped her ale, careful to keep an eye on Art as he in turn eyed Wes’s drink. She made a note to track down someone with a telepath class who could teach the young psychic a thing or two. She could practically see Preston pouting along with him.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” a youthful voice interrupted her thoughts.

Eve turned to find a girl, no more than thirteen, carefully reading from a white envelope.

Level 4 Messenger Girl

Common Tier 1 Class

A nostalgic grin stretched across Eve’s face for a moment as she Appraised the Messenger. “What do you need?”

The girl didn’t meet Eve’s gaze, her eyes fixed on the words she read. “Are you with the… um… Disciple of the Devouring Flame?”

“You have a message for Wes?”

The girl nodded.

With a gentle smile, Eve pulled a silver piece from her pocket, tipping generously. “Here you go.”

The Messenger Girl practically snatched the coin from Eve’s hand, holding out the letter in exchange. Before Eve could even blink, the girl was gone.

“That’s weird,” Preston muttered. “We only just got here. Who’s writing letters to Wes already?”

Eve flipped the envelope in her hand, her eyes shooting open as she read the lettering on the red wax seal. “Damn,” she muttered, “and I thought my class was going to get attention.” She looked up at Preston. “It’s from the mage’s college.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Haul

“AYLA’S TITS,” WES cursed over the neatly folded parchment.

Eve leaned in. “What’s it say?”

“What do you think it says?” Preston asked. “It’s a job offer.”

“Not just a job offer,” Wes breathed. “An interview.”

“Guess you’re fucked, then,” Eve laughed. “I don’t think making puns counts as work experience.”

“Not that kind of interview,” Wes muttered, his eyes still wide as he ignored Eve’s jape. “They want me to tell them about my class. They’ve never seen it before.”

“Ayla’s tits,” Preston echoed.

“That’s what I said.”

“I know.” Preston blinked. “I was right here.”

“Right.” Wes shook his head, lost in the haze of shock and wonder.

“Um… okay.” Eve lifted an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” the Disciple said. “I didn’t even do anything special to earn it, it just kinda… happened.”

“Don’t tell them that,” Preston added. “And don’t sell yourself short. Just because you didn’t sucker punch a fire elemental doesn’t mean you didn’t earn your class.”

“But Eve—”

“Don’t compare yourself to Eve,” the healer snapped. “She’s on a Legendary quest that’s only marginally less insane than she is. You braved the same dungeons, the same monsters that she did, and you’re not made of Mana.”

After a moment’s silence, Wes hesitantly nodded. “So what now?”

“Now?” Preston shrugged. “Did they mention anything about paying you for your class info?”

“‘Membership into our organization and fair payment in gold for the details of your class’,” Wes quoted.

Eve’s jaw dropped. “Gold?”

“Excellent.” A thin smile stretched across Preston’s face. “Don’t take it.”

Wes scowled. “What?”

Eve mirrored his expression. “I agree. What? Wes’s planned to join the mage’s college from the day we left Nowherested.”

Preston held up his hands. “I know, I know. Don’t take the offer yet. If the mage’s college hasn’t seen your magic class yet, I guarantee you the other companies haven’t either.” He pointed to the letter. “The mages got to you first, but I’ll wager there are more of those on their way. You just became a hot commodity.”

Realization flashed in Wes’s eyes. “Shit.”

Eve furrowed her brow at Preston. “How do you know this?”

“How do you not?” Preston scoffed. “What adventurer in their right mind doesn’t research the requirements for the class they want?”

Eve scowled.

“Right, right.” He shook his head. “I keep forgetting you two are from the middle of nowhere. And not in your right minds.”

“Not that it matters,” Wes said. “Apparently we’re both outside the scope of research, anyway.”

“Hold up.” Realization dawned on Eve’s face. “If they’re offering gold to hear about classes they haven’t seen before, what do you think they’ll pay for mine?”

Preston put it simply. “They won’t.”

“It’s literally Unique!” Eve insisted, keeping her voice low as the common room slowly filled with thirsty adventurers. “There’s no way the mercenaries have seen it.”

“That’s the problem.” Wes realized the Caretaker’s line of thinking. “They haven’t seen it. No one has.”

Preston nodded. “Nobody’s interested in the class requirements for Emissary. They already know that one.”

Eve cursed, taking a moment to down the last of her ale. “Gods-damn Appraise weirdness.”

“Can’t you just… show them your class directly?” Wes offered.

Snark crept through Eve’s voice. “I don’t know, Wes.” She leaned in, pulling up her status sheet in an attempt to show its reflection in her eyes. “What do you see?”

“Nothing,” he answered simply. “Your eyes glow brighter than the blue screen.”

She nodded, shutting her eyes for a moment to redirect her Mana. It took a few minutes’ practice to maintain her focus without letting the status screen close, but even when she did Wes again shook his head.

“Still nothing. You’re not glowing bright enough to light up the room, but you’re still glowing.”

Eve glowered, letting her Mana return to its normal flow. “Shit. Can’t prove I’m anything but an Emissary if nobody can Appraise me or read my status.”

“I mean…” Preston offered, “a truth potion would work. Or some advanced telepathy. Or maybe there’s a more powerful version of Appraise out there.”

“Great. So if I get arrested they’ll know my class, but I can’t actually use it to get a job.”

“You can’t use it to get a job as an adventurer,” Wes corrected. “I’m sure King Elric could use an extra Emissary.”

“It’s Queen Elric. The king died five years ago.” Preston sighed at their confused look. “Right, right, backwater village.”

Eve rubbed her temples. “It’s the gods-damned adventurer’s guild all over again. Maybe I’ll get a milestone for being the only tier four to that nobody wants on their team.”

Wes turned up his palms. “On the bright side, you can at least afford your own room this time.”

“Hey, I saved your life at least twice on the way to Lynthia,” she argued. “You owed me.”

“Which is why I haven’t asked you to pay me back.” Wes smiled. “Yet.”

Eve rolled her eyes.

“You can afford more than your own room,” Preston said. “If those griffin claws really have ar-iron in them, you can afford a gods-damned house. You don’t need mercenary companies bidding over your class info. Hells, you probably don’t even need a job.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Besides, I have three quests I still haven’t finished, and I get the impression level fifty isn’t going to be enough for at least a few of them.”

Three sets of eyes turned to subtly glance at Art where the orphaned hatchling seemed to be silently conversing with Reginald.

“You don’t need a mercenary company to keep adventuring,” Preston returned to the conversation. “Sure, the guild doesn’t get high-level requests, but there are still dungeons out there. Or we can just follow Wes on whatever missions he ends up on.”

There was some merit to the idea. Not only could she avoid trying to convince a high-level organization to accept an Emissary, but Preston’s plan would allow the three of them to stick together for the foreseeable future. Sure, it’d pay less than taking her own missions, but money wasn’t exactly a sticking point at the moment. “Maybe,” Eve eventually admitted, still hesitant to give up potential income. “We’ll have to see how much the griffin claws actually go for.”

“And the hide,” Wes added. “And the dungeon cores. And the cultists’ sacrificial dagger.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Eve smiled. “I’ll head out to sell the loot tomorrow morning, while you talk to companies and Preston submits his beastmistress application.”

Preston opened his mouth to protest her word choice, but Eve cut him off with a calculated smirk.

“And as for tonight,” she said, rising from the table, “I think the next round is on Wes.”

* * *

Eve awoke early the next morning feeling fresh and well rested and ready to tackle the day.

She cursed.

By all rights she should’ve been hungover, her current state of wellness only serving as a reminder that her unique and powerful race change had robbed her of any adventurer’s favorite pastime: getting drunk. Apparently, her Ethereal Metabolism metabolized alcohol into Mana a little too well.

Feeling downright functional, she rose from her bed and donned a pair of traveling pants, a freshly laundered but still worn and stained blouse, and her pack full of griffin claws before heading downstairs for breakfast.

The first task of the day was to submit a job listing to the guild, searching for a psychic who could teach Art to keep his telepathy under control. Unsure what to offer, she simply listed the pay as ‘negotiable,’ hoping whoever showed up wouldn’t demand too much.

The guild clerk was less than helpful as Eve filled out the required paperwork, but she at least kept her usual snark at bay. Apparently, the hour was too early for rude comments.

Job posted, Eve claimed an empty table and sat back to wolf down a plate of eggs and sausage. The flavors danced across her palate, spices and fat and protein mingling together in a symphony of simplicity that in truth didn’t taste that good but was surely welcome after months of Wes’s cooking.

She noticed, as she ate, a Messenger Boy step into the guild hall, white envelope in hand. She watched him scan the room before joining four others of the same class waiting at a corner table. Eve wondered if they were all for Wes. Preston had been right; he was a hot commodity.

Eve took a moment to curse herself for failing to make a joke about the healer describing Wes as ‘hot’ in the moment. Why did all the best ideas come a day late? She shook her head.

Shoving her empty plate aside, Eve shouldered her pack and stepped out into the sunlit streets of Ilvia’s inner city.

The air was crisp and cool, blowing refreshingly across her skin as she navigated the broad avenues. Though she’d left her club back at the guild hall—a giant bone on her back would draw a bit too much attention—she kept her daggers strapped to her waist. It was to these the blacksmith turned up his nose as Eve stepped into his shop.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the lithe man greeted her as he looked her up and down, “we don’t service homemade weapons.”

“You… what?” She frowned, noting there was not a hint of soot or oil on the blacksmith’s immaculate doublet.

He shook his head. “Adventurers,” he sneered. “Always think they can make a better weapon in a half hour than an artisan who’s honed his craft for decades.” He held up a hand, gesturing to the armaments on display. Each was more intricate than the last, detailed with decorative swirls and sculptures or inlaid with more jewels than Eve could count. They were more works of art than weapons of war.

“I… didn’t make these.” Eve waved at her daggers. “And they’re in perfectly good shape, thank you very much.” She reached for her pack. “I’m here to sell.”

“I can refer you to a smith in the outer city who’ll be happy to purchase your looted weapons and armor, but The Artful Hammer doesn’t deal in used weaponry.” He rattled off the response as if he’d said those exact words a thousand times. Living so close to the adventurer’s guild, he probably had.

“Alright then.” Eve shrugged. “Can this outer-city smith work with ar-iron?”

The man froze, staring at Eve with eyes as wide as saucers. “D-did you say…”

“What’s his name? I’ll be sure to let him know you referred me.” Eve turned as if to take a step towards the exit.

“Stop!” The haughty smith lunged from behind the counter. “Show me the ar-iron. I assure you there is no other smith in all of Ilvia who can do it justice.”

“I don’t give a shit who can do it justice.” Eve pulled her pack from her shoulder, stepping up to the counter. “I care who can give me the best price.”

“I can be more than reasonable,” the man insisted. “Your ar-iron will be far more valuable as a work of art forged for a noble’s hip than as some adventurer’s tool.”

Eve had her qualms about turning the valuable metal into a showpiece instead of something actually useful, but she wasn’t here for a weapon—hers worked well enough. “Alright,” she said, pulling out the brutal talons and lining them up on the smith’s counter, “what’ll you give me for these?”

“Already refined,” the man muttered as he examined a claw, “curious.”

It was Eve’s turn to go pale as the snobby blacksmith picked up one of the valuable talons and, without so much as breaking a sweat, snapped it in half. “Holy shit.”

Ignoring her profanity, the smith gazed deeply into the broken end of the iron claw. “Looks like twenty-two percent iron, fifty-eight point three percent platinum, twelve percent ar-iron, and a few trace minerals to make up the rest.” He looked up at Eve, his eyes still blue with whatever skill he’d used to evaluate the metal.

“Oh yes,” the man said. “I believe you and I can come to quite the profitable deal.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Disk Eye Pull

EVE RUBBED HER thumb across the face of the coin, feeling every bump and trough in the minted gold. She grinned.

She’d never even seen a gold coin before, let alone touched one. This solitary piece of currency would’ve been enough to buy a gods-damned house back in Nowherested. More than enough.

Eve hadn’t expected such a little thing to be so heavy, in both senses of the word. Of course, neither it nor its hundred and thirteen twins in her pack were much of a burden given her superhuman Strength, but that didn’t stop each and every coin from surprising her with its heft.

It was a lot of money. Too much money.

Eve fought the urge to flip the coin she held through the air, knowing full well that the flash of gold would attract the wrong kind of attention, even in the relatively safer inner city. She still refused to stow it away in her pack, keeping it wrapped tight in her palm as she wandered the posh avenues.

She smiled as she passed a pair of guards on patrol, remembering the days she’d thought a hundred-silver fine backbreaking. With the wealth in her bag, she could afford to pay that a thousand times over and still have a veritable fortune to spare. She wondered what she’d do with it.

Eve tried not to think about how eager the snobby blacksmith had been to part with such a sum, nor about how much some nobleman was likely to pay for the ar-iron saber he’d make. As far as she was concerned, the nobles could keep their overpriced and artistically crafted weapons. Beauty served little purpose on the field of battle. Her griffin-bone club was plenty good enough.

Then again, despite what any onlooker might’ve thought, Eve was no Emissary. She knew nothing of the noble field of battle. Perhaps the price tag on the weapon meant as much to them as the sharpness of a blade meant to her. She shook the thought from her head, dismissing the concerns of nobles once and for all as not her problem.

Instead, she turned her attention to the open windows of the various luxury boutiques that lined the streets of inner Ilvia, ogling extravagant dresses and fine jewelry she never would’ve dreamed of affording before that day.

She knew she’d be better served spending her money on potions, enchantments, perhaps a new set of armor better suited to channeling Mana. Adventurers had no use for ballgowns.

Although, Eve mused as she eyed a deep crimson evening dress with glimmering golden stitching, if I’m posing as an Emissary, maybe it’d be worth it to look the part. People treat foreign dignitaries with respect, right?

She recognized the excuse for what it was, forcing herself to turn her gaze forward and continue on her way. She resolved to at least return to the guild hall to distribute Wes and Preston’s share of the gold before making any rash purchases.

Her resolve lasted all of twelve steps, eventually done in not by the eye-catching beauty of magnificent luxury, but by a simple smell.

Without spending a single ounce of her Unique class-defining willpower trying to resist the temptation, Eve found herself standing at the counter of Madame So’s Sweet Temptations, counting out silver pieces as she placed her order.

It wasn’t until she was nearly a block away, reveling in the buttery sweetness of the strawberry scone, that Eve realized the shop might’ve sold bread as well. She didn’t turn back. Probably for the best, she reasoned, I wouldn’t want them to burn down or go out of business or something. Not with scones like these.

She pulled another from the box they’d given her, downing the delicious pastry in three bites. “Ayla’s tits, that’s good,” she moaned, eliciting confused stares from a number of passersby. She paid them no heed.

Eve activated Mana Rush as she walked, using the empowering ability to partially drain her nearly full Mana pool just enough so she could afford to eat a third scone without overflowing. Her muscles rippled with enough Strength to shatter stone as she bit down on the fruity confection. Fuck combat, she decided. Ethereal Metabolism and Mana Rush were truly meant for optimal scone consumption.

She was still licking sugary crumbs from her lips when she stepped back into the guild hall common room to find Wes, Preston, and Art sitting around a table.

The young trellac wore a loose pair of pants and oversized shirt, obscuring his feathered arms and avian legs. Were it not for the ruffled feathers surrounding his face and the taloned feet sticking out the legs of the aforementioned pants, Eve might’ve taken him for a human child. The too-long sleeves of his dull-brown cotton shirt even served to hide his clawed hands. He sipped cutely at a glass of milk while Preston talked.

“Are you sure you should be wearing that? We should at least get it evaluated.”

Wes gripped the silver chain around his neck. “Why would anyone send me a cursed amulet? I hardly think cursing me would make me want to join…” He looked down at a piece of paper in front of him. “…the Red Ravens.”

Eve took a seat next to him. “They’re sending you free stuff now?”

“Yep.” Wes grinned. “As an incentive to ‘consider their offer.’ So far I’ve got an Initiate’s Ring from the Ruin Raiders, a pair of Resonance Cuffs from the Sojourners, and this Amulet of Lightning Attenuation from the Red Ravens.”

“That’s what we think he has,” Preston clarified. “Any one of these pieces could be enchanted to fool Appraise. We’d have to take them to an Enchanter to be sure.”

“Hello?” A youthful voice interrupted the conversation. “I have a parcel for the… um… the Disk-eye-pull of the Devouring Flame?”

Eve bit back laughter at the Messenger Boy’s mispronunciation of Wes’s class.

“That’s me.” Wes tipped the boy as he graciously accepted the paper-wrapped package, a wide grin fixed on his face as he read through the note.

Preston had the good grace to wait for the messenger to leave before cracking a smile of his own. “Disk-eye-pull, huh?”

“It suits you,” Eve said. “Some of your puns certainly make me want to pull out my eyes.”

Wes ignored her jape as he tore through the brown paper to reveal a folded garment of brilliant fiery red. He let out a whistle.

Hexweave Robes

Rarity: Rare

“Look at you,” Preston teased as Wes held the item in front of him, “mage’s got his first set of robes.”

“Hey, we can’t all get free Priestess robes from the church,” Wes countered.

Eve grabbed the letter that had fallen to the table. “No, some of us have to get free robes from… Hard Company?” She snorted. “Somebody actually named their mercenary group Hard Company? That has to be a joke, right?”

Preston’s eyes widened. “You got a note from Hard Company? Ayla’s tits. They’re the real deal.”

“You know them?” Wes asked.

“You don’t? They pretty much single-handedly stopped a leviathan from crushing Roathin. A fucking leviathan, Wes.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll add them to the shortlist.” He refolded the hexweave robes, setting them on the table.

“Gods, please,” Eve said. “Please join the Hard Company. I beg of you.”

Wes scowled. “You’re never going to get past that name, are you?”

“Wes, you have the opportunity to join the hardest mercenary company in the land. Do you think they’ll train you to be hard like the rest of them? Maybe there’s a special hard-ness skill.”

Wes sighed, crumpling up the offer letter from the Hard Company. “That’s a no, then. No amount of free gear is worth Eve making ‘hard’ jokes for the rest of my life.”

“Probably wise,” Preston admitted, “but you gotta admit that robe looks snazzy.”

Eve cocked an eyebrow. “Snazzy? Really?” She exhaled. “Anything’s better than that trash heap you’ve been wearing.”

“Hey, this trash heap's a priceless family heirloom.”

“If by priceless you mean worthless, then sure,” Eve laughed. “It’s no wonder half of Nowherested was happy to give away their heirlooms to you.”

Wes tugged at his ill-fitting, mismatched set of worn armor. “They were just excited that their town produced a legendary hero.”

Eve stuck her tongue out. “Yeah, it’s a pity they gave all that crap to you instead of to her.”

“It’s okay.” Preston placed a comforting—and somewhat patronizing—hand on Wes’s shoulder. “You’re Legendary to me.”

“And to them.” Wes jerked a thumb over his shoulder as the door swung open to admit three more messengers bearing letters and gifts.

The train of offerings continued throughout the afternoon as the party conversed over ales. More than anything, Eve found the variety of items truly astounding, as if the assorted companies had conspired to outfit the disk-eye-pull in a complete set of enchanted gear.

From a belt that could store fire Mana for later castings to shoes ensorcelled to never leave blisters, Wes one by one replaced every single family heirloom he’d worn since Nowherested. One group—Belter’s Brawlers—even sent him fireproof undergarments. Eve had a good laugh at that one.

Wes carefully tallied each gift, piling them neatly on the wooden table as Preston organized the stack of letters. Not a one of them mentioned the specific salary they offered, leaving Wes with the task of responding to each one to properly facilitate the bidding.

The longer the day went, the less Eve envied the mage’s position. Sure the growing heap of enchanted gear was nice, but she had the funds to purchase custom gear that would fit her skillset far better than any random gift.

The effort involved in negotiating the best possible offer felt more and more of a chore as the letters kept coming in, especially considering the sum of gold she’d obtained that very day. Hells, in Wes’s place she might’ve just picked the company with the coolest-sounding name. Or the silliest. She snorted again at ‘Hard Company.’

Eve’s mounting lack of envy peaked as a Messenger Girl stepped into the guild hall with a live goat in tow.

“We hope our gift will appease your great patron,” Wes read aloud from the attached note. “Signed, Occultists Incorporated. What in the hells does this mean?”

Preston blinked. “I… I think they want you to sacrifice the goat to the Devouring Flame.”

“They want me to what?” Wes shook his head. “Nope. Nope nope nope.” He tore up the letter. “The Devouring Flame isn’t getting shit from me.”

“Other than, you know, all those demons you burned. And the hydra. And the troll.” Eve smirked.

“Okay, okay.” Wes held up his hands. “The Devouring Flame only gets things that are trying to kill me.”

“So what are you going to do with… um… him?” Preston pointed at the goat as it munched on a mouthful of Wes’s brand new hexweave robes.

“Son of a—” Wes cursed, grabbing the beast by its snout as he tried to force its jaw open. It didn’t budge. A careful application of fire—paired with a few additional expletives for flavor—eventually prodded the creature to back off with a few angry bleats, but not before it managed to chew a fist-sized hole in the Rare garment. “You know what, maybe I will sacrifice it.”

“Yeah,” Eve laughed, “with any luck it’ll eat the Devouring Flame.”

“Goats will eat anything,” Preston added.

“Maybe that’s what the Devouring Flame is.” Eve said. “Just a goat who got really high-level and caught fire. Think about it. Goats eat everything. The Devouring Flame is all-consuming. They’re basically the same thing.”

Wes put his head in his hands. “What are you on about now?”

A sly grin spread across Eve’s face. “Maybe your real class is Disciple of the Fiery Goat.”

“No, no.” Preston wagged a finger. “It’s Disk-eye-pull of the Fiery Goat.”

Wes groaned, collapsing forward to land his head in his pile of swag.

Preston chuckled.

Eve outright laughed.

The goat happily returned to its meal, oblivious to the ongoing merriment being made in its name. As far as it was concerned, only one fact truly mattered in that moment: Hexweave, it’d discovered, was delicious.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Side Quest

“SO I UNDERSTAND why Wes has to be here to receive messages from the mercs, but why is it my job to sell this asshole?” Eve tugged tightly on the goat’s leash, jerking its head away before it could take a bite out of her shoulder pack. “You’re the one who can communicate with it.”

Preston exhaled. “Because my beast tamer license requires I don’t let the magical creatures out of my sight.”

“Then take them with you!”

“You know I can’t do that. Art’s psychic tutor will be here by midday.”

Eve scoffed. “It won’t take that long.”

“You don’t know that,” Preston insisted. “Just take the damn goat. What else were you gonna do today?”

“Alright, alright,” Eve grumbled. She could do her shopping later. That was the advantage of not being trapped in a deadly wasteland—she could afford to waste time on nonessential tasks. Then again, given how much of Wes’s fancy hexweave robes the goat had eaten, maybe getting rid of it was essential.

Eve shook her head, leading the ill-mannered beast out into the busy streets of inner Ilvia. She’d expected the goat’s steadfast insistence on staying put, requiring her to force it along. She’d expected the curious looks passersby gave an Emissary leading around a live goat.

She hadn’t expected the notification that popped into view as she took her first step.

Tertiary Quest assigned: Sell the Goat

Sell the goat.

“What the hells is a tertiary quest?” Eve muttered. She had a life quest, and so far two secondary quests to go with it, but they were all grand, overarching goals that could feasibly take years to complete. This was… an errand.

Gods, she hoped it wasn’t another bread situation. Was she going to start burning down farms and slaughterhouses too, now? She cursed. Maybe the word ‘tertiary’ meant it would be easier. A tertiary quest couldn’t be as hard as a life quest, right?

Still, Eve had to wonder why this particular task was worth a quest at all. She hadn’t been assigned one for any of the guild commissions she’d accepted, nor any of the other miscellaneous goals she’d set for herself.

She forced the musings from her mind. “C’mon, goat,” she said, refusing to name the livestock as she tugged its stubborn legs forward.

As she and the goat strode down the avenues of the inner city, Eve quietly accepted the realization that if the quest meant anything, it was that selling this damned goat was going to be more of an endeavor than she would’ve liked. With a grimace, she resigned herself to the likelihood she wasn’t going to get her shopping in that day.

The bag at her back sat empty but for the three remaining scones from yesterday’s purchase. Her club, the rest of the loot, and all but a few dozen silver rested safely back at the guild hall. She kept her daggers with her, strapped to the belt she wore around her simple traveling pants. There was no need for armor in the safety of the city, after all.

Only three blocks into her errand found Eve at her obvious first stop—the butcher’s. There were, of course, no farms in the inner city, but even the wealthy needed meat.

Her hopes were not high as she stepped into the establishment. The servants in line to buy their masters’ evening meal looked down her noses at her, as if even the cooks and maids thought themselves above the lowly adventurer. Or at least above her goat.

“Oi,” a gruff voice shouted from behind the counter. “No pets. We keep it clean in ‘ere.” The butcher, whose bloodstained apron was anything but clean, scowled at her.

“I’m trying to sell it,” she answered. “Figured you could use it for meat.”

“This in’t a slaughterhouse.” The man scoffed, the superior look on his face contrasting sharply with the bits of intestine stuck to his sleeve. “We only take the finest sourced, ethically raised product from Ilvia’s top farmers. Gods know where that thing’s been.”

Eve batted at the goat, knocking out the chunk of its leash it had been chewing on. “Look, I’m just trying to get rid of this thing.”

“Then get rid of it somewhere else,” the butcher snapped.

“Alright,” Eve sighed. She’d known it wouldn’t be this easy. “You mentioned slaughterhouses? Where’s the nearest one?”

“I’m not a map, lass,” the man answered. “Now get yer filthy animal out of ‘ere.”

Eve conceded, silently nodding as she backed away from the butcher shop. The goat, for once, followed all too readily, happy to leave behind the stench of fresh meat.

“Okay,” Eve thought aloud as she paused on the tidy cobblestone street, “slaughterhouse, slaughterhouse, slaughterhouse.” Figuring such grisly work wouldn’t take place within the inner city, she picked a direction and started walking, settling in for a long trip.

In theory a slaughterhouse would be closer, but she knew the entirety of Ilvia was surrounded by farmland. If she just kept going, she’d be practically guaranteed to find a farm eventually. Farms kept goats, right? She assumed so. Where else would Occultists Incorporated have bought the thing?

Eve and her goat wandered the thoroughfares of inner Ilvia, each taking in the symphony of sounds and smells the city had to offer. Freshly baked pastries mingled with the cloying sweetness of perfume and flowers contrasted with the sharp bitterness of smoke from a nearby forge.

The autumn sun shined warmth on her back as Eve eyed the various patisseries and boutiques she passed, ever-frustrated at the realization that none would welcome the presence of a goat. Hells, the damn thing would probably eat the jewelry on display. She grimaced, making a note of each business she passed, determined to do her shopping later. What use was all this gold if she couldn’t spend it?

So enraptured was she in the luxury of her surroundings, Eve didn’t even notice in which direction she headed until the incline of the road made itself apparent. Looking up from her reverie, the massive stone tower ahead of her made her location clear.

The Great Crossing.

Far be it from her to understand why the citizens of Leshk had decided to build a bridge at the widest part of the river. The Great Crossing at Ilvia was a historic feat of engineering. Or was it a Legendary quest reward like the walls of Lynthia? Hells if Eve knew. She was just happy to see it.

Its stones bound together by enchantment, the arch stretched over half a mile long and wide enough for three wagons to ride abreast, not that they ever did. Instead, vendors set up stalls along the bridge’s sides, offering up all manner of sweets and souvenirs to visitors of the esteemed landmark.

The towers on either end served no structural purpose, built solely for the sake of keeping watch and for the immovable portcullis they each supported. Eve didn’t envy any hostile army that thought it could storm the Great Crossing.

Eve slowed as the slope evened out and eventually flattened out entirely as she reached the arch’s peak. She stopped, turning to gaze over the broad stone handrail. The goat joined her, jumping up to rest its front hooves on the barrier.

The view was magnificent.

Sunlight glimmered upon the ambling water, the barges and ferries floating upon it like so many ships sailing through a sea of stars. On either side docks and wharfs extended like fingers into the flow, each housing its own private hustle and bustle as harbor workers went about their daily tasks of loading and unloading the trading vessels that were the true lifeblood of Ilvia.

She watched with awe as a river schooner passed beneath her feet, the tip of its mast not so much as nearing the underside of the Great Crossing. Even directly below her, the sailors on deck appeared as little more than ants in the distance.

Several times as she stood upon the bridge’s peak did Eve turn to survey her surroundings. The city itself spread out before her, its tallest structures nothing compared to the majesty of the Crossing. She could just make out the ruined wall that marked the border between the inner city and the rest of the plebeian world.

Still, try as she might to mentally map out the metropolis from her vantage, Eve found her attention kept returning to the river itself, the sparkling sun and the ghostly glide of the ships mesmerizing.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

The goat bleated in agreement.

“Alright, then.” She stepped away, tugging at the animal’s leash to pull it from the handrail. “Let’s get you to a slaughterhouse.”

Eve set her course down the opposite side of the bridge, choosing the direction so that she might have another chance to enjoy the view on her way back. The goat proved reluctant to leave the Crossing behind, forcing Eve to exert some Strength to pull the thing along and keep it from nibbling on the clothes of passersby. Had Occultists Incorporated never fed the damn thing?

Probably not, she realized. Poor thing. Whatever Preston insisted about the Garaxian cultists being perfectly polite, Eve’s experiences told her the opposite. Those cultists had tried to kill them, and these cultists had expected Wes to sacrifice the goat. Just because he was a Disciple didn’t mean he was a cultist.

Unless he is, Eve realized. For all she knew, he’d earned his Rare class by making offerings to the Devouring Flame when nobody was looking. Acolyte and Disciple sure sounded cultist-y. Eve smiled at the idea of a cultist and a Priestess sharing a bed. Wes, with all his dumb jokes and bad ideas, had to be the least cult-like cultist she’d ever seen. Then again, Preston was the least priest-like Priestess she’d ever seen. The two really were a perfect match.

The silly musings kept Eve suitably distracted as she and the goat traversed eastern Ilvia, progressing first through the inner city and then through the ancient wall into the seedier outer city.

At first the buildings weren’t noticeably different than their inner-city counterparts. At second, Eve was simply too busy imagining Wes making offerings to some evil god of puns to notice the increasingly ramshackle state of her surroundings.

It wasn’t until she spared a thought for how readily the goat had been walking alongside her that she thought to actually look back at it, if only to confirm it hadn’t eaten a hole in her trousers when she wasn’t looking.

The leather leash dragged along the cobblestones, its tip frayed where a certain animal had chewed through it.

The goat was gone.

Eve’s immediate reaction was one of relief—she didn’t have to bother with selling the damn thing anymore. It was someone else’s problem. Whatever silver it might’ve been worth didn’t seem worth the effort compared to the gold she already had.

A panicked bleating rang out in the distance, sending Eve’s attention towards two hooded figures standing at the mouth of a dark alley. One held the goat under his arm.

Apathy turned to rage in Eve’s heart as the thieves absconded with their prize. Who the hells were they? What right did they have to run off with somebody else’s goat? Eve cursed, taking off in pursuit.

Nobody stole from her, least of all some two-bit stereotypical shadowy figures in a gloomy alleyway. They could at least be original in their dark dealings.

Eve balled her fists, not bothering to question why she cared enough about the ugly goat to go confronting bandits about it. It was the principle of the thing.

Besides, she had a side quest for it, and Eve would be damned to three hells before she let a side quest go uncompleted.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Get Your Goat

EVE FOCUSED INWARD as she stepped into the alleyway, restricting the Mana flow to her eyes to preserve some semblance of stealth in the dark space. They still glowed, of course, but at least there wouldn’t be visible beams of light announcing her every move.

The precaution was likely unnecessary, but Eve liked to cover her bases. She was already running in headfirst to confront a bunch of thieves; she wanted to maintain some sense of thinking things through. It had never been her strong suit.

As she cast her first glance along the gloomy alley, Eve was prepared to find all manner of things. Not much between a rowdy game of dice and full-blown ritual sacrifice would’ve fazed her.

She had not expected to find absolutely nothing. A full scan of the tight alley revealed neither hide nor hair of the shadowy figures. Even the panicked bleating of the kidnapped animal had faded to nothing. Eve paused, suddenly very happy Wes wasn’t there. He never would’ve shut up about the goat being kidnapped.

She shook her head, banishing the pun from her mind in favor of focusing on the search. The narrow alley ended in a wall, and neither of the wooden buildings that flanked it had a side door two thieves and a goat could’ve exited through.

The Defiant stepped slowly down the backstreet, stepping over old crates and refuse piles as she scanned every nook for some sign of the brigands’ egress. It was only thanks to the ever-present illumination of her Mana-charged eyes that she finally found it.

A cellar door, obscured in the shadow of an adjacent cluster of empty barrels, marked the way forward. After a quick tug at the handle confirmed it was locked, Eve skipped straight to the ‘smashing her way through’ step, applying ample force through the heel of her boot.

Opening the passageway proved much easier with the lock in splinters ten feet away.

Eve didn’t hesitate before descending the stone steps into the dank tunnel. The space was dark, her Mana the only light source, though the lingering smell of smoke seemed to imply there had recently been a lit torch in the vicinity, no doubt that of the thieves.

Eve once again smirked at the pathetic humans and their need for light. Why everyone didn’t accidentally spill a mythically rare, ancient alchemical serum all over themselves to transform into a never-before-seen hybrid of Mana and organic life escaped her. It was just so much better.

A cocky grin clinging to her face, Eve began her trek down the damp and mossy passage. The goat-thieves had built up quite the head-start as she’d searched the alleyway, but Eve was more than capable of catching up. She didn’t even need to Charge! A brisk walking pace would be plenty.

So on she walked, following the singular direction of the tunnel and the faint smell of torch smoke in the distance. Underarmed and unarmored, Eve ventured forth into the bowels of Ilvia. One way or another, she was going to get that damn goat.

* * *

Archibald Clarence McGruff the Third was having a very strange day.

It had all started pleasantly enough, with a taste of the finest hexweave he’d ever had the pleasure of eating, but things had taken a rather odd turn from there.

First a rather rude lady had tugged him all over Ilvia, setting a brutal pace along the hoof-unfriendly cobblestone, only to leisurely stop to show him the marvelous view atop the Great Crossing. Scenic detour or otherwise, his keeper’s rough treatment proved too much for Archibald’s gentle sensibilities, so he simply had to chew through his leash and escape.

Unfortunately for him, he only breathed the sweet air of freedom for a paltry few moments before another rough set of hands snatched him up. His ankle still ached from his failed attempt at breaking free.

Currently, smoky air scraped against Archibald’s throat as his new captor carried him under his arm, deftly navigating a dark tunnel by the light of a torch. Archibald didn’t like tunnels. They smelled of dirt and staleness, and the sparse moss that lined the walls made for a subpar snack.

Being a civilized goat, Archie hadn’t resorted to the barbaric act of kicking and biting to fight his way free. Once calmly bleating for help had failed, it was all up to his most important tactic.

“Ugh,” Archie’s captor called out in disgust, “the damn goat’s pissing all over me.”

“Eh, you can wash it off later,” the other thief replied.

“But now I’m gonna meet the guild master smelling like piss.”

“You always smell like piss. Least now you have a good excuse.”

Much to Archibald’s dismay, his captor simply swung him around to point him away rather than dropping him in disgust. He was impressed. Whoever these brigands were, they’d proved themselves strong enough to overcome his most powerful technique. Out of things to try, Archibald hung his head, resigning himself to patience.

Wherever these strange and powerful men were taking him there would probably be food. The thought gave Archibald some comfort as his stomach grumbled. It was one of the advantages of being a goat that he’d enjoyed for the entirety of his brief life.

After all, when one’s definition of ‘food’ was as broad as Archie’s, everywhere had food.

* * *

Eve traversed the secret tunnel for nearly half an hour before it changed in any noticeable way. Trickles of water ran down the walls and along the cracks in the stone, slowly developing into a gentle stream that followed the length of the passage.

The thin layer of water running over the mossy stone left the floor remarkably slippery, a challenge Eve was particularly happy to find posed her no trouble. Skill-enhanced traction was mighty convenient.

It all came to an end as the tunnel opened up into an octagonal room dominated by the forty-foot cistern at its center. Six other passageways spread from it into the darkness, each feeding its own stream of water into the wide pool.

As she stepped onto the wooden bridge that crossed it, Eve had to wonder where it all came from. Was it river water? How far down was she? What was this all even here for?

The seventh face of the octagonal chamber answered that last question. Instead of an open tunnel, a wooden facade and door had been built over the wall, complete with fake windows and a flower box, and a professionally painted—if fading—sign that simply read Thieves’ Guild: Ilvia Branch.

“Nice of them to announce it, I guess,” Eve mused aloud as she approached the facade. She supposed there wasn’t much use in secrecy. She doubted any legitimate business would set up shop all the way down here. At least this way, someone looking to hire an assassin or buy illicit potions wouldn’t accidentally wander into the wrong guild hall.

With a shrug, she approached the honest attempt at a nice-looking shop front in the underground cistern and, lacking any better ideas, knocked.

A slot opened up in the door, revealing two dark eyes. “Password?” a grisly voice barked.

“Um…” Eve turned up her palms. “No?”

“Then fuck off.” The slot slammed shut.

Eve, not particularly wanting to fuck off, opted for a different option.

She kicked the door in.

Even without Mana Rush, her nearly two hundred Strength was more than enough to knock loose latch and hinges alike, sending the door in its entirety flying backwards, taking the doorman with it. He landed with a groan.

Eve casually strode up to the fallen guard, placing a foot to hold down the door on top of him. “Did two men come through here with a goat a bit earlier?”

The burly thief frantically nodded as he futilely struggled against her superior Strength.

“Excellent.” Eve smiled. “Thanks for the warm welcome.” She pressed her foot once more on the broken door as a message before moving on. Leaving the gasping guard behind, Eve continued on through the torchlit passage, unimpeded until the tunnel finally opened up into something that could suitably be called a guild hall.

Eve took a moment to gawk at the similarities to the adventurer’s guild. Despite existing in an underground tunnel instead of a regular building, the layout was damn near identical. It had the same two counters—one for jobs and one for drinks—the same table setup, and even the same smell of stale beer. Did all of Leshk only have one set of blueprints for constructing guild halls?

At least the clerk behind the desk wasn’t familiar. Eve might’ve screamed if the same snarky receptionist worked at the thieves’ guild too. Instead, she simply grinned sheepishly at the series of hostile stares that greeted her.

A man drew a knife. “Ye don’t belong here, girly. Go lick whatever noble’s arse ye did to earn that class of yers.”

“Actually, I have some business here,” Eve replied cheerfully. “Some of your colleagues have stolen from me.”

“And now we’ve won a ransom too. Lucky us.” The thief flashed a predatory grin. “Emissary like you’s gotta be worth something to somebody.”

“Carl, look at her!” A woman hissed in the leader’s ear. “She’s fucking glowing.”

“Even better. She’s rich enough to buy a glow-potion instead of using a torch like the rest of us.” He looked her up and down with a hungry leer. “I’ve always wanted to try a rich girl.”

Eve decided then and there that she was going to break his shins.

“Esther, Brock, take her weapons and tie her up,” the man barked. “Can’t have hostages running free, can we?”

Eve waited as the two subordinates approached her, holding her abilities at the ready as she formulated a plan. Her eyes flicked to the men at the side of the common room. Crossbows first.

She met the first thief to reach for her daggers with a flying elbow, shattering the fragile bones in his hand. She kicked the next in the stomach, sending him flying back as she Charged! for the two crossbowmen to her left. They didn’t even manage to pull the trigger before she was upon them.

Eve yanked the weapons from their hands, breaking fingers and wrists with the force of the motion. She shattered the weapons on the floor before moving on to the next adversary.

The Defiant weaved through Thief after Thief, breaking bones and knocking unconscious with surprising ease. She’d expected the low-level sneaks to be relatively weak, but they fell before her like dried leaves in the wind. What few attacks they did manage to land struck harmlessly against her Defiant Body, reinforced by Mana when she saw the blow coming.

Eve refrained from activating Mana Rush. She didn’t want to kill them, after all, just… disable them long enough to get back what was hers.

She saved the leader for last. At level thirty-one, he was the only tier three of the lot. His jagged knife flashed menacingly, dripping with deadly venom.

Eve threw a table at him.

It landed with a crash, striking the guild master in the chest and knocking him to the floor. He cried out.

Eve cursed as she approached. “Damnit, I was aiming for your shins. Guess I’ll have to settle for your collarbones.”

“Wh…what do you want?” The man groaned. “What did we do to deserve—”

“My goat,” Eve spat. “You stole my goat.”

“Y-you’re here for the goat? Fucking take it. It’s in the back eating upholstery.”

“Are you kidding?” Eve tried not to grimace at the accidental pun. “I’ve been trying to get rid of that thing all day.”

The man gaped.

“Um… you.” Eve spun to point at a random guildsman who lay on the floor clutching an injured arm. “What’s a fair price for a goat around here?”

“I—um—I don’t know—uh—thirty-five silver?” the man stammered.

“Great.” Eve turned back to the guild master. “I want thirty-five—no. Thirty-six silver in exchange for that goat.”

“What am I supposed to do with a gods-damned goat?”

Eve glared at the man. “On second thought, maybe I will break your shins.”

“No, no, here—uh—take anything you want.” Still pinned beneath the broken table, the thief jerked his head at his fallen coin purse.

Eve stooped over to collect the leather pouch, rooting through it to carefully count out exactly thirty-six silver pieces. She pocketed them. “Nice doing business with you.” She dropped the half-empty purse on the floor. “Don’t steal from me again.”

Eve didn’t look back as she strode from the thieves’ guild, the sound of a dozen injured bandits and one hungry goat fading in the distance. She stopped in the alleyway, just short of the busy streets of Ilvia, to read the notification that flashed in her periphery.

Tertiary Quest Complete: Sell the Goat

Rewards: 36 Silver Pieces, 3600 exp.

Eve smiled. Sure, it had been simple and the rewards minuscule, but at least now, at last, she’d completed her first quest.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Decisions, Decisions

TWO WEEKS INTO their stay in Ilvia, Eve was more than ready for this break from adventuring to come to an end. Much as her brief excursion with the goat had made for an entertaining interlude, thirty-six silver and a few thousand exp were crumbs compared to the wealth of levels and loot she’d grown accustomed to earning.

Eve was bored. There was only so much shopping she could do with her vast—but still limited—funds, especially considering she’d have to carry any item she bought with her once the party journeyed on. She could hardly bring a wardrobe of expensive dresses on their next dungeon-dive.

Eve was ready to move on. She wanted to see new things. She wanted to take on new challenges, push herself to the limits of what her class could achieve, experience all the wide and dangerous world had to offer. Most of all, she wanted Wes to shut the fuck up.

Not once in the fortnight they’d spent in the river city had Wes stopped talking about commission statistics, retainers, guild armories, or, most often, the negotiable signing bonuses most companies offered him.

“Podrick’s Titans has a ten-gold bonus for new classes, but their MCF—mean commission fee—is laughably low,” Wes calculated aloud as the party sat around their usual table at the guild hall. “Meanwhile, the Harbingers’ MCF is high enough that they could offer no signing bonus and I’d still out-earn the Titans after twelve jobs.”

Every word confronted Eve with her own lack of job offers. Official job offers, she reminded herself. The two chess pieces from the Man of the Mists weighed heavily in her pocket.

Preston shook his head. “The Harbingers make so much per job because they take risks.” He flipped through the Applicant’s Guide to Leshkian Mercenary Companies to the page on the Harbingers. “Their death rate is twice as high as the Titans’.”

“We’re adventurers,” Wes said, “dying is always an option. Besides, if you normalize the death rate by dividing each MCF by the chance of mission failure, the Harbingers still come out ahead.”

Preston snorted. “By that logic, a job that is guaranteed to kill you only needs to pay… fifty-one gold to be worth it.”

From her position across the table, Eve let out an overdramatic sigh. “This is ridiculous. I didn’t become an adventurer to do math.”

“Really?” Wes raised an eyebrow. “How much exp do you need for level fifty-one?”

“Six hundred twenty-seven thousand, five hundred and forty-four,” Eve rattled off.

The Disciple smirked.

“Okay, fine,” Eve exhaled, “I’ll admit there’s some math required, but this is ridiculous. Just work for whoever offers you the most money or whichever group that book of yours ranks the highest.”

“Those are two very different metrics,” Wes said. “Generally, lower-tier orgs offer more money. As for the highest ranking… they haven’t even sent me an offer. None of the top five have. You have to apply.”

“Then what are you doing wasting time with these other groups?”

Wes sighed. “We’ve been over this. Other than my class and level, I don’t really have much of a resume. ‘Killed skyswallowers for months to hit level thirty-seven’ isn’t exactly an impressive achievement.”

“And you’re worried if there’s an application process they’ll realize your Epic class is slowly driving you insane,” Eve added.

Wes held up an interrupting finger. “Hey, voices in my head notwithstanding, I’m not the one who charged in alone to fight the entire thieves’ guild over thirty silver.”

“Thirty-six silver,” Eve corrected.

“Guys, it doesn’t matter,” Preston intervened. “Four of the top five only allow internally built teams, so unless we all get invited, joining one of them would mean going our separate ways.”

Eve raised an eyebrow. “And the fifth?”

Wes shook his head. “The Dragonwrought haven’t interviewed an applicant in decades, let alone accepted one.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Do you want anything from the kitchen? I’m going to get a cup of tea. We still have two dozen orgs to rank.”

The moment the fire mage stepped away, Eve leaned back in her chair, dramatically throwing her head back to stare at the ceiling. She groaned. “Can’t he just fucking pick one?”

“He’s excited,” Preston replied. “And he’s got a lot of options. I know it’s boring, but he needs to weigh them all properly.”

“What happened to joining the mage’s college? He was so excited about them when we left Nowherested.”

Preston shrugged. “It’s on his list.”

“It’s just exhausting. Don’t you get tired of hearing how many invitations he’s got all the time? It’s like he doesn’t realize that the rest of us aren’t getting bombarded with job offers.”

“Well-um…” Preston reddened. “That’s-um… actually just you.”

Eve’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, what?”

The Caretaker reached into his robe, withdrawing a half-dozen open envelopes. “It’s mostly healers’ guilds and beast-tamer associations. They started coming in once I got my beastmaster’s license.”

“Bandir’s ball-sweat, are you kidding me?” Eve was particularly proud of that curse, one of several she’d overheard while exploring the docks. “How am I the only one nobody wants?” She looked again at Preston’s letters. “And how come you didn’t tell me?”

Preston returned the missives to his pocket. “Because your first response was to curse and yell about nobody wanting you?” He sighed. “You’re not going to wind up without a team. No matter what, we’re gonna make sure Wes lands at a company that allows outside team members. That’s why you should care about where he ends up just as much as he does. Without other job offers, you’re going to be stuck doing whatever commissions Wes can get.”

Eve bit her tongue, refraining from mentioning that she did have an outstanding offer, just not from any mercenary company. She’d been thinking about the Man of the Mists a lot recently, and a part of her wondered why she still hadn’t told Preston about the Unique messenger. She rationalized it as being unnecessary—she wasn’t going to accept his offer, so why bother sharing it? Eve knew that excuse didn’t hold water.

Truth be told, she liked having the secret. For all she shared with her friends, her conversation with the Man of the Mists and the two chess pieces she carried were uniquely hers.

Eve shook her head. “It’s like Nowherested all over again. Or the adventurer’s guild. Wes gets all the jobs and the free stuff and the attention and I just have to hope there’s enough left over for me at the end.”

Preston snorted. “I’m sorry, is your Unique class not enough for you?”

The Defiant exhaled. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I just don’t like needing Wes to do all the job hunting and negotiating for me.”

“Maybe you should practice negotiating yourself,” Preston offered. “You are an Emissary, after all.”

Eve laughed. “Yeah, I’ll just follow Wes to all his interviews. Tell ‘em I’m his designated negotiator. I’m sure that would go over well.”

“I’m sure Wes will do a fine job. And once you’ve done a few commissions with him as a free agent, I’m certain whatever company he joins will be happy to sign you.”

Eve exhaled. “Look, I know you’re right, and I know everything will work out in the end, it just… feels shitty. I don’t like sitting here with nothing while you and Wes get all sorts of offers, and I especially don’t like that now my future career is going to depend entirely on Wes making the right decision.”

Preston flashed a sly grin. “Why do you think I’ve been helping him rank his choices?”

“Because you’re a wonderful human being who wants the best for me?” Wes rejoined the conversation as he returned with a steaming mug.

“Yep.” Preston winked at Eve. “That’s exactly right.”

Eve bit back a scathing jape about public displays of affection as Wes gave Preston a peck on the cheek.

“Anyway,” the mage said, “let’s move on to the Valorsworn. They did send me this very nice ring…”

Eve tuned them out. It sounded like Wes wasn’t coming to a decision any time soon, and even if she didn’t trust him not to jump to whichever org had the coolest-sounding name, at least Preston would keep him on the right track.

Besides, if all else failed, he could always just join Hard Company.

* * *

Alone in her room, Eve lay back in bed, staring up at the ceiling as she flipped an ivory knight over in her hand. Its twin, the matching bishop they’d found on the corpse of a certain cult leader, sat on the bedside table. Eve turned to stare at it.

Had the Disciple of Garaxia been another potential employee, or had the Man of the Mists planted the chess piece on him for Eve to find? Neither possibility boded well.

Either the strange Unique wanted her to solve some cryptic puzzle before deeming her worthy, or he was perfectly happy recruiting evil cultists into his faction’s ranks. On that same note, Eve particularly didn’t like the idea of joining a faction she knew nothing about. For all she knew, the Man of the Mists was a member of the ‘pro-genocide’ faction.

She’d never admit it, but these damned chess pieces were the worst part of Wes’s whole job bidding war. Resolved as she was not to abandon her friends to work for some foggy stranger, every offer Wes—or Preston now—received set her thoughts back to the only one she had.

The mystery made it worse. The more time Eve spent thinking about the knight and bishop pair, the harder it became to suppress her curiosity. Bad idea or not, she wanted to know. Throwing the tokens away and rejecting the Man of the Mists meant never finding out about this great game he talked about, or his connection to the cultists, or why he was so obsessed with chess metaphors.

A part of her wanted to contact him if only to ask more questions. She was a Unique now; surely he’d be more ready to talk.

Eve sat up, snatching the bishop up from its table to examine it along with the knight. Thin wisps of fog rolled off them both, dissipating into the air as it always did. She’d only kept them as a backup plan, but gods, she was curious.

“No,” she thought aloud. “Annoying as he is right now, I can’t do that to Wes.” She hated it. It felt wrong, riding Wes’s coattails to success when she had so much to offer herself. Still, there had to be another way.

Preston was right. It would all work out in the end; she just had to be patient. The chess pieces made that hard.

Eve scooped up the two pieces, holding them together in her right hand. She’d made it this far with Wes and Preston, why should she abandon them now? Envy was no reason to follow a stranger into the fog.

“You know what? I trust them,” she muttered. “Fuck back-up plans.” Dumping a chunk of Mana into Mana Rush, Eve crushed the chess pieces in her hand, grinding them against her palm until they both dissipated completely into mist.

She exhaled. It was done. No longer did she owe the high-levels and their mysterious games even an ounce of her attention. She was sticking with her friends for the long haul.

Eve laughed. It felt good, knowing the chess pieces were gone, as if she could breathe easier without the Man of the Mists and his cryptic puzzles occupying space in her mind.

Her relief drained away when the notification appeared.

Legendary Quest Milestone Reached: Summon the Man of the Mists!

+32000 exp!

“Gods fucking damnit.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Water Damage

IT TOOK LESS than a minute before the fog began to roll in.

It crept through the cracks around the window, reaching through knotholes in the wooden wall and tiny gaps in the leaky roof. For a moment Eve considered trying to stop the mists themselves, before recognizing the futility of the idea, imagining Wes frantically stuffing a shirt under the door to try and stopper the flow. She chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”

Eve jerked her head around to follow the voice, finding the magical fog had pooled beside the window, concealing a humanoid form. “Nothing—I…” she stammered, “my friend is a buffoon. You got here fast.”

“I have my ways.”

Eve cocked an eyebrow. “Sure you weren’t just hanging around waiting for me to crush the chess pieces?”

She could’ve sworn she saw the shifting shadow’s mouth drop open for a moment before failing to find a reply. He changed the subject. “Why have you summoned me, my protegé?”

Eve blinked. Protegé? Really? “By accident, to tell you the truth, but while you’re here I may as well get some answers.”

“By… okay.” The man shrugged. With a slight flourish, he reclined back, sitting as if in an armchair made of the mists themselves. “Ask away.”

Eve froze, mostly in shock at his willingness to field questions. She’d expected him to say more cryptic chess metaphors and fuck off. She took a moment to retry her Appraise.

Level ?? The Man of the Mists

Unique Tier ?? Class

She was unsurprised to find him still well above her level and class tier, though the two question marks beside his name provided some information. At least he was lower level than the griffin, though Eve had no illusions about her ability to survive a fight with him. She knew more than most that level wasn’t everything, and the foggy stranger’s class was as Unique as hers.

Keeping to that line of thinking, Eve decided on her first question. “What level are you?”

“Ah-ah-ah.” The figure wagged a finger. “You’d think an Emissary would know it’s rude to ask someone’s level.”

“I’m not an Emissary.”

“But you’re disguised as one,” the man said. “A disguise you’d do well not to give away so readily.”

Eve rolled her eyes. “I’m not looking for a lecture on etiquette.”

“Then what are you looking for, champion?”

“It’s champion, now?” Eve exhaled. “I’m looking for answers. Who are you? Who do you work for? What do you want? Why did that cultist have one of your chess pieces? What about the Lady of Whispers? Why is my life quest so fucking weird?”

“I cannot answer that last,” the man replied, “and I will not answer that first. I work with a loose collective of high-level entities towards the common betterment of us all. This… Lady of Whispers is not a member of my organization. Do not trust her.”

“I generally don’t trust people who drug and kidnap me,” Eve snapped. “Just like I don’t trust people who hide their faces.”

“Everyone wears a mask, hero. At least I have the decency to wear mine where you can see it.”

Eve’s eyebrows rose. “Protegé, champion, and now hero. I’m starting to think you don’t remember my name.” Eve knew she was pushing it. She wasn’t sure from where her blithe attitude towards the powerful figure came. Everything just felt less intimidating after surviving the Dead Fields. Besides, cowering in fear wouldn’t be very Defiant of her.

“I’ll ignore that slight.” A sharpness filled the man’s voice. “But you would do well to remember your manners.”

He still avoided actually saying her name. Eve stifled a grin.

“As for what I want,” he continued, “I feel I’ve been clear. I want you. I want to see you realize your potential to become a powerful player in your own right.”

“As long as I play for your team.”

“Naturally.”

Eve restated the decision she’d already made. “I’m not leaving my friends.”

“You’ve left one already.”

Fury welled in Eve’s chest. “I didn’t leave her, she—”

“It doesn’t matter,” the Man of the Mists interrupted. “And there’s time yet. I admit you’ve done an admirable job of raising your companions up with you, but you can only carry them so far.”

“I said no.”

Behind his misty veil, the man smiled. “As I said, there’s still time. Far as you’ve come, there’re mountains left to climb.”

Eve bristled at that. Who was he to diminish her achievements? “A Unique class and a gods-damned griffin aren’t enough?”

“Unique doesn’t mean better, only different, and levels can be deceiving.”

“So, what would you have me do? I’m six hundred thousand exp from leveling up again, and there’s no way in hells I’m going back to the Dead Fields any time soon.”

“I never told you to level up.” The man breathed. “When will your kind part from the silly notion that levels are the only way to grow?”

Eve’s eyebrows raised. “My kind?”

He ignored her question. “A piece of advice, freely given in the hopes you’ll consider my offer. There are many, even here within your human kingdom, with the knowledge and tools to push you higher than you’ve even imagined. Seek them out.”

Eve let out an overdramatic sigh. “Keeping with the ‘vague and useless’ theme today, aren’t you?”

“The fog of uncertainty can cloud even the sharpest eye.”

Eve scoffed, waving a hand through damp air. “You’re the one fogging up the place.”

“I liked you better when you weren’t so insolent.”

She smirked. “I’ve always been insolent, just give less of a fuck about hiding it now. You gonna tell me something useful or are we keeping with the riddles?”

The man leaned forward. “Your companions have the right idea. Leshk’s mercenary companies have exactly the resources you seek, resources they’re all too happy to share with new recruits. The Dragonwrought should be a good fit.”

Eve scowled at the mention of the top org in all of Leshk. “The Dragonwrought haven’t interviewed an applicant in thirty years.”

“They haven’t listed you amongst their hopefuls.”

“I can’t even get an org to look at me,” Eve protested.

“Then I suppose you’ll have to prove yourself to them. If only there were some sort of yearly tournament designed for potential recruits to show off their prowess. They could call it the Proving Grounds and invite representatives from every major mercenary company in Leshk. Wouldn’t that be splendid?”

Eve grumbled. “When is it?”

“At the cusp between autumn and winter. I’m sure you can figure out where.”

Eve nodded. There was only one city with the clout to host such an event. “So that’s it? Head east, win the tournament, join the Dragonwrought?”

The shrouded figure nodded back. “I’m certain you’ll find yourself… uniquely situated to find a place in their ranks.” He stood. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters that require my attention.”

A wind swept through the room, swirling the supernatural mist into a vortex. Eve’s bedsheet whipped against her leg as she watched the man’s dark shape slowly fade into whirling fog. His final words to her echoed through the tight quarters.

“Good luck, champion.”

“It’s ‘Eve,’ asshole,” she called after him. “Remember it next time.”

As the last of the fog swept through the now-open window, it coalesced into a distinct shape, one Eve recognized all too readily as a massive hand with an extended middle finger.

With that, the man, and his mists, disappeared.

Eve laughed. She still had no intention of working for him, but she could appreciate a well-timed rude gesture. The Man of the Mists had at least been somewhat more straightforward with her this time.

How had nobody told her about the Proving Grounds? It was perfect. Even if she couldn’t make her way into the most powerful and exclusive mercenary company in Leshk, showing off that she was more than just an Emissary would be enough to land her a spot at an org.

Still, she was loath to take direction from the high-level stranger. She noted he’d avoided talking about the bishop she’d found on the dead cultist, and the fact he’d forgotten her name did seem to imply he had a number of other potential recruits out there.

The thought was actually some comfort. If Eve was just one of many young adventurers with potential, perhaps ol’ misty would accept her refusal. He hadn’t yet, of course, but maybe someday.

Eve shook her head, pushing herself to her feet to go find her friends. She stopped on her way to the door as a flash of white caught her eye.

There, on the bedside table, where certainly had been nothing ten minutes ago, sat an alabaster rook. “Great,” Eve muttered, “I’ve been promoted.” She left the piece there, slamming the door behind her as she stepped out into the hall. Powerful or otherwise, she had no intention of being a piece on somebody else’s board.

* * *

“The fuck do you mean there’s water damage?”

“This isn’t a resort, Excellency,” the receptionist spat the honorific. “You can’t just turn your quarters into a steam room. Wood warps when it gets wet.” She swore. “I’m going to have to find somebody to completely renovate the walls of room twelve because of you. Ugh. The only thing I hate more than adventurers: contractors.”

Eve furrowed her brow. “If you hate adventurers so much, why do you work here?”

The woman glared. “Because they pay me. And now you’re going to pay me for ruining a perfectly good room.”

“I’m not the one who damaged it,” Eve growled.

“It’s your room. Unless someone broke in to fill it with steam, it’s your fault.” The clerk frowned. “Actually, scratch that. I don’t care whose fault it is. Unless you have this mystery vandal ready to fund the repairs, pay up.”

Gods-damn Man of the Mists and his gods-damned moisture, Eve cursed to herself. “How much is it going to cost?”

An evil glint flashed in the clerk’s eye. “Between materials and labor, not to mention compensating me for my time organizing all this, I’m thinking… three hundred silver.”

Exactly as much as the payout for the temple job, Eve realized. No doubt that was on purpose. Without so much as a blink, she reached into her pack to withdraw the aforementioned sum, depositing it simply onto the counter. “Here you go.”

In the greatest display of surprise Eve had ever seen from the snarky woman, the receptionist raised an eyebrow. “That was easy. I guess licking noble boots pays.”

“Something like that,” Eve snorted. “We settled?”

The clerk nodded. “Don’t do it again.”

Eve, in a show of exactly the immense willpower which defined her Unique class, managed to stop herself from rolling her eyes until after she’d turned away from the front desk. She already couldn’t wait to join a mercenary company, if only to avoid dealing with the guild receptionist.

The Defiant made it three steps across the common room before the door swung open to admit a harried former Priestess. “Eve!” Preston greeted her, “Where have you been? I have news.”

“I was… upstairs.” She resolved to tell him about her foggy visitor at some point, but the Caretaker looked at her with urgency. “What’s going on?”

“The mage’s college followed up with another offer. They’re gonna pay for Wes to sail down and interview at their headquarters.”

Eve scowled. “What about us?”

Preston held up a piece of parchment. “Passage for three adventurers and two animal companions.”

“Shit.” Eve’s eyes widened. She hadn’t even had to tell them about the tournament for travel arrangements to fall in her lap. “When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. Wes and Art are upstairs packing.”

“I bet he hasn’t shut up about it.”

Preston laughed. “And I’m sure he won’t until we get there. He has every right to be excited. They invited him to the fucking capital.”

Eve flashed a sly smile. “They invited us to the fucking capital.”

“A terrible mistake, really.”

“Oh, definitely.” Eve turned to head back upstairs to start her own packing. As she climbed, she called back over her shoulder. “Give me a few months, and Pyrindel won’t have a single gods-damned bakery left.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Schooner or Later

EVE HAD HER first doubts about the moral fiber of their transportation the moment she laid eyes upon the captain of Freedom’s Gale. Something about him was just off. Perhaps it was his ragged eye patch or wooden leg or the spattering of faded bloodstains that decorated his worn linen shirt. Probably the latter.

Wes was the first to climb the gangplank to the deck of the schooner, followed closely by Eve. It took some urging from Preston to coax Reginald up the narrow plank. The drake—now seven feet long from tail to tip—dug his claws into the wood with every step.

Art, small and light as he was, rode on Reginald’s back. The two had grown thick as thieves in their weeks together, no doubt in part due to their similarities in age, at least for now. From what Eve had seen, drakes grew up far faster than trellacs. They’d been lucky enough to find Art when Reginald was still young enough to be a good friend to the hatchling.

At times Eve wished she could be privy to the telepathic conversations they shared. At others, she was particularly happy she wasn’t. They had Art’s telepathy tutor to thank for that. The boy was far from perfect, but at least he’d learned to direct his thoughts to a single entity and limit how much his emotions leaked to those around him.

Eve didn’t need Art’s psychic powers to know something was off about the seaman before her. He didn’t greet them as the last of her party made it to the deck. His parrot did.

“Squawk, welcome aboard!” The bird flapped colorful wings from its perch atop the man’s shoulder.

“You must be Captain Abraham,” Wes greeted, extending an open hand. “That’s a cool trick with the parrot. How’d you train it to do that?”

The man scowled.

Preston, eyes flashing blue with the light of a screen, grimaced. “Um… Wes?”

The fire mage continued, “Oh, right, where are my manners?” He raised a hand to his forehead in the sloppiest yet most earnest attempt at a salute Eve had ever seen.

Preston put his head in his hand. “Not what I meant. He’s not the captain.”

Wes furrowed his brow. “Kind of rude for the captain not to greet us, isn’t it?”

Eve, despite having a twentieth of his Intelligence, was at least smart enough to Appraise their hosts before putting her foot in her mouth. Sure enough, the imposing sailor was no captain.

Level 28 First Mate

Uncommon Tier 3 Class

Given Preston’s reaction, she’d expected as much. Eve hadn’t, however, expected the parrot to be hit by her Appraise.

Level 39 Ship Captain

Rare Tier 3 Class

Preston sighed. “You know, for all your Int, you really are a dumbass. The parrot is the captain.”

“And I just asked how he trained it.” Wes paled, spinning back to apologize profusely.

“Squawk, don’t ye worry,” Captain Abraham replied. “Pete will show ye to your quarters.” His brief introduction complete, the bird took off, his vibrant wings carrying him high over the deck as he squawked orders to the crewmen below.

Wes gulped. “I pissed him off, didn’t I?”

“He told ye not to worry about it.” The one-legged First Mate spoke with a deeply gravelly voice punctuated by the stench of stale beer on his breath. “Ye weren’t the first and ye certainly won’t be the last to make that mistake.” He turned, gesturing towards the stairway belowdeck. “This way.”

As the party followed, Eve was the first to ask. “So how does a parrot become a Ship Captain?”

“Same way as anyone else,” Pete barked. “Cap’n Abraham was the best for the job, so the crew voted him to it.”

“Wait,” Wes asked, “if you voted for the captain, who owns the ship?”

“We all do,” Pete answered through a toothy grin. “Abraham owns a bit more since he’s cap’n. Same with Quartermaster Stel. But there ain’t a sailor about this ship that doesn’t have a stake in it.”

“Interesting,” Eve commented. “I thought most merchant ships were owned by a trading company.”

“Most are, aye,” Pete said, “but some prefer the freedom of independence. ‘Stead of wages, everyone gets a cut of the lo—” He shook his head. “The profits, that is.”

Eve and Preston shared a suspicious look. She had a pretty good idea what L-word he’d been about to say. Adventurers were all too familiar with the concept of loot.

“Here we are,” the First Mate pulled them from their thoughts as he stopped outside a row of doors. “Three cabins, as paid for. Split ‘em up as ye will.” He pointed down the dark hallway. “Meals be in the galley, bell’ll tell ye when they’re served. Ye be free to wander the deck as ye will; the crew will leave ye alone if ye don’t get in anyone’s way. Any questions?”

Eve had several, but only one seemed appropriate in the moment. “How long is the voyage to Pyrindel?”

“Oh, a couple days? Week or so? Could be less if the winds are kind.” Pete shrugged. “We’ll get there schooner or later.”

Eve froze. Preston’s eyes widened.

Wes exploded with laughter. “Schooner or later.” He doubled over, clutching his chest as he cackled. “That’s hilarious.”

The First Mate grinned. “Oh, just a bit o’ seaman humor.”

Eve rolled her eyes. “Believe me, traveling with these two I get more than enough semen humor.”

It was Wes’s turn to gape. “Eve! You can’t just—”

A sly smile crossed Eve’s face as she stepped past him into one of the cabins. If she had to put up with his puns, he and Preston could put up with a few dirty jokes at their expense. She turned back to wink at them as she shut the door behind her.

Eve took a few seconds to survey every inch of her new lodgings. There weren’t many of them. The cabin was about ten feet by eight feet, its limited floorspace almost entirely dominated by the simple cot that would be her bed for the coming days. The room’s only other features were a cracked mirror and a small angled table built into the wall.

It was hardly luxurious, but it sure as hells beat sleeping on the side of the road.

Eve deposited her pack under the cot, the rolls of griffin-hide still tied to it. A part of her wished they’d stayed in Ilvia long enough to commission a new set of armor with the valuable hide, just as the rest of her was ecstatic to be moving on. There would be leatherworkers in Pyrindel.

Belongings stowed, Eve sat on the bed to strip off her armor. There was no need for the defensive leathers aboard Freedom’s Gale. She’d only been wearing them in the first place because they didn’t fit in her bag.

Eve had just managed to lie back in her comfortable traveling pants and loose white cotton blouse when a knock sounded on her door. Begrudgingly, she stood to admit Wes and Preston to the tight space.

“We’re all agreed these guys are definitely pirates, right?” Wes started bluntly.

“I don’t know about definitely,” Eve replied. “Probably, though?”

“There’s a cannon in our room.” Preston said. “It was going to be Art and Reginald’s room until, you know, we found a fucking cannon in it.”

Eve took a moment to look disbelievingly around her own tiny cabin. “How did they fit a cannon in—”

“It’s bigger than this,” Wes explained, “but all the extra space is taken up by, uh, the cannon.”

“Okay, so they’re definitely pirates,” Eve accepted. “Or particularly well-armed merchants with battle wounds and bloodstains. Does it matter?”

“Does it what?” Preston balked. “Eve, of course it matters.”

“Why? You Appraised them. We’re way higher level than they are.”

“That won’t stop them from cutting our throats while we sleep,” the healer replied. “Something they’d most certainly do if they knew how much gold we’re carrying.”

“I don’t know.” Wes scratched the back of his head. “They seemed nice enough.”

“You just like them because Pete made a pun.”

“Heh,” Wes chuckled to himself, “schooner or later.”

“That’s beside the point,” Eve said. “They won’t mess with us if they’re scared of us, and they can’t pull anything while we sleep if one of us is always awake.”

Preston raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Feels like it would be easier to just find another ship.”

Eve shrugged. “Ilvia was boring enough I actually slept most nights. Doubt I could sleep on this trip if I wanted to. And the mage’s college paid for Freedom’s Gale. That’s gotta say something for how safe it is.”

“Unless it’s a test,” Preston replied. “To earn an interview you have to survive the pirates.”

Wes gulped.

“It’d be a perfect test, really.” Eve rubbed her chin. “Can’t just burn them all or you’ll sink the ship with us on it. You’d have to actually demonstrate control. But that’s only if they’re brave enough to come after us.”

“Well, I’m not exactly terrifying,” Preston argued, “and like you said, once we’re on the ocean Wes can’t do much without putting us all at risk, and as far as the pirates are concerned, you’re only an Emissary.”

“Sure, but I’m an Emissary who wears armor and carries a giant griffin-bone club and who fucking glows. Not to mention the whole ‘staying-awake-for-a-week-straight-without-even-getting-tired’ thing. We’ll be fine.”

As if to punctuate Eve’s point, the ship lurched beneath them, jerking into gentle motion. They were underway.

“Guess it’s too late to change ships now,” Preston muttered. “Pirates it is, then.”

Wes placed a hand on the Caretaker’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, they’re nice.”

Eve rolled her eyes, swinging open the door to leave the couple behind in her room. She didn’t wait for them to follow as she made her way back up the dark stairs into the blinding light of the morning sun.

She felt the wind first. It ran through her hair, ruffling the short chestnut strands as it delivered the autumn chill to her skin. She smiled.

As her eyes adjusted to the light of day, Eve crossed the busy deck to lean against the stern railing. She breathed. Fresh, cool air flowed to her from over the ambling river as she watched the docks, then the buildings, then finally the Great Crossing itself fade into the distance.

Eve mentally checked the merchant city of Ilvia off her list of grand sights to see. Wes and Preston joined her at the railing, looking on in silence as they once again left behind the safety of civilization for the danger of the unknown. Such was an adventurer’s lot.

All they needed was a destination in mind and some idea of how to get there, and Eve knew, pirates or otherwise, that they would make it to Pyrindel, schooner or later.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Taking in the Sights and Sounds

NOT ONCE IN the hours that passed since their departure from the docks of Ilvia did Eve budge from the rail. She watched with bright eyes as manicured orchards gave way to fields of golden grain and as eventually the farms grew fewer and further between, replaced by the untamed meadows of the Leshkian heartland.

Eve reveled in it.

She breathed in the cool autumn air, filling her nose and mind alike with visions of falling leaves, hot ciders, and cozy fires. Even the subtle scent of rotting mulch conjured images of home. The folks back in Nowherested would be preparing for the harvest festival right about then. No doubt Martha was near overwhelmed patching up everybody’s winter clothes before the first snows hit.

Eve smiled. She could practically hear her mother’s complaints about the repair jobs coming in earlier every year. Eve hoped she’d manage alright without her help.

Only when the sun had vanished completely beyond the horizon did Eve turn her gaze away from the distant riverbanks, their beauty masked in the shroud of night. Instead she directed her attention skyward, sitting up against the main mast as she looked up upon the stars. They too reminded her of home.

She’d spent too much time in cramped dungeons or beneath a canopy of trees or in a bright city or trapped in the oppressive mists of the Dead Fields. In those moments as she stared into the endless abyss and the countless stars like so many oases in a desert of infinite black, Eve vowed to herself that she’d never again take them for granted. As much as an open road sang of freedom, so too did an open sky.

The sailors gave the strange Emissary a wide berth as she went about her stargazing. The torchlit gloom of the deck at night made the glow of her eyes and neck all the more apparent as she alone illuminated the area around her.

She caught a few of the whispers, most attributing her high level to low requirements of Common classes, while those in the know remarked that without combat, it could take a lifetime to reach tier four. Most seemed to agree she was older than she appeared, a concept Eve found rather humorous. She certainly felt older than she’d been upon her departure from Nowherested but a few months prior.

As the night dragged on, Eve set her focus on a puzzle she’d long put off making a true attempt at solving. Step one was to reread the description of her newest skill.

Passive Ability - Defiant Mind

Wield the unmatched will of The Defiant. Your mind is your own. Gain immunity to fear, pacify, and loss of control effects. Gain increased reaction speed. Unlock access to the Fatetorn Gaze general skill.

For the umpteenth time since she’d set out on her adventure, Eve wished the Questing Stones had been kind enough to grant her with skill descriptions that were actually descriptive. Unlocked access or otherwise, she hadn’t a clue how to actually use Fatetorn Gaze. If it was anything like the other general skills she’d found—Mana Manipulation and Appraise—she had to actually use it before it would appear on her skill list.

She started with the obvious. Eve had plenty of experience reducing the Mana flow to her eyes to diminish their glow; doing the reverse was the clear first step.

She was prepared for her Mana pool to slowly drop as she sent the magical energy circulating through her eyes. She was ready for the flashes of light as she carefully strengthened the unsteady flow, her natural glow intensifying enough to illuminate half the deck.

Eve wasn’t expecting the world to sharpen.

Details dozens of feet away suddenly became as clear as if they were right in front of her. Every strand of thread in the rear sail, every splinter of wood, every drop of sweat on every sailor’s brow stood out to her. Eve blinked and the world returned to normal.

“Well that was… interesting,” she murmured. A quick glance confirmed she had no new messages, no skill added to her growing list. Whatever that was, it wasn’t Fatetorn Gaze. She repeated the experiment, her gaze sharpening as she counted the threads of a coil of rope forty feet away.

At the back of her mind, Eve wondered if the pseudo-skill granted dark vision as well, not that it mattered. The act of using it made her glow bright enough that darkness wasn’t even a possibility.

Eve spent an hour or so playing around with her artificially enhanced sight before moving on to other senses. Sure enough, her hearing could be similarly boosted. She supposed it made sense. Her entire body ran on Mana, and she’d already had the ability to reinforce individual parts of it by channeling Mana there. It only followed that she could similarly reinforce her senses.

Eve only lamented she hadn’t discovered the possibility of enhanced hearing before the sailors had ceased their whispering. She knew eavesdropping was rude, but so was gossiping. That made it okay, right?

She had her opportunity but a few hours later, as the morning sun finally rose and the night crew disappeared into the hold to make way for the day crew. Eve was ready for them.

“Did she sleep up here?” one sailor asked of a yawning nightshifter as they exchanged posts.

“She was up all night… flickering,” came the reply. “Me and Tia’ve got a bet. She thinks the lass’s keeping watch for something and will trade places with one o’ her friends soon.”

“And you?”

The sailor leaned in, his whisper no match for Eve’s Mana-empowered hearing. “I think she ain’t human. You saw the beastmaster she’s with. She’s one o’ his monsters in disguise.”

Eve couldn’t keep herself from chuckling at that, drawing a few extra gazes from curious sailors. At least he’d got the ‘not human’ thing right. She laughed, sure as shit she wasn’t going to tell Preston someone had taken her for ‘one of his monsters.’

She spent a few minutes listening in on the crew’s theories about her, most of which seemed to agree she was more than she seemed, before another interesting tidbit popped up. In addition to what seemed to be a growing pool of bets about her true nature, a number of sailors had their money on the theory that she really was an Emissary, but for some previously unknown advanced race of magical beings in an undetermined far-off land.

Eve rather liked that idea. She’d like to one day meet this mysterious civilization of manahearts.

The gossip dried up fairly quickly as the day shift took to their duties steering the ship and optimizing the sails for minor changes in the wind and the flow of the Ilv. Eve stretched and pushed herself to her feet, working out the stiffness in her back from a night spent leaning against the wooden mast.

As soon as she surveyed the dawn-lit banks, the Defiant practically raced to the port side rail to check another item off her bucket list.

The Cherry Woods stretched all the way to the Ilv’s eastern bank. The vibrant pink of a million blossoms glowed with the orange of the rising sun. Eve didn’t question for a moment why the trees bloomed in autumn. Even a lowly peasant from the middle of nowhere knew the Cherry Woods never shed their petals, keeping their brilliant flowers even through the depths of winter.

Try as she might, not even Eve’s enhanced vision could pierce the first of the dense trees. This was no orchard, but a forest in the truest sense of the word. Just as she’d heard the tales of the eternal blossoms, she’d also heard of those foolhardy adventurers who’d wandered beneath the branches never to return. She knew, too, the stories of encroaching roots as the woods claimed yet more territory every season. Maybe in a few hundred years it would devour Ilvia itself.

Eve shuddered.

The Cherry Woods—assuming the stories were to be believed—were a view best enjoyed from a safe distance. At least the river had halted its westward expansion. She could only wonder what horrors lay hidden by its outward beauty. Eve only separated herself from the captivating view when met with an even more captivating sound: a chiming bell which could only mean one thing.

Breakfast was ready.

The door to the galley aboard Freedom’s Gale was closed as the ship’s cook distributed meals through a window, leaving the sailors to find their own place to sit and eat. As Eve claimed a spot in line to wait her turn, a certain young trellac’s voice rang out in her mind.

Why are they scared of you?

“Because I’m scary,” she answered aloud, turning to find Wes and Preston at Art’s side.

No you’re not! You’re nice!

A smile stretched across the Defiant’s face as she raised a shushing finger to her lips. “They don’t know that.”

Preston seemed to catch the gist of the partially silent conversation. “No, no, she’s terrifying. Mostly to those of us who care about her wellbeing.”

Eve playfully smacked his shoulder. “I’m not that reckless.”

“You ran headlong into a level three hundred griffin.” Wes made no effort to lower his voice, sparking a few incredulous looks from the sailors in line.

“That was to save your life!” Eve pointed at him. “And last I checked, you still owe me a scone for that.”

“You had a whole box of scones in Ilvia.”

“Yeah, but I bought those,” Eve argued. “You still owe me.”

“Okay, but—” Wes tried to protest.

“No buts,” Eve interrupted. “Once we get to Pyrindel, you’ll get me a strawberry scone or I’m giving you back to the griffin.”

“The griffin is dead.”

“Then I’ll find another one. Fair’s fair.”

“Nothing about this is fair,” Wes grumbled. “The damn thing was fireproof.”

Eve patronizingly patted him on the back. “It’s okay, buddy. You can pay for the scones with all that money the merc companies are offering you.”

“Yeah, that sounds fair,” Preston laughed. “Wes gets free enchanted gear and an entire org’s worth of resources, and Eve gets some scones.”

Eve snapped her fingers. “Exactly.”

What are scones? Are they tasty?

Judging by the chorus of facial expressions, Art sent the thought to all three of the adventurers. Preston chuckled. Wes paled. Eve grinned maniacally.

“They’re very tasty,” she said. “When we get to Pyrindel you should ask Uncle Wes to buy some for you.”

“Just what I fucking need,” Wes muttered, “a scone fiend with mind powers.”

Art, of course, didn’t need an ounce of telepathy to look up at the tall fire mage with wide-open eyes and hope on his face. Please, Uncle Wes?

Wes rubbed the bridge of his nose as he murmured a series of curses in Eve’s name. “Alright,” he eventually ceded, “scones for everyone once we get to Pyrindel.”

Eve flashed the smuggest grin she could manage before turning around just in time to reach the front of the queue. The bowl of porridge the grisly cook handed her looked less than promising. “Looks like it’s gruel in the meantime.”

“It beats travel rations,” Preston said as he and the others followed her back down the hall and up the stairs to the deck, “and it sure as hells beats skyswallower steak and Drathis’s mushrooms.”

“Hey, I cooked those steaks excellently,” Wes insisted.

“Sure you did,” Eve replied, “by the twentieth attempt.”

“And by the twenty-first I was already sick of it,” Preston added.

“You know, you’re all a bunch of ungrateful—woah…” Wes trailed off.

Eve stopped short, turning to follow the mage’s gaze over the bow of the ship.

The river was gone.

On both sides, the banks of the Ilv had retreated to but faint lines in the distance, while up ahead was but a world of blue.

The adventurers stood and gaped as all about them sailors hustled and bustled to prepare Freedom’s Gale for open water, but it wasn’t the mind-boggling expanse of azure sea stretching indomitably beyond the horizon that so captivated Eve. While Preston, Wes, and Art all stared at the limitless ocean before them, Eve’s own eyes tracked the sailors and the parrot which led them.

She noticed then, now that they’d sailed beyond a swimmable distance from the relative safety of shore, something about the sailors that hadn’t been true when they’d first embarked.

Each and every one of them, from the lowest Cabin Boy to the First Mate himself, carried a sword.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A Business Transaction

“THEY STILL APPRAISE as Sailors, right?” Wes asked under his breath as a crewman walked by with a particularly brutal scimitar at his hip.

“Of course they do,” Preston snapped. “Who in their right mind would take the Pirate class? Surefire way to get hanged the moment you step foot into a city.”

“And Sailors don’t have combat abilities, right? I mean, why would they?”

Preston shrugged. “I’m no class scholar.”

“Then why do they have swords?”

Eve replied through a mouthful of gruel, “Why don’t we just ask?”

“Are you crazy?” Wes’s eyes shot open. “Why not just tell them we know they’re pirates?”

Eve swallowed her porridge. “Why not? They clearly aren’t trying to hide the swords from us.” She pointed at a passing Sailor. “Look, she’s got a fucking battleaxe.”

Preston grimaced. “Eve, we really should consider being a bit more delicate abou—”

“Why?” she interrupted. “They’re a bunch of tier twos with noncombat classes. Art could probably take them out.”

The hatchling perked up at the mention of his name. What’s going on?

“Nothing, Art.” Preston kneeled down to level with the young trellac. “Why don’t you head downstairs and bring Reginald some porridge?”

Okay! Art skipped across the deck on clawed feet before disappearing into the hold.

Wes turned to Eve. “You’re the only one Art couldn’t take out.” He shivered, remembering the effects of the hatchling’s fear. “Let’s not sic him on the pirates.”

Eve shrugged, taking another bite of her rapidly cooling porridge. Wes and Preston seemed to have completely forgotten theirs.

“So what are we gonna do about the pirates?” Preston asked. “They’re clearly feeling brave if they’re arming themselves right in front of us.”

“We should start by grabbing our own weapons.” Wes gestured towards the stairs belowdecks. “If they’re armed, we should be too.”

Eve had another idea. Not even bothering to finish chewing the spoonful of gruel in her mouth, she called out to the parrot perched upon the ship’s wheel. “Hey Cap’n! What’re the swords for?”

“Squawk, sea monsters!” Abraham replied. Even he grasped a miniature cutlass in his left claw.

Eve cocked an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Best to be prepared,” the tier three parrot said.

“It’s not because you’re pirates?”

“Nope.”

Eve pointed over the bow. “And there’s a merchant ship on the horizon.”

“Have to be ready to defend ourselves,” he squawked back.

Eve rolled her eyes, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “That man’s raising a skull-and-crossbones flag.”

“Squaaaawk, just a formality.”

“A formality?” Preston worked up the courage to join in the questioning. “What’s formal about piracy?”

“Not piracy,” the grizzly voice of the First Mate interrupted the exchange. “Think of it more like… a business transaction.”

Wes furrowed his brow. “How can you have any sort of business transaction at sword-point?”

A slight grin flashed across Eve’s face as she recalled the oddly similar sword-point transaction she’d made with the Ilvia thieves’ guild. “I can think of a few ways.”

Pete flashed a toothless grin up at the captain. “As he said, just a formality. You’ll see.”

Eve shrugged. “If you say so.” With a small Mana expenditure, she casually leapt ten feet up to the upper deck, turning to sit with her legs dangling off the side. The maneuver only spilled a few drops of porridge.

Wes’s jaw dropped. “Eve, what are you—”

“May as well watch,” she said. “I can always stop them if they do anything too evil.”

Pete’s unpatched eye widened at her nonchalant mention of taking on an entire ship’s worth of pirates single-handed.

Captain Abraham was rather less perturbed. “Don’t you worry,” he squawked at her.

Wes and Preston shared an uncomfortable look before silently agreeing not to create any more of a scene than absolutely necessary. Together they climbed to the upper deck—via the stairs rather than any fancy acrobatics—to stand at Eve’s side.

The adventurers watched in silence as the ship on the horizon grew nearer and nearer, its motion slow with the cargo that weighed it down. Eve took the opportunity to observe the crewmen of Freedom’s Gale as they went about their business. Not a one seemed to be affected by any ounce of nerves as the pirate ship approached its quarry.

It wasn’t until the first shouts from the merchant vessel reached her ears that Eve had any idea why.

“Are… are they cheering?” she asked.

“But of course,” Pete snarled back. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

“Because you’re about to rob them?” Preston followed up.

“Not them, matey,” the First Mate explained. “Ye think any one of them owns even a percent of that cargo?” He spat. “Once we take it, they’ll be free to turn right back around and go home to their families, months before they would’ve otherwise.” He smiled. “We just have to dress the part. What can an innocent Sailor do against a brutal Pirate?”

“But you’re still stealing,” Preston insisted. “Won’t the merchant company go under if they keep losing their cargo? Those Sailors would lose their jobs.”

“Who do ye think hired us? The cargo’s insured.”

Preston snorted. “You’re kidding me.”

“Aye, it be cheaper to sail a third of the way, encounter pirates, and collect the insurance money than to make the full voyage.”

Eve laughed, shaking her head. “Gods below, they’re not pirates. We’re sailing with fucking insurance scammers.”

“Shh, lass.” Pete held a finger to his lips. “It be almost time. Do yer best to look scary.” With that, he hobbled away on his peg leg, drawing a cutlass that looked decidedly dull to Eve’s eyes.

Eve didn’t even bother to stand. If the fact the merchant sailors were already bringing all their cargo up onto the deck for unloading was any indicator, the ‘pirates’ didn’t need her help. “See?” she asked the others, “looks perfectly innocent to me.”

“They’re still stealing, Eve,” Preston argued. “Just because they aren’t stealing from the people we thought they were doesn’t mean they aren’t thieves.”

“Yeah, but look how happy they are.” Wes pointed out the relieved expressions on the faces of the merchant crewmen.

Eve nodded. “I’d be happy too if I’d just learned I was going home months ahead of schedule.”

The three looked on as Captain Abraham, who had at some point obtained a parrot-sized tricorn and tiny little eye patch of his own, waved his miniature cutlass in the air as he flew overhead. “Hand over the booty!” he menacingly squawked.

Wes, apparently, had been waiting patiently for that precise moment. He roped an arm around Preston, tugging the thin healer in close. “Yeah, Preston, hand over the booty.”

Preston blushed. Eve made a show of over dramatically gagging. Wes cracked up at his own joke.

“How long were you saving that one?” Eve asked.

“Since we stepped on board,” Wes and Preston answered in unison, one with pride and one with disdain.

Eve shook her head. “And you went with booty? Couldn’t you at least have come up with something original?”

Wes scoffed with fake indignity. “No respect for the classics.”

Eve snorted. “Classics, my ass.”

“I think you mean,” Wes said as he struggled to hold back laughter, “classics my booty.”

In lieu of a witty comeback or a smack on the arm, Eve simply flashed him her best ‘I’m-upping-your-scone-debt-for-that’ look.

The conversation died down from there as the adventurers watched the amicable transfer of cargo. Eve could practically see Freedom’s Gale sinking lower into the water as it took on more of the ill-gotten goods. It was roughly halfway into the ‘business transaction’ that one particular package caught the Defiant’s eye, or rather, her ear.

“Do you hear that?” She pointed at an otherwise unremarkable wooden crate from which a deep melodic humming sound seemed to resonate.

Preston and Wes both shook their heads no.

“Weird,” Eve continued. “I wonder what that is.”

“I’ll tell you exactly what that is,” Preston said. “That’s a side quest waiting to happen, and you’re not going anywhere near it.”

“Come on,” Eve protested. “What else are we going to do in the two weeks to Pyrindel?”

“I don’t know, maybe have some peace and quiet for once?”

“That’s boring,” she argued. “Besides, if you can’t hear it, the pirates probably can’t either.”

Preston sighed. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Think of the exp! I haven’t earned a single point in weeks.”

Wes took Preston’s side. “Eve, we have a tournament we’re trying to get to. We can’t waste two months sailing around the world searching for whatever crappy dungeon that crate’s gonna lead us to.”

“We’ll just take a peek,” Eve insisted. “If it looks like it’ll be some long side quest, we can just… walk away.” She spoke that last through gritted teeth as if the words physically pained her.

Without giving the others a chance to further protest, Eve pushed herself to her feet, her sights set on the stairway to the cargo hold.

Wes and Preston shared a concerned look before scurrying after her.

The candlelit gloom of the bustling hold was no obstacle to the glowing manaheart as she deftly maneuvered around the line of sailors carrying crates and rolling barrels to be stowed and catalogued by the ship’s bookkeeper. None of the crewmen dared question their high-level passengers, and the quartermaster proved too enraptured by his ledger to even notice their passing. It was all the same to Eve; they couldn’t have stopped her if they’d wanted to.

The greatest challenge, as it turned out, wasn’t in finding the mysterious crate—its deep hum sounded as a beacon to Eve’s manaheart ears—but in unearthing it. Truth be told, Eve wasn’t entirely sure how the crew of Freedom’s Gale had managed to bury it beneath so many other crates and pallets of cargo in the few minutes it had taken her to reach the cargo hold.

Unlike her passage, Eve’s rearrangement of their carefully stacked booty earned her more than a few sour looks from the sailors who’d no doubt have to clean up after her search. Wes and Preston joined in the chorus of disapproving looks.

“Couldn’t you have just asked what’s inside? I’m sure they’ve already tallied most of—”

“Not those,” chimed in the nasal voice of the quartermaster. “Portside is tallied, starboard isn’t. The question is, who are you to disrupt my system?”

“The most destructive force known to man,” Wes muttered, “a curious adventurer.”

Eve shoved the final crate off, finally freeing the mystery package. “The damn thing’s humming,” she said, drawing a dagger and wedging it under the lid. “I’m pretty sure cargo’s not supposed to do that.”

The quartermaster adjusted his spectacles and leaned in. “I believe not.”

With a simple flip of her knife, Eve popped the lid free, carelessly tossing it to the floor with inhuman Strength. The front panel of the crate fell to the floor as she tore it loose. The humming continued.

Inside, a dark blue oblong shape sat nestled in a bed of straw, its surface covered in tiny ridges that gave the distinct impression of scales.

“Gods below.” The quartermaster paled.

“What is it?” Eve inquired. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer, instead turning to the nearest crew member. “Fetch the captain,” he barked, his voice hoarse with fear. “We’ve been betrayed.”

“We’ve been what now?” Wes asked.

Eve didn’t bother trying to pull an answer from the shaken man, instead turning her attention to the three-foot-long scaly object. In typical adventurer fashion, she Appraised it.

Leviathan Egg

Rarity: Epic

Eve cursed. That hadn’t been joy at the prospect of going home early she’d seen on the faces of the merchant sailors. It was relief at ridding themselves of a ticking time bomb.

“It’s a fucking egg,” she told the others. “And if it’s humming like this, that can only mean a few things.”

Preston’s eyes widened with a hint of eagerness. “Is… is it hatching?”

The quartermaster quietly gulped and shook his head, leaving Eve to do the explaining.

“Worse than that,” she said. “I think it’s calling its mother.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Leviathan

THE HOLD STILLED. The stuffy torch-smoke air hung unmoved by breath or speech as the egg regaled them with its dreadful hum. Even the deck below their feet halted its ceaseless pitch and roll as if in respect for the gravity of the situation. Eve suspected something worse. The ocean didn’t calm for just anyone.

It was neither comment nor curse nor thought of a plan that broke the oppressive silence, but a call of distress from above deck. From her position closest to the egg, Eve was among the last to mount the wooden stairs. She blinked in surprise as no blinding sun loomed above her, the ship overtaken with gloom. It wasn’t until she stepped outside and the first drops of rain struck her exposed head that Eve realized why.

The storm had come from nowhere. Gone was the cloudless sky that’d been there but minutes ago, replaced by a veil of gray and the falling deluge. Even stranger, the tempest came without wind. The rain fell straight down through calm air, while beyond the railing the sea stood flat, its glassy surface disrupted only by the ripples of rainfall. Eve shivered.

“So… um…” Wes muttered, “does anyone know anything about leviathans?”

He and Eve both turned to the obvious guess.

“What are you looking at me for?” Preston reddened. “I’m a Caretaker, not a Whaler.”

“There be different kinds,” the grizzly voice of the First Mate chimed in. “I know not which one this be.”

Eve shrugged. “Apparently one that controls the weather.”

Wes snorted. “Useful.”

A crash rang out in the distance, echoed by a chorus of desperate screams. Eve raced to the starboard rail just in time to watch an angry maw clamp down on the merchant vessel that had just betrayed them. The ship snapped in two.

Even through the curtain of pouring rain, Eve’s keen eyes watched in horror as survivors leapt from wreckage as the dark shape dragged it under. Within seconds, the merchant vessel was no more than a field of flotsam and stranded sailors clinging to it. Those were the lucky ones.

“Gods below,” Preston murmured. “We’re fucked.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Eve replied. “We’ve survived some crazy shit so far.”

“We should give it the egg,” Wes argued. “Maybe it’ll leave us alone.”

“Bad idea.” Eve pointed at the distant wreckage. “If the egg is calling to it, why do you think it destroyed that ship but not ours?”

“Why do monsters do anything?” the fire mage asked.

Preston, however, picked up on Eve’s reasoning. “Because it knows we have the egg, and it can’t risk destroying it.”

“Exactly.” She snapped her fingers. “That egg’s the only reason we’re still afloat.”

“So what is it planning?” Wes asked. “How does it get the egg without destroying our ship?”

“Hells if I know.” Eve shrugged. “But my plan is to stop it.”

As if to punctuate her statement, a shrill cry pierced the shock and fear in the sailor’s minds. “Squawk, to battle stations!” Captain Abraham circled above, still clutching his miniature cutlass in his left talons. All about them, the crew of Freedom’s Gale burst into action.

Preston leveled a dry look at Eve. “And by stop it, you mean…”

Eve simply grinned. “How much exp do you think a leviathan’s worth?”

She didn’t give the others a chance to reply as she dashed back down belowdeck and into her cabin. There, she scurried to don her armor, her hands deftly navigating the array of straps and buckles involved in gearing up. Scarce minutes later, she emerged with her daggers at her waist and her griffin-bone club in her hand.

Eve paused a moment as she stepped past the open door to Wes and Preston’s room, looking on in curiosity as two sailors furiously tried to point the cannon within down at the water. Neither found much success.

Shaking her head at the futility of firing a cannon underwater, Eve continued her dash back to the upper deck, finding it a case study in controlled chaos.

Sailors ran this way and that, bearing everything from crossbows to scimitars to an oversized slingshot. Each of them moved with purpose and a destination in mind, not that Eve could ever piece together what that was. Practiced as many of them seemed, Eve counted fear more than determination upon their faces.

The rain fell harder.

Eve didn’t need long to find Wes and Preston at the starboard rail, staring into the deep. A dark shape lurked, its silhouette just visible enough for Eve to Appraise.

Level ?? Stormtide Leviathan

Surprise mingled with welcome relief as she read the description. “It’s weaker than the griffin.”

“Lower-leveled,” Wes corrected. “Not necessarily weaker.”

Eve nodded. If the shifting darkness was any indicator, the beast was at least ten times the griffin’s size. Without knowing exactly how deep it was, Eve couldn’t accurately guess the length of its serpentine form.

Still circling even through the hammering downpour, Abraham squawked his order. “Fire!”

Arrows and bolts and rocks flew through the air, churning the water below as they fell. Most went wide or crashed ineffectually against the surface, save for the one weapon Eve thought might have a chance of harming the monster—a massive ballista. The six-foot spear it launched pierced the watery barrier to bury itself in the creature’s side, a glancing blow, but a blow nonetheless.

The leviathan retaliated with a swipe of its tail, deforming the crystalline serenity of the windless ocean into a twenty-foot wave that crashed against the vessel’s hull.

Freedom’s Gale pitched back, throwing a pair of unfortunate sailors overboard. Eve held her grip on the rail.

Abraham cackled. “What are the comprehensible terrors of man, squawk, compared with the interlinked terrors and wonders of God?”

The ballista fired once more.

It missed.

“It’s trying to capsize us!” Preston yelled over the deluge.

“Really? What tipped you off?” Eve snapped back.

Another wave sent the vessel reeling, cutting off the brief exchange. This time the sailors were ready for it.

Except for one. Pete, the First Mate, his hands occupied reloading the all-important ballista, found no rail to hold. The ship tossed him to the sea like forgotten refuse.

Abraham wailed, squawking deliriously as he descended to the deck, grasping the fallen spear in his beak to load the ballista. “Squawk! Ego non baptizo te in nomine deorum, sed in nomine infernorum!” He incanted a mad blessing upon the spear tip, flapping his wings to level the weapon at their abyssal foe.

The parrot squawked once more. “To the last I grapple with thee; squawk! From hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee.”

He fired.

The ocean itself shuddered as the spear struck true, embedding itself in what Eve could only hope was the creature’s neck. The beast thrashed but didn’t still. It wasn’t enough.

Eve glanced sideways at the insane parrot. “Well that’s enough of… whatever this is.” She shook her head, handing her club off to Wes. Its tip fell to the deck, too heavy for him to hold up. “Hold this,” she said, “I’m going in.”

Wes’s eyes widened. “You’re what?”

In lieu of an answer, Eve took a step back, taking a running start before vaulting over the rail and into the water below. It greeted her with open arms.

She floated there for a moment as the frigid ocean washed over her, swiveling her head around to find her bearings. The saltwater stung her eyes, but Eve paid it little heed. She’d hurt far worse. Their light shined forward in visible beams, twin spotlights that scanned the depths. It didn’t take long for them to find their quarry.

Dark blue scales lined its two-hundred-foot length, each two times larger than Eve’s head. Five trios of spiked fins deftly maneuvered the great serpent through the dark water, each wriggling independently to propel it in any direction. Eve didn’t bother with them. Her gaze fixed instead on the leviathan’s neck and the shaft of wood that jutted from it.

Pivoting to point her body towards it, Eve Jetted forward.

The force of the water bombarded her head and shoulders as it tried to resist her motion, stealing away her precious momentum even as she neared her writhing target. She Jetted again.

The Defiant shot like a torpedo towards the monstrosity’s head. Eve shuddered as she noticed the trail of wafting blood drifting from a fallen sailor still impaled on the beast’s fang. She didn’t halt. Adrenaline forced fear or revulsion to the background as her heart raced and Mana raged within her. Not even the chill of the icy depths could pierce her focus.

Eve stopped herself with a third Jet, righting herself and grasping the embedded spear in a single motion. She yanked it free. The leviathan scarcely seemed to notice.

Her Mana pool dripped away as it accommodated for her lack of oxygen. Eve leveled the spear for a gap in the creature’s scales, dumped a few hundred Mana into Mana Rush and swung.

The blow failed.

Just as much as her motion propelled the weapon forward, so too did it launch her back. Without any footing to support the attack, all Eve managed was to swim away slightly faster. Shit, she cursed mentally, unable to do so audibly while underwater.

In the distance, the beast thrashed its tail once more, and a series of splashes rang out as yet more sailors fell overboard.

Eve’s mind raced. Ideas ranging from testing out Mana Burst underwater to using several Jets in a row to turn into a living torpedo competed for attention. Both sounded more likely to hurt her than the leviathan. Her Mana dropped yet lower. Her lungs began to ache. She was running out of time.

Eve cursed to herself once more, swimming back into position above the beast’s head as she scrambled for a plan. It wasn’t until her third scan through her skill list that one presented itself.

With all the speed of a Courier and the Strength of Mana Rush, Eve bent down and tore her boots from her feet. She could only hope the upgrade from Surefooted to Defiant Body hadn’t rid her of the old bonus.

She planted both bare feet against the smooth scales of the beast’s neck and sent her focus inward. With a thought, Eve directed her rapidly diminishing Mana to the exposed skin.

The ability took hold.

Locked into position as Mana fastened her feet to the leviathan’s neck, Eve spared no moment’s hesitation before thrusting the spear once more.

This time the beast felt it.

The weapon sank deeper and deeper past the creature’s scales, wreaking havoc on the soft flesh within.

The leviathan writhed beneath her, twisting desperately in anguish and fury, but Eve’s foothold was unshakeable. She drove the weapon further.

It wasn’t until all six feet of the ballista-bolt had sunk into the massive beast that it finally ceased its thrashing. But a moment later, the notification chimed.

You have defeated Level 98 Stormtide Leviathan: +730000 exp!

Level Up!

Eve dismissed the other notifications. She could read them later. Right now, she had other concerns. Releasing her grip on her Mana, Eve freed her feet from the leviathan’s neck and canceled Mana Rush.

She Jetted to the surface, launching a dozen feet into the air before falling back to land hard on the water’s surface. She winced.

Gratefully gulping down every breath of air she could, Eve treaded water as she patiently waited her turn to climb the rope ladder up to the deck. Nearly two dozen sailors had fallen overboard to the leviathan’s thrashing, but miraculously most had survived unscathed. The beast hadn’t been there to eat puny humans. Such disdain for the smaller beings had been its downfall.

When at last The Defiant pushed herself over the rail, she met the chorus of blue-lit eyes, dropped jaws, and fearful looks with a tired grin. Without skipping a beat, she turned to address the Quartermaster.

“You—um—you wouldn’t happen to have a spare pair of boots, would you? I seem to have lost mine.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

To the Victor

ABILITY UPGRADED!

Passive Ability - Haste

Applies to swim speed!

Eve dismissed the notification with a thought, muttering to herself, “If only I could swim.”

Maybe the upgrade would help her tread water faster, a concept that absolutely made sense and would definitely prove useful at some point in the future. Eve chuckled. She’d had little use for the skill to navigate the creeks of Nowherested, and Jetting through the water had worked well enough to kill a leviathan.

The thought led her in two directions. First, her mind flicked to the daydream of Jetting through the air as she had in the water. It sounded dangerous. Too much or too little Mana at the wrong time would make for quite the unpleasant landing, and the seconds-long cooldown would be plenty of time for her to fall to her death before ever getting a chance to correct her mistake.

Still, the idea of flight, however brief her Mana pool dictated, was a tenacious one. Maybe she’d pursue it if she could truly master the use of Jet or unlock an upgrade to reduce its cooldown. Eve shook her head. Fuck maybe; she’d definitely pursue it given the opportunity.

That settled, Eve’s musings turned back to the encounter with the leviathan. After its demise the rain had dried up, returning the sky to that frigidly clear state so associated with late autumn. Freedom’s Gale, however, had yet to move on from the site of the battle.

Anchor dropped for the time being, sailors took shifts swimming through the cold water to scavenge what they could from the behemoth carcass.

Eve, having earned the right to sit back and relax while the others toiled for her role in actually killing the damn thing, watched from the starboard rail. Behind her, Pete—who’d lost his peg leg after being thrown overboard but had otherwise survived unharmed—argued with the quartermaster over what to do with the egg.

The bespectacled bookkeeper argued it would fetch a handsome sum upon their arrival in Pyrindel, while the First Mate insisted it was too dangerous to keep ahold of. Eve was inclined to agree with the latter. Even after the death of its mother, the thing was still humming. Hells, she’d happily toss it overboard just to rid herself of the constant low-pitched noise that so picked at her patience.

Then again, the concept of it attracting another leviathan was tempting. The first one had been quite the windfall of exp. As long as it waited for her Mana to regenerate before… Eve shook the thought from her head. Sailors had died. Profitable though it might’ve been, it was best to keep the monster-slaying away from civilians.

Speaking of profits, Eve once again read the absolute heap of exp she’d received for her latest kill. Seven hundred and thirty thousand. It was obscene. Of course, at her level and class rarity, it hadn’t been worth much more than one level, but it was still an awful lot of progress for a single kill. Hells, even with the reduced reward from their minuscule contribution to the fight, there wasn’t a single man or woman aboard Freedom’s Gale that hadn’t leveled up at least once.

For fuck’s sake, the stormtide leviathan had been worth nearly ten times as much exp as the bloody griffin, despite being only a fraction of its level. A bit of quick math—made quicker thanks to the ten Intelligence she’d just received—put the base exp for a stormtide leviathan at a clean five thousand.

Eve swallowed.

If her limited understanding of experience math was accurate, if the beast had been one level higher, she would’ve earned ten thousand more exp. “So that’s the trick, then,” she muttered to herself. “It isn’t about grinding high-level enemies, but finding ones with a high base exp.” She wondered how many leviathans, wyrms, or yerrowids the Man of the Mists had slain to reach his insane level, whatever it was.

“So I spoke with the captain,” Wes’s voice pulled her from her reverie. “He’s agreed to give us two thirds of the scales and provide a cart to help us transport them once we get to Pyrindel.”

“Two thirds?” Eve raised an eyebrow. “I killed it; shouldn’t I get all the scales?”

Wes shrugged. “I don’t see you down there harvesting them, and without the Captain’s wagon we couldn’t carry that much anyway. Sailors died today, Eve. Abraham just wants enough of the spoils to take care of their families.”

“They’re pirates. What did they expect? Couldn’t he pay off the families with their cut of the stolen cargo?”

“They’re not really pirates,” Wes corrected. “And I don’t think insurance scammers really expect to wind up dead.” He sighed. “They need the money more than we do, and hells, for all we know leviathan scales aren’t worth a penny.”

“I wonder how well they conduct Mana,” Eve said. “I’d rather not have to fight barefoot if I can avoid it.” She waved her foot, the too-big boot she’d borrowed from the quartermaster swinging back and forth with it.

Wes laughed. “I think you’ll be fine. We’ve got enough scales to armor the entire crew.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to point to the four-foot-high pile of deep blue scales that had been steadily growing on the lower deck for the past three hours. “It’s a helluva haul.”

Eve snorted. “Please. The scales are nice, but we all know the exp is the real reward.”

“Nice?” Wes’s eyebrows shot up. “The scales are more than bloody nice. Those could be worth a fortune.”

“And they could be worth nothing. You said so yourself.” Eve pointed across the deck to where Preston and Art were throwing one of the foot-wide scales across the deck like a frisbee for Reginald to chase. The seven-foot-long drakeling wagged his spiked tail furiously with each throw. “They’re using one as a toy!”

Wes chuckled. “I’d argue that to Reginald that scale is worth more than a handful of gold.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. He is a drake after all. Remember the pile of junk Preston pulled him out of?”

Wes nodded. “True, but there wasn’t any gold in there.”

“Well, yeah, most people rich enough to carry gold can either fight off a level twenty-whatever drake or have guards that can,” Eve argued.

“Note to self,” Wes said through a laugh, “don’t let Regi near my coin purse.”

“You never know. Maybe he’ll hoard something else. His mama collected camping supplies, even if that’s all she could get hold of. Maybe he’ll take after Preston and start hoarding baby monsters,” Eve offered.

“Come on,” Wes protested, “two is hardly a hoard, and you’re the one who found Art.”

“I found him, but Preston adopted him. And don’t tell me you haven’t seen the way he’s eyeing that leviathan egg.”

“Okay, sure,” Wes admitted, “but how badass would it be to have a leviathan in our party?”

Eve furrowed her brow in an over exaggerated scowl. “Did you learn to breathe underwater without telling me? I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t planning on spending the next gods know how many years living on a boat while Preston raises a baby sea monster.”

Wes held up his hands. “Alright, alright. Maybe a baby leviathan isn’t the best idea. And you might be right about the hoard thing. Now that I think about it, Preston’s actually got three monsters he’s taking care of.”

“Three?”

“Yep.” Wes flashed a sly grin as he counted on his fingers. “A drake, a trellac, and the most monstrous of all, a manaheart.”

Even as she smacked him on the shoulder, Eve couldn’t suppress her grin. Wes’s maniacal laughter didn’t help. “Clearly your class is driving you mad,” she quipped back, “seeing as I’ve been the one taking care of you since we left Nowherested.”

“Hey, that’s—”

Eve interrupted, “And come to think of it, there’s no way you could’ve killed that leviathan without me, and it most certainly might’ve killed you. I’m adding it to your scone debt.”

Wes replied with a defeated head-shake. “Gods-damned sea monsters,” he said. “I can burn them, and I can burn the water, but I can’t burn through the water to get to them.”

“Not without burning through the entire ocean.”

The fire mage snapped his fingers. “That’s brilliant! I just need to burn the entire ocean to ash and I can kill as many leviathans as I want.”

“Oh yeah.” Sarcasm dripped from Eve’s voice. “And think of all the exp you’d get from killing every fish, whale, and other living creature in the meantime.”

“Exactly!” Wes chuckled. “Too bad it would take centuries to burn that much water.”

“Yeah, cause that’s the problem with setting the ocean on fire.”

“Oh, wait.” Wes’s eyes flashed blue. “Looks like I’ve got a secondary quest to burn the ocean down. Better get started.”

“Please.” Eve snorted. “You’re just looking at your skill list. I can see it, you know.”

“Well we can’t all have magical glowing eyes that hide what we’re looking at.”

“I mean, you could,” Eve teased. “I thought fire was the solution to everything.”

“Ah, yes, let me just set my eyes on fire so nobody can see my status screen.” Wes laughed. “Actually, I don’t think I will. I rather like having eyes.”

“And I rather like having an ocean,” Eve replied without missing a beat. “So no fires today.”

Wes rolled his eyes. “Yes, mother.”

Eve flashed a patronizing grin. “Good. Now go play with the other children. It’s only a matter of time until Art throws that scale overboard and Reginald jumps after it.”

Whatever questionably witty reply Wes had for Eve’s snarky dismissal was lost as a bellowing squad of “anchors aweigh!” drowned it out. Within moments the crew, apparently finished with their scale gathering, bustled about the deck in the now familiar controlled chaos that drove the pirate ship.

Eve kept to the rail as the sailors moved about her, her eyes fixed on what was left of the floating carcass and the seagulls that picked at it. There was no doubt her kill would feed an entire ecosystem for weeks to come.

She smiled as she thought about it. In a single blow she’d earned the pirates’ respect and fear, leveled up, and found herself approximately one giant heap of leviathan scales richer, all for the low, low price of a pair of boots.

As Freedom’s Gale lurched into motion and the autumn winds blew through Eve’s hair, she turned her gaze forward, towards the horizon and the long-awaited destination that would appear there in the coming days.

Pyrindel awaited.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Pyrindel

THE GREATEST SURPRISE in the week that followed the battle with the leviathan was a peaceful one. Of the dozen or so sailors the crew of Freedom’s Gale had pulled from the wreckage of the merchant ship, not a one still sat tied up in the hold.

Captain Abraham, understanding they were but peons doing their job, was more than happy to put them to work doing everything from swabbing the deck to rigging the sails. Much to Eve’s delight, the merchant ship’s cook counted himself among the survivors, leading directly to food being available in the galley twice as often. The meals weren’t any better, the quality of the ingredients dictated that, but at least there were more of them.

Eve spent her hours between snacks getting what practice she could in the tight confines of the deck. Wes worked on his aim and she her dodging as he threw a series of Fire Bolts her way, each directed to land safely in the water if—and when—they missed.

When the fire mage’s Mana ran low or he grew bored of the exercise, Eve experimented with cycling her own Mana through different parts of her body. She discovered little new, unfortunately, but the effort did improve the speed and consistency with which she could reinforce a body part against attack. She wouldn’t be holding up to a direct attack, but every little bit of defense helped. She had precious little of it as things were.

More than anything, Eve wanted to spend her time working with Jet, but dropping more than a handful of Mana into the skill was more likely than not to end with her falling overboard. That didn’t stop her from practicing smaller-scale maneuvers for dodging projectiles or feinting around defenses, but Eve knew the ability’s true potential lay elsewhere. For the umpteenth time, she cursed herself for not training with it sooner.

What little break time she took, Eve spent daydreaming about the possible rewards for her two secondary quests. Returning Art to his papa seemed fairly self-evident—who wouldn’t want the favor of a full grown trellac?—but her Burendian quest remained shrouded in mystery. She’d have to explore more of their ruins, or maybe revisit old ideas of reviving the lost civilization. At the very least, Eve resolved to seek out an Archeologist upon their arrival in the capital.

For his part, Preston spent the voyage—at least the parts Eve was privy to—with Art and Reginald. He played fetch and practiced basic combat commands with the latter and worked telepathically with the former.

The Caretaker was, of course, no substitute for the Psychic they’d hired to tutor Art in Ilvia, but his ability to communicate mentally with beasts in his care was at least worth something. By the sixth day since the leviathan encounter, the trellac hatchling could reliably hold back even his most intense thoughts and emotions, though he still struggled to project the latter to a specific target rather than everyone around him.

Eve, unable to feel the effects herself, found some entertainment in watching the seamen’s faces as Art tried and failed to make Preston laugh or cringe telepathically. She wondered if the sailors noticed the source of their mood swings.

Seven days after the fall of the stormtide leviathan, Eve stood at the port-side rail looking into the horizon when the city of Pyrindel first came into view. The coastline, once barely visible in the distance, just that morning receded to give way to the iconic Pyrindel Bay. It was only once Freedom’s Gale turned northward to enter the bay itself that Eve saw the first of hundreds of vessels anchored throughout the protected waterway.

They’d arrived.

First Mate Pete deftly navigated them through an unmarked but well-traveled channel around the anchored ships deeper and deeper into the bay’s open arms, but Eve paid his sailing skills little heed. Her eyes were on the city.

Pyrindel sat at the northernmost point of its namesake bay, where the Pyrin river emptied its contents into the sea. The only word Eve could conjure to describe the Leshkian capital was bigger. It had no brilliantly impossible glass walls or gargantuan arching stone bridge, but what it lacked in magnificent architectural features it made up for in size.

The buildings were wider, taller, and more plentiful. The most tightly packed reaches of the market district stretched over swaths of land greater even than mighty Ilvia.

At the center of it all stood the royal palace. A dozen stories of white marble towered over the city, asserting the stable rule House Elric held over the kingdom of Leshk. No matter how influential, wealthy, or high-level you were, none could build larger or higher than the crown.

It wasn’t until Freedom’s Gale lurched to a halt at its assigned dock that Eve could tear her eyes away from the expansive skyline.

The Pyrindel docks followed in the city’s footsteps when compared to the river-docks of Ilvia. They were bigger. Piers reached like fingers into the deep blue of the bay, housing everything from fishing dinghies to massive four-masted galleons.

All manner of folk milled about the harbor loading and unloading goods and passengers with chaotic efficiency. Eve didn’t even bother trying to Appraise any of the passersby, so large was their number. Instead, she wrenched herself away from the sights and sounds of Pyrindel to duck belowdecks and into her cabin.

Donning her armor and snatching up her already packed bag in record time, Eve strapped her bone-club to her back and climbed the steps to the deck for the last time. There, she found Wes overseeing the division of the leviathan scales onto two hired wagons with the Quartermaster while Preston kept Art and Reginald entertained.

“Two thirds of the bounty by count, as agreed,” the bespectacled man said, gesturing with an open palm to the larger of the two carts.

Eve shook his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you. And thanks for the boots.”

“Of course,” the man sniffed. He nodded towards the woman loading the handcart. “The Courier is already paid for. She’ll take the cargo wherever you direct, provided you arrive there today. Any further you’ll have to negotiate for yourselves.” Clearly not one for pleasantries, he abruptly turned to bark orders at a nearby pair of sailors mishandling a piece of stolen cargo.

Eve wondered for a moment how the “pirates” got away with selling stolen goods in the very port from which they’d been shipped before realizing the answer was almost certainly bribery. It was also, she decided, most certainly not her problem.

“So, I guess it’s scale selling first, then to the guild hall?” she addressed the others.

Wes shrugged. “Sounds good to me. I’m not scheduled to start any interviews for another few days, anyway.”

Preston nodded, gesturing down the gangplank. “Lead the way.”

Eve was more than happy to leave Freedom’s Gale behind, just as she was sure its crew was happy to finally rid themselves of the strange and powerful Emissary. The others, she noted, were a bit more popular than she, as many among the crew voiced farewells to Wes and Preston or scratched Reginald behind the ears as they made their departure.

Eve’s first order of business upon exiting the ship was to find where Abraham—perched on Pete’s shoulder—squawked in negotiation with a woman Eve took to be the harbormaster.

“Cap’n,” Eve hailed the parrot, “it’s been an honor.”

“Squawk, likewise! You’re welcome aboard any time.”

With a mock salute, the Defiant turned on her heel to rejoin the others at their cartful of scales. “Hi there,” she greeted the Courier. “You wouldn’t happen to know a good leatherworker, would you?” Eve fought to keep any note of disdain or pity from her voice as she addressed the woman, but she did notice she was nearly twice Eve’s age and still a Courier. Eve forced the thought from her head. The adventuring life wasn’t for everyone.

“Sure do.” The lady nodded. “Used to run deliveries for Ol’ Sal. Best Scalesmith in town.”

“Think he’d want to buy some leviathan scales?” Preston followed up.

“Don’t see why not,” the Courier rattled off the reply. “Craftsmen’re always looking for new materials.”

“That’s good enough for me,” the Caretaker said. “Lead the way.”

Eve paid the Courier, the scales, and the party’s direction of travel absolutely zero attention as she followed them through the streets of Pyrindel. The air smelled of fresh pastries and roasting meat and sweet perfumes with just an underlying hint of raw sewage. Apparently not even the olfactory enchantments the city used that Lynthia so dearly lacked could completely overcome the stench of humanity living in close quarters.

Humans really are disgusting creatures, Eve jokingly sneered to herself.

Once the party arrived at Ol’ Sal’s Fine Leathers, Eve was the first inside, if only with the purpose of holding a leviathan scale up to the wrinkled Scalesmith and asking how well it would channel Mana.

Sal grunted. “S’that leviathan? It’s alright. Not good. Not terrible. If yer looking to cast spells, you’ll be wanting robes. Or dragon hide.” He laughed to himself. “Good luck with that.”

Eve simply shrugged, turning back to the others and tossing the scale back onto the pile. “Sell ‘em all,” she said. “I’m going to have a look around.”

Accepting Wes’s blank look as a yes, Eve stepped past the loaded cart back out into the street. She wandered up and down the busy avenue for some time, peering in through the windows of the various shops and boutiques as she waited. Fifteen minutes later, the Courier emerged from Ol’ Sal’s with an empty cart. Five minutes after that, Eve’s companions followed.

“Get a good price?”

“See for yourself.” Wes tossed her a fat coin purse, one Eve excitedly noticed had a familiar heft to it.

“Gold?” she asked.

Wes smiled.

“Excellent.” Eve slipped the purse into her pack. “On to the guild, then? Or should we find an inn?”

“Guild,” Preston answered immediately. “Art wants to post a job looking for information on wild trellacs.”

The hatchling vigorously nodded from his seat on Reginald’s back. Yep!

“Alright,” Eve agreed, “but you get to deal with the receptionist.”

“We haven’t even gotten there yet,” Wes argued. “Maybe she won’t be there.”

“Nope.” Eve shook her head. “That would be too easy. I’ll bet you a scone she’s there.”

Wes thought for no more than a second before graciously declining her bet.

Sure enough, twenty minutes later as Eve led the way into the Pyrindel branch of the adventurer’s guild, an unpleasantly familiar face sat behind the reception counter. Eve ignored her.

Free from the grueling task of speaking with the guild clerk, the Defiant instead turned her attention to the smattering of adventurers that filled the common area. A few sets of eyes flashed blue with the party’s entrance, but only one reacted with anything but disinterest.

Eve didn’t get a look at the woman’s class before she bolted out into the street, but from her clothes she looked more at home in the palace than among the adventurers. Eve shrugged the odd behavior off.

The common room itself had much the same layout as those in Lynthia and Ilvia, the only difference the same as every other thing in Pyrindel: it was bigger. Nearly twice as many tables filled the cluttered space, many occupied by guild members of varying levels. Eve even counted a few tier 4s among the throng.

Preston’s voice pulled Eve from her thoughts. “So we’ve got rooms,” he said, handing her an iron key, “and we know how you need to enter this tournament of yours.”

Eve perked up. “Oh, that’s good. What do I need to do?”

Wes grimaced. “You’re not gonna like it.”

Eve’s face fell. “No.”

Preston solemnly nodded. “Yes. You have to sign up with the guild clerk.”

Amidst the string of brutal and creative curses that escaped from Eve’s mouth in the following moments, she failed to notice the sound of the door opening and shutting behind her, nor the gentle tapping of a foot as its owner patiently waited for her to finish her tirade. It was only once she’d run out of obscenities to utter that Eve turned to notice the Steward that had arrived.

The man bowed lower than Eve might’ve thought possible, his fine purple and gold tunic brushing the ale-stained floor. “My apologies, Your Excellency. I came as soon as I received word that a foreign dignitary had arrived in Pyrindel. Please accept the crown’s deepest regrets that we failed to provide you a proper welcome.”

Eve gaped. Wes and Preston shared a confused look. Art giggled.

The Steward stood upright. “If you will forgive my ignorance, Your Excellency, might I inquire which of the free tribes and nations you represent?”

“No, she’s not actu—” Wes tried to explain before Eve managed to cut him off with her own reply.

“New Burendia,” she said. “I represent New Burendia.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Emissary

“EXCELLENT,” THE STEWARD replied after only a moment’s silence. “If your business is complete here, please allow me to escort you to the royal palace. Her majesty would be happy to welcome you under her roof while you arrange more permanent lodgings.”

Preston opened his mouth to speak, but the Steward seemed to predict his question. “Your guards, of course, are welcome to join you. We wouldn’t dare separate our esteemed visitor from her retinue.”

The best Eve could manage was a tight-lipped smile and a simple, “Alright. Let’s go, then.”

The man clapped his hands a single time. “Wonderful. Please, follow me.” Stepping back, he swung open the guild hall door, swiveling to the side to allow Eve through first. He released it as Wes stepped through, forcing the fire mage to stop and grab it or else receive a doorknob to the stomach.

“My name is Charles,” the man said as he led them through the busy streets of Pyrindel. “Fourth Steward to the royal palace at Pyrindel. I sincerely apologize that the First Steward was not available to greet you himself. I was simply the only Steward available on such short notice. I fear your advance missive must’ve been lost in transit.”

Eve simply nodded. “Don’t worry about it.”

Relief washed across Charles’s face. “My thanks, Your Excellency, for your lenience. We mean neither you nor the great nation of New Burendia any slight.”

“Great nation, huh?” Wes asked under his breath. “When do you think he’ll realize ‘New Burendia’ doesn’t exist?”

“Who’s to say he ever does?” Eve whispered back. “He’s clearly too scared of offending me to ask.”

Preston shook his head. “This is a terrible idea.”

Charles, oblivious to their exchange, continued his diplomatic rambling. “Most Emissaries choose to purchase manors in the vicinity of the palace for their own comfort and convenience, though those on shorter missions often elect to remain at the palace for the full duration of their stay. I am, of course, at your service if you desire assistance in the acquiring of a permanent residence.”

Eve kept her mouth shut, allowing the conversation to fall into silence for a grand total of forty seconds before Charles got going again.

“Leshk is proud to consider itself the most prosperous of the human kingdoms, owed mostly to the success of our adventurer’s guild providing an outlet for our best and brightest to learn and grow against challenges suited to their progress. Of course, Xandria’s Teeth to the north and the Strian Sea to the south and west serve as natural barricades to any monster incursion, further sheltering our great kingdom from the dangers…”

Right about there was when Eve began tuning the man out. She knew all about the monster-ridden wilderness surrounding Leshk, just as well as she knew the country’s system for defending itself. She’d lived both.

As Charles continued to drone on about the niceties of Leshkian trade and culture with which Eve was already far too familiar, the Defiant redirected her attention to the city around her.

With every step the buildings grew larger, cleaner, and further apart. Manicured trees lined the avenues as butchers and armor smiths gave way to jewelers, cafes, and boutiques. It all reminded Eve of the inner city of Ilvia, but again, as were all things in Pyrindel, it was bigger.

Even the shops dried up as the party approached the palace. In their place, expansive mansions dominated the roadside. From their pristinely engineered stone walls or wrought iron fences to lush yet sterile gardens to the sheer architectural beauty of the structures themselves, each of the houses Eve saw was more extravagant than the last. There could be no doubt that a residence close to the palace was worth more than the ground on which it stood, and the same could be said for the proclamation of wealth each grandiose structure made.

Eve decided then and there that she’d rather like to retire to such a mansion. Fuck a quiet life in a small town with a doting spouse and handful of kids. What was the point of risking one’s life fighting high-level monsters if it didn’t earn enough money to live in style?

Eve’s train of thought came to a quick halt as so too did the road: at an open bronze gate manned by four guards. At the sight of Charles, they waved the party through.

“The guard staff will, of course, be given your description and information regarding your station,” the Steward explained as he led them across a wide courtyard to a set of double doors. “You and your retinue are free to travel the palace grounds as you please, though I’m sure I don’t need to remind Your Excellency how highly Leshkian society values etiquette. I would, of course, suggest your beastmaster keeps his pets on a tight leash. We can inform the guards, but if the wrong guest were to encounter an unsupervised monster in the palace halls, the outcome could be… less than favorable.”

You don’t look so hot either, Art sent out to all present.

Eve snorted. Preston paled. Charles froze.

Wes gave the hatchling a high-five.

After several seconds of panicked mental calculation, Charles seemed to figure out the source of the telepathic comment and proceeded to engage in a motion that was somewhere between bowing very quickly and falling to the floor.

“Forgive my rudeness!” he begged. “I never intended to imply Your Excellency’s companions are in any way below my humble self. Please, accept my earnest apology.”

Eve spent a few seconds staring in disbelief at the arguably pathetic display of diplomatic back-bending before muttering an uncomfortable, “It’s—um—really okay. Wes has been teaching Art to say that for a long time.”

Hesitantly, Charles stood, brushing off a bit of dust from his ornate tunic. “Thank you, Your Excellency, for your understanding. Please, your suite is this way.” The moment completely forgotten, he turned on a heel to open the door for them.

Eve stared in stunned silence as they walked through the halls of the palace. Carpet of royal purple lined the marble floor, embroidered every few feet with an Elric house crest of the crispest detail. Intricate designs of gold decorated the vaulted ceiling, while the walls played home to gorgeous landscapes and lifelike portraits the likes of which Eve had never seen.

Whether or not this particular hallway that Charles had led them to had been designed to make a lasting impression of elegance and wealth on new visitors, on Eve at least, it most certainly had.

The opulence diminished somewhat, though never faded entirely, as the party traveled through halls and up several flights of stairs into a distant wing of the overbearing structure. Charles, being Charles, spent the walk droning on about this sculpture or that tapestry, not realizing his lecture fell on deaf ears.

Eve was too busy imagining what her room would be like.

It was only when the foppish Steward stopped before a pair of beautifully carved white wooden double doors that Eve actually made an effort to hear the words coming from his overactive mouth.

“Here we are,” he said, reaching forward to grasp the door handle. “I hope you’ll find the accommodations to your liking.” Charles, as per usual, swung the door open and held it for Eve.

Stepping inside, Eve couldn’t help but feel a pang of curious disappointment to find a small, ten-foot-wide chamber with empty walls, no carpet, and no furniture save for a simple table with a vaseful of assorted flowers. Not without hope, Eve immediately turned left to one of the doors that stood on each of the rooms four walls.

“Not that one!” Charles almost tripped over himself trying to stop her. “Pardon, Your Excellency, but the two side chambers are for your guards and servants. They are not outfitted for a guest of such esteem as yourself.”

Eve was growing increasingly sick to her stomach with the Steward’s eagerness to avoid offense. Were other Emissaries so terrible as to warrant it, or was Charles in particular just so obscenely overachieving to put forth such ridiculous effort?

Eve sighed. “Alright. Which one is mine, then?”

Charles gestured to the door directly opposite the entrance. “The front door, of course.”

Right, Eve thought. Of course it’s the front door, because diplomats would be offended if they had to turn left. She shook her head, allowing the overeager Steward to again hold the door for her.

“Now this is more like it,” Eve caught herself muttering.

Across the room, a vibrant blue canopy embroidered with gold hung above the biggest and softest-looking bed Eve had ever seen. A robust wooden trunk bound in iron sat conveniently at the bed’s foot, accompanied by a mahogany wardrobe for hanging all the dresses she didn’t own.

Two fireplaces and a brazier, all lit, drove away the late autumn chill with vigor matching that of the Steward himself. Eve’s eyes, however, didn’t fixate on the huge bed nor on the elegant breakfast table or cozy armchairs or ornate writing desk.

The windows claimed her attention.

Three magically enforced single panes stretched fifteen feet from floor to their arched tops. At four feet wide, they flooded the bedroom with natural light, a feature thankfully optional if the lavish curtains tied up on either side were any indicator.

The view was, naturally, stunning. From Eve’s vantage on the palace’s upper floor, the entire city of Pyrindel stretched out before her. Houses and shops and restaurants and taverns carpeted the landscape reaching out seemingly infinitely in every direction.

Until they didn’t. In one direction, the most important direction of all given the arrangement of the windows, the city came to an abrupt halt to make way for the boundless ocean and the glimmering horizon that had so captivated Eve on their voyage east.

“It’s beautiful.”

Charles breathed an audible sigh of relief. “I’m glad Your Excellency finds the view acceptable. Once you get settled in, please send for me or another Steward if you’d like to arrange an audience with Queen Elric or one of her advisors regarding whatever New Burendian business you come on or if you desire an introduction.”

“Perhaps another time,” Eve replied a bit quicker than she should have. “I’d like to—uh—explore the city a bit before getting down to business.”

“As you wish.” Charles bowed one last time, keeping his head low as he said, “And welcome, Your Excellency, to Pyrindel.” With that, the Steward stood, turned on a heel, and left Eve and her companions finally alone.

Wes was the first to speak. “What the ever-loving fuck was that?”

Eve shrugged. “Diplomacy? Either that or he just really likes licking boots.”

“He’s probably used to only seeing relics who’ve been Envoys for fifty years before finally making it to Emissary,” Wes laughed. “I guess all it takes is one grumpy old man to ruin a trade deal or start a war.”

“Which is exactly why this is a terrible idea,” Preston, the one somewhat sensible member of the part, argued. “Whatever Appraise says, you’re no Emissary. We shouldn’t be here.”

“Well I thi…” Eve trailed off as an azure notification popped up in the corner of her vision. “Actually,” she said, pulling it up to read it, “I think I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

Legendary Quest Milestone Reached: Become Ambassador of a Nation that Doesn’t Exist!

+64000 exp!

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Registration Aggravation

“GODS BELOW.” WES rubbed his temples. “You can’t seriously be telling me posing as an Emissary was a fucking milestone.”

Eve shrugged, snatching an apple from the tastefully arranged bowl of fruit on the suite’s breakfast table. “Yep,” she said. “Guess we’re staying.”

“But why?” Preston asked. “What do we actually get by taking that risk?”

Eve took a bite of her apple, her shoulders visibly relaxing as its sweet juice ran over her tongue. She swallowed. “You should really try one of these. They’re real tasty.”

Preston sighed. “Okay, besides the free fruit and the fancy bed and the nice view, what are you actually accomplishing by posing as an Emissary?”

“I’m lying low.”

Wes snorted. “You call this lying low? That Steward offered you an audience with the bloody queen!”

“Which I’m not gonna take,” Eve argued. “If we tell people I’m not an Emissary, they’ll start asking why I Appraise as one and what I actually am. The most logical answer is spy. And if I even could convince them of the truth, that’d be a quick way to get drafted into the army or killed by some noble brat looking to prove himself.”

Preston’s voice rose to a sharp whisper. “You can let people think you’re an Emissary without making up a country to con your way into the palace!”

“But that’s suspicious,” Eve replied. “They know I’m not a Leshkian Emissary because I’ve never been to the capital before. They know I’m probably not human because the whole…” She waved a hand over her glowing eyes and neck. “…everything. The only reasonable explanation is that I’m from some nonhuman nation they’ve never heard of, or I’m not actually an Emissary and I’m up to no good.”

“And when the queen decides she wants to send a diplomatic mission to New Burendia? Or some advisor tries to negotiate a trade deal?”

Eve shrugged. “I won’t let them. Maybe I don’t trust them enough to reveal my kingdom’s location. Maybe I tell them we live in the Dead Fields. Manahearts are immune to the poison there.”

Preston shook his head. “I don’t like it. There’s too many ways for this to go wrong.”

“There’s ways for every option to go wrong.” Eve leaned back against the bed frame, the soft silk of canopy brushing across her hair. “At least this one comes with some nice perks.”

Wow, these are tasty! The thought reached all three of the adventurers’ minds at once as Art held a fig to his mouth with two taloned hands.

Reginald, meanwhile, stood on his hind legs to stick his entire face into the fruit bowl.

“Regi, no!” Preston yelled before clamping his mouth shut to communicate mentally with the oversized reptilian dog.

The drakeling whimpered at being told no but did back down from the breakfast table, fruit juice dripping down his jaw.

“See?” Eve grinned. “The kiddos like it here too.”

“Alright,” Preston grumbled, leaning over to wipe off Reginald’s face, “we can stay. Just long enough to keep up appearances. As soon as we can I want to either buy a house or leave town; the further we are from the palace the easier it will be to escape notice.”

Eve nodded. “Out of sight, out of mind and all that. Deal.”

“Wait, I’m sorry,” Wes interrupted. “Did you just say you wanted to buy a house?”

“Why not? We have all this gold from the griffin claws and leviathan scales, and it would let Eve pass as an Emissary without drawing any attention. Nothing fancy, of course, we don’t have infinite money, and the whole point is to avoid notice, not enter the noble dick-measuring contest outside.”

But there aren’t any nobles outside, Art sent, his nose pressed to the window.

Preston reddened. “No—Art—that’s not what—” He sighed. “We’re talking about houses.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” Eve said. “The house thing, not the dick-measuring thing. It’d be nice having our own place, if only to have a place to keep our stuff. Do you have any idea how many things I didn’t buy in Ilvia because they would’ve been impractical to travel with?”

“I wouldn’t get too excited,” the healer warned. “Houses in Pyrindel are expensive, and we’re going to need a nice one if you want to keep up appearances. After supplies, armor repairs, and potions, there might not be much gold left for frivolous purchases.”

“Hey, a ballgown is absolutely not frivolous,” Eve insisted. “I’m an Emissary, remember? Gotta dress to impress.”

Wes held his head in his palm. “See, I knew we shouldn’t have encouraged her.”

“Those are some strong words for someone who still owes me three scones.”

“We’re in the fucking palace! Just ask a Page to fetch you some.”

A sly grin crossed Eve’s face. “I am. His name is Wes. He’s a bit slow sometimes, but it’s hard to find good help these days.”

“Keep going and he’s gonna help you be on fire.”

“Alright, alright,” Preston intervened, “we can make fun of each other later. For now we should get unpacked, find a safe place to stow the gold, and figure out sleeping arrangements.”

“Well that last one’s easy,” Eve said. “I’ll take the big bed, for appearance’s sake of course.” She winked. “And there’s two rooms for guards and servants. One for you two and one for the kids.”

“We’re well past maintaining appearances in here,” Wes argued. “Besides, there’s two of us and one of you. We should get the big bed.”

Preston let out a long-suffering sigh. “No, she’s right. The last thing we need is someone to come knocking while Eve is in the ‘servant’s quarters.’”

Eve’s grin was as shit-eating as they came. “Good. As for the gold, unless there’s a safe hidden somewhere, the trunk looks like our best bet. Lock on that thing looks like it could stop an axe.”

“Doesn’t that seem a bit obvious?”

Eve turned up her palms. “It’s the palace. Who’s gonna break into the palace to rob some dignitary?” She shook her head. “I think you’re worrying about the wrong thing.”

“Oh really?” Preston raised an eyebrow. “What should I be worrying about?”

“The same thing I’m worrying about,” Eve said. “We just sailed across half the kingdom, killed a leviathan, and traipsed up and down the capital for hours.”

“So?”

“So”— Eve’s smile stretched yet further up her cheeks— “I want a gods-damned ale.”

* * *

The following day found Eve trudging alone through the streets of Pyrindel, her head throbbing with faint echoes of pain. It wasn’t last night’s ale that so plagued her; both Preston’s healing and her own Ethereal Metabolism had seen to that. Rather, her head hurt with the anticipation of the far more real headache she was about to face.

It started the moment she swung open the door.

“Back so soon? Finished with your bootlicking and come to pretend at being an adventurer some more?”

Eve grit her teeth, biting back a snarky reply as she waded through the haphazardly scattered chairs, tables, and still-sleeping adventurers who’d passed out on the floor. The guild hall in the early hours wasn’t a tidy place.

“I’m not pretending anything,” she eventually said as she reached the administration desk. “I’m a member of the guild just like anyone else.”

“That remains to be seen.” The receptionist flashed her customary smirk. “I’ve never actually seen a guild member lose their combat class. I guess your buddies could only carry you so far.”

Eve forced herself not to groan audibly. At least she’d given up on tauntingly calling Wes Eve’s boyfriend, but that wasn’t much of a win. Anyone who saw him and Preston together knew that jab wouldn’t hit hard.

Choosing to be the bigger person and not let herself get dragged into a snark-off she knew she couldn’t win, Eve went straight to business. “I’m here to sign up for the Proving Grounds.”

“Oh, so now you don’t want to be a member of the guild. Why didn’t you say so?” With a saccharine smile that stank from across the desk, she conjured a sheet of paper and a quill, sliding both over to Eve. “Sign here.”

After a quick scan of the document revealed nothing too troubling—besides, of course, the guild waiving liability should the tournament kill her—Eve did as instructed.

“Excellent.” The clerk filed the paperwork away. “You see, normally I’d have to go through a lengthy interview to make sure you’re capable of holding your own in the arena. Cheat Death doesn’t work over too big a power difference, and we wouldn’t want any unsuspecting adventurers to get themselves killed.”

Eve raised an eyebrow, wondering where exactly the rude woman was going with this, but didn’t speak.

The receptionist continued, “But you aren’t an adventurer, and I’ve warned you enough times already that it’s no skin off my back if you get burnt to a crisp. In fact, I think I might even come spectate.”

Eve couldn’t help herself. “Why are you like this?”

The woman scoffed. “Why am I like what?”

“A massive bitch.” The words fell from Eve’s mouth before she could have a chance to think better of them. She was finished with the adventurer’s guild, anyway. “You don’t know the first thing about me or my team, yet you constantly treat me like I’m some clueless peasant out for a joyride when people are getting killed. Why?”

“Because it’s fun.”

“Bullshit.” Eve balled her hand into a fist. “You’ve been on my back since I stepped foot in Lynthia, and it’s just me. I know you can be professional if you want to be, hells I’ve seen it when you’re dealing with Wes.”

“Perhaps it’s because your friend is an actual adventurer and not a Messenger Girl in a costume.”

Anger welled in Eve’s chest. Who was this level fifty Receptionist to criticize her? Clenching her jaw, she channeled Mana through her eyes to intensify their glow. “I’m more capable than I look.”

“Oh, are you now?” The clerk crossed her arms. “Prove it.”

Eve took a swing.

Reinforced with her natural Mana, accelerated with Jet, and empowered with Mana Rush, Eve’s fist flashed across the desk, faster and more powerful than any human twice her level could’ve accomplished.

Until it stopped.

Only the stability of her Defiant Body kept her from falling forward as her punch struck what felt like a wall.

The receptionist had caught it.

At once, the world around them disappeared, the desk and common room and hungover adventurers all fading away until just Eve and the clerk stood alone in a black abyss. The woman’s grip on Eve’s fist tightened.

“Silly girl.” The unfamiliar voice that escaped the clerk’s mouth was all too gravely and all too masculine to match her feminine body. “Did you think you’re the only one who can fool Appraise?”

“How did you—where—what are you?”

“I’m Rel,” she responded, “though it’s usually considered polite to ask someone’s name when you first meet them, not several months later.”

“But how are—”

Eve didn’t have a chance to finish her question before Rel released her fist and shoved her back. The moment she lost contact, the guild hall returned, and Eve found herself tripping over a wooden chair as she stumbled backwards.

The receptionist sat back down at her desk, her voice returning to normal. “Thank you for registering for the Proving Grounds. Preliminary bouts begin in three days. Best of luck.”

Eve’s heart pounded as she righted herself, never once pulling her eyes away from the woman behind the desk. What in Ayla’s left tit was that? The clerk, however, offered nothing more in terms of instructions, sass, or otherwise interesting behavior, simply filling out paperwork as if nothing had happened.

Eventually Eve’s heart slowed and her breathing calmed, and she turned to depart the adventurer’s guild hall for what she hoped would be the final time. If, as she made her exit, the Defiant had had the wherewithal to look back, she might’ve glimpsed the strange woman’s wince or the way she shook her hand as if to rid it of a sharp ache.

Instead, all she caught were a few muttered words thanks to the torrent of Mana enhancing her ears.

“Shit,” Rel cursed under her breath. “She’s growing faster than we thought.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Don't Get Hit

“A HOUSE COSTS what?!” Crumbs of strawberry scone flew through the air as Eve exclaimed through a full mouth.

“You heard me,” Wes replied in a flat tone. “Your Steward friend gave me a whole list of potential residences, and the cheapest one was well over a hundred gold.”

“It makes sense,” Preston said. “He thinks you have an entire kingdom backing you. Why wouldn’t you have hundreds of gold to drop on the right manor house?”

“No, no, you’re underselling Charles.” Wes pulled a folded parchment from the folds of his robe. “According to him, the right manor house is upwards of a thousand gold. The hundred-gold option is the cheapest he could find that could even be called an Emissary’s residence. He even warned me that choosing it would reflect poorly on New Burendia’s worth as an ally.”

“Okay, so no house for now,” Eve said. “That’s fine. We can stay at the palace through the tournament, and once we’ve found a mercenary company that’ll take us, we can do a job or two to earn the money we need.”

Preston nodded. “And in the meantime, we should spend the gold we do have on gear and supplies. No point saving up for a house just to wind up dead in a dungeon somewhere.”

“I second that,” Eve agreed, giving Wes a sharp look. “Some of us didn’t get re-outfitted for free.”

“Just like some of us don’t have Stewards and Pages jumping to fulfill our every whim,” the mage snapped back.

Eve simply replied by taking a deliberately slow and overacted bite of her scone, making sure to exaggerate the moan of joy at its deliciousness.

Wes rolled his eyes. “In other news, the mage’s college has asked me to participate in the Proving Grounds, ‘because I’m already here.’”

Preston furrowed his brow. “That’s bullshit. They brought you here. If they wanted you to compete, they should’ve told you back in Ilvia.”

Wes shrugged. “Sure, but they aren’t the only org I’m talking to. If I do well in the tournament, I get more negotiating power with all of them.”

“And if you fuck up, you’ll lose all your negotiating power,” Eve added. “Not to mention showing off what you can do in front of a crowd removes a lot of the mystery surrounding your class.”

“I doubt that’ll be a problem,” the Disciple argued. “All that anyone will see—my opponents included—will be fire.”

“Unless they land a hit on you first,” Eve pushed. “All it’ll take is a smart competitor reading your class on the pairings and buying some fire-resist enchantments. Sure, you can burn through them, but that’s a lot of free time for them to attack you.”

“I’m not that squishy. With the upgrades to Forged in Flames and Gift of the Devouring Flame I got in the Dead Fields, I can take a few hits and heal myself while doing it.”

Eve turned up her palms. “Well, it’s your choice. Give ‘em hell. One of the burning ones.”

Preston let out a sigh. “I guess that makes three of us, then.”

Eve raised an eyebrow. “Three? Don’t tell me you’re competing. What do they want you to do, sic Reginald on your opponents?”

“Nothing like that,” the Caretaker explained. “The church wants me on the healing squad.”

“The what now?” Wes asked. “I thought we’re gonna have Cheat Death.”

Preston rubbed his temples. “The Archbishop has agreed to keep Cheat Death up on all the competitors while they’re fighting, but all that’ll do is keep you alive. Most of the time. You’ll still be beaten to a pulp, and there’s no way the Archbishop can afford to heal you after a Cheat Death. She doesn’t have infinite Mana.”

“Good.” Eve flashed a thin smile. “You’ll be there to peel Wes off the sand when he gets paired against some tier four.”

“Or you,” Preston said, “when you fall on your face again.”

“Hey, it’s been… at least a few months since that’s happened!”

Wes snorted. “Yeah, you’ll be fine if you don’t get hit. Remember, you’re no more of a tank than I am.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eve waved him off. “I’m not worried.” Quickly scarfing down the last of her scone, the Defiant pushed herself to her feet. “On that note,” she said, crossing the luxurious suite to make her way to the door, “I’m going to get some practice in. You’re right, though. There’s only a few days until round one, and I want to be damn sure that I don’t get hit.”

* * *

Eve paced the palace’s training yard, keeping her distance from the gaggle of royal guards who sparred amongst themselves to one side of the wide space. She was happy to find the ground was the same packed-earth below a thin layer of coarse sand she’d seen in practice yards all over Leshk, a terrain Eve was certain would match that of the arena.

Picking a corner in which to start, Eve pulled up the description for her most promising—and most dangerous—skill.

Active Ability - Jet

X Mana

Momentum is a tool just like any other, and you’ve learned to wield it. Massively increase or decrease your personal momentum or that of an individual body part.

She had, of course, already played with low-cost Jets for the sake of small positional adjustments in combat, and while the lower cooldown of weaker Jets was certainly nice, she’d be remiss if she didn’t experiment further.

Her first test involved dumping a full five hundred Mana—the cost when she’d first unlocked the skill—to see if she could handle it.

Surprisingly enough, she could. Even though her Jet sent her rocketing forward at twice the speed as it had when she’d first tried the ability—thanks to an old cost-reduction upgrade that hadn’t changed the power—the vast improvements she’d seen in both practice and the Mana Density scaling of Haste and Defiant Charge meant she hit the ground running on her first attempt.

For a moment, the Defiant breathed a silent prayer of thanks that Jet didn’t similarly scale with her most important stat. Having to relearn her hard-won reflexes with every level she earned would be an absolute nightmare.

Eve grinned, taking a sharp left turn to avoid slamming into the far wall. It felt good to run again.

She had, of course, no way to gauge how fast she actually traveled, other than a bit of quick math telling her that with Defiant Charge active, she capped out at just over six hundred and fifty percent of her normal run speed. That said, ‘normal run speed’ made for a rather vague basis for calculation. With all the running Eve had done since leaving Nowherested, maybe she’d gotten faster.

An hour’s worth of testing revealed nine hundred to be the biggest Jet she could handle, though even that sent her falling to the dirt more often than not. More than once did Eve mutter a quiet thanks that she’d had the wherewithal to wear her armor, as the hardened leather cushioned many a tumble.

When her Mana pool grew low, she flagged down a nearby Page to ask for a meal, a task the teenager was all too happy to do for the strange Emissary. He was somewhat less enthusiastic when Eve asked a second time two hours later, and a third an hour after that.

While her culinary habits sparked more than a few whispers in the palace kitchens, nobody dared attempt to limit her food intake, nor even ask how she managed to devour three full lunches in a single afternoon. Not a member of the staff hadn’t been trained in the basics of etiquette, and if it was rude to comment on a dwarf’s drinking, it must’ve been similarly rude to say a word about a manaheart’s eating.

For her part, Eve was happy for the seemingly bottomless supply of free Mana. Much as the constant pauses to eat and digest before she could continue her training irked at her desire for quick progress, she regularly dumped more than a tenth of her entire reserves into a single Jet, leaving her little choice but to take frequent breaks.

And so the hours passed. Some time into the evening, the Page swapped out for a different one, while the sparring guards who’d cycled through over the course of the day eventually all retired to their beds or nighttime duties.

Eve was certain that tales of her behavior had already spread to every corner of the palace as she worked through the night, if only because she spotted a few noblemen and courtly ladies stopping by to see the oddity for themselves. The onlookers never lasted long, most growing bored within minutes of their arrival.

None of what Eve took to be the court gossips ever approached her, though her enhanced hearing did catch a few mentions of ‘New Burendia’ and the ensuing disbelief at the thought of a previously unknown resurgence of the lost civilization sending an Emissary of all things.

Eve ignored them for the most part.

More interesting, to her at least, were the far more honest reactions of the guards who walked in the next morning to find her still at work. She didn’t even need Mana running through her ears to hear one man blurt out, “She hasn’t even left to piss?!” Eve smiled at that one, then again as his friends all berated him for his volume. It felt good to remember even those surrounded by royalty and nobility were still people.

As the days marched inexorably onward, Eve received less and less attention from those around her as the manaheart became less a novelty and more a permanent fixture of the practice yard.

It wasn’t until the very night before the tournament was set to begin that Eve finally left the place behind to wash up and get some sleep before her first round. She found herself both pleased and disappointed with the progress she’d made.

She’d improved immensely in terms of comfort with her mobility and in the repertoire of specific maneuvers she’d drilled again and again. Though she had little in the way of tools for measuring speed or distance, trial and error had allowed her to narrow down a few specific Mana costs that would allow Jet’s cooldown to end just as she needed to use it again for a two or three-pointed turn or feint.

One of her favorite new moves, and simultaneously her most disappointing, was a great leap that involved Jetting at an upwards angle at specific speed so as to have another Jet ready to catch her fall seconds later. It wasn’t true flight, but it was something.

Her dream of soaring through the air, as Eve discovered, was a bit more complicated. The trouble came with the realization that one’s falling speed was not constant. Until she had a more reliable way to determine exactly how fast she was falling, Eve could only guess at how much Mana she’d need to spend on her next Jet. For now, rehearsed sequences of jumps at particular angles and speeds were her best approximation.

Disappointment at her continuing inability to overcome gravity itself aside, Eve lay in her gargantuan bed that night with a smile on her face.

She was ready.

Whatever the tournament threw at her, whatever veteran tier fours or high-rarity tier threes stood in her way for their own chance to prove themselves, Evelia Greene was going to run circles around them. She slept like a baby that night.

No fear sent her tossing and turning. No anxiety kept her awake. Let the other competitors worry about unfavorable matchups or the attention of the healers or the strength of Cheat Death. Those were none of her concern.

She had no intention of ever getting hit.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Enter the Arena

“WELCOME, ONE AND all, to the one-hundred-ninety-seventh annual Proving Grounds! As our queen’s Minister of Public Affairs, I am incredibly proud to present my sixth year organizing this prestigious event. This tournament goes back…”

Eve tuned the posh man out, turning left to ask Preston across the empty seat between them, “When’s the fighting start?”

The healer shrugged. “Whenever he’s done with his speech. Not sure why we need all the pomp for day one.”

Eve had to agree. From her vantage high up in the coliseum seating, the overwhelmingly empty bleachers spoke to the unimportance of the early rounds, at least as far as spectators were concerned.

There was a smattering of viewers, predominantly friends and family of the competitors, scattered about the stands, as well as a few higher-level individuals that Eve assumed represented the less-successful mercenary groups, but she wouldn’t be impressing much of anyone that day. Hells, the Dragonwrought probably wouldn’t show up until the finals.

A few bookies wandered the sparse crowds, offering bets on the first fight of the day, but few accepted. They hadn’t even seen the fighters yet.

The long-winded speech continued, “As we wind up for the first bout, I’d like to again thank her holiness Archbishop Callandria for her pivotal role today and throughout the tournament.”

A gray-haired woman in priestess robes of gold-lined white and a fancy hat stood and nodded. Eve didn’t need to Appraise her to know her class or that her level would only show as question marks.

The minister spoke on. “Without her Cheat Death, we couldn’t hope to present to you all the spectacle that has become so core to Pyrindel’s…”

Where’s Wes? Art’s sending drowned out the emcee’s prattling.

Preston patted the hatchling—who unlike Reginald could pass as vaguely human with a loose-fitting cloak and hood—on the head. “He’s down there.” The Caretaker pointed at one of the dark archways leading into the bowels of the coliseum. “He’ll come out when it’s his turn to fight.”

The buzz of chatter around the arena faded as the announcer finished his speech. “And without further ado, I’d like to welcome out our first competitors! From Pyrindel, a level fifty-six Geomancer, Peter Shind!”

Two people on the far side of the coliseum that Eve could only take to be the man’s parents broke out into cheers and applause when the aforementioned Geomancer stepped out onto the sand.

“From Barrowsted, a level fifty-two Sword Dancer, Priya Estellian!”

Eve had never heard of Barrowsted, and apparently neither had any of the other spectators, as not a single person cheered for the leather-clad Sword Dancer. Even so, the stands became a flurry of activity as audience members clambered to place their bets before the fighting started. Unfortunately for Eve, none of the bookies were near enough for her to make her pick.

“Contestants! You may begin!”

Peter got a spell off before Priya could even take a step. With a wave of his hand, a dozen fist-sized stones broke away from the arena floor, rising to the air.

Priya dashed forward.

Peter fired. All at once the stone projectiles shot through the air, homing in on the charging swordswoman.

She sidestepped them all.

The Geomancer was ready though, and another barrage soon followed, each rock’s path curving differently to obscure their destination.

Priya drew her first sword. With a flash of enchanted steel and a cascade of sparks, she swung, knocking the stones away.

Eve watched wide-eyed as the shrapnel flew through the air, her mind not even computing its path until Preston leapt to his feet. In a display of reaction that put her to shame, the Caretaker threw up a barrier of golden light, his Ayla’s Ward ready to intercept the wayward projectile.

It never did.

The air before them shimmered and the stone crumbled as it struck an invisible barricade. Preston lowered his ward. He blushed. “Right,” he sheepishly muttered, “arena’s enchanted for that.”

Eve reached across Wes’s empty seat to patronizingly pat him on the back. “It’s alright. At least you did something. I was about to just sit and watch that rock kill me.”

A flash of golden light pulled Eve’s attention back to the fight just in time to watch Peter Shind collapse to the ground. Priya stood over him, one sword bloodied and another still in its sheath.

“Victor: Priya Estellian!”

“She looks strong.” Eve watched as a pair of healers rushed out to stabilize the fallen Geomancer. Cheat Death might’ve kept his head attached to his shoulders, but it sure as hells didn’t stop the bleeding.

“They’re all strong,” Preston replied. “It’s a tournament for tier fours and high-rarity tier threes.”

For his part, Art was too busy furiously clapping his taloned hands as the Sword Dancer took a bow and vacated the arena. Who’s next?

Next, as it turned out, were two plate-wearing juggernauts that spent the better part of an hour bashing their shields against each other until one finally ran out of Stamina. Eve paid the dull exchange little heed, though she did make a note of the victor’s name just in case he managed something more impressive in the later rounds. The party did need a new tank, after all.

Not even Art offered much in the way of applause as the second bout ended, though that changed promptly as the emcee announced a certain Disciple of the Devouring Flame from Nowherested. While the hatchling and Preston cheered in support of their friend, Eve looked over the archer he found himself up against.

“How much you wanna bet that Wes takes an arrow to the face?”

Preston shrugged. “Five silver?”

“Done.” Eve shook his hand.

“Contestants! You may begin!”

The archer nocked an arrow.

Wes erupted in flames. The mage himself became a living inferno as he activated Forged in Flames. He stepped forward. Around him the sand itself caught fire, the blaze creeping outward first in inches, then in feet.

With his second spell, Wes expanded the firestorm around him, spreading the cloak into a massive wall. With her sharp eyes, Eve could just make out his silhouette moving within the flames. When the first arrow flew wide, it became clear that Wes’s opponent couldn’t.

Eve had to admit it was a wise strategy. His Flame Jet couldn’t out-speed a well-aimed Huntsman’s Arrow, so it made sense to hide his position and let the inexorable blaze do its work.

And work it did.

The archer fired shot after shot as he desperately backpedaled from the spreading flames, slowly running out of places to run. Eve watched with a grin as one random arrow flew but inches from Wes’s shoulder, but the Disciple fought on.

It wasn’t until Eve herself felt the heat of the blaze kiss her skin that she noticed the tournament official frantically waving both arms at the emcee.

“Halt!” The air boomed with the minister’s shout. “Competitors, lay down your arms!” The archer dropped his bow.

The fire spread on, carefully climbing the walls of the coliseum. “I said halt!”

All at once the flames vanished, revealing Wes where he stood in the arena’s center. “Did I win?”

“Contestant Wesley Rollund is hereby disqualified for, and I can’t believe I’m about to say this, burning the wards.”

“I’m what?” Wes burst out.

In his customary nasally tone, the emcee explained. “Forces beyond our ability to protect the crowd are disallowed in all tournament matches. How a tier three came into possession of such is another question. Yern Binne is the victor by default.”

The crowd gaped. Art applauded. Eve dug out five silver from her pocket, paying Preston his winnings.

“Thank you, thank you.” The Caretaker accepted the coins. “Better luck next time.”

“That’s okay,” Eve said. “I can always shoot him myself if I get the urge.”

Only once the enchanters finished repairing Wes’s damage and the next bout was underway did the fire mage emerge into the stands, climbing his way up the stone steps to take his seat between Eve and Preston. “Well, it’s not quite the crushing win I was hoping for, but I’m sure it’ll impress the mercenary companies.”

“You mean all three of them that actually showed up today?” Eve needled him. “I’m sure the bottom-feeders were very impressed.”

Wes shrugged. “Word’ll get around. It’s not often they disqualify someone for being too powerful.”

“Maybe next time you should attack your opponent instead of the wards,” Eve snapped back.

“Speaking of,” Preston interrupted as the bout in front of them ended with a brutal ice bolt to the chest, “aren’t you up soon?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eve pushed herself to her feet. “It’s not like I have much prep to do.” She gestured over herself, emphasizing that she already wore her armor.

“You should still get down there,” Wes said. “Those tunnels are a damned maze.”

“Alright, damn,” Eve replied, turning to leave the stands. “It’s not like I’m gonna get lost.”

Eve got lost.

After losing some twenty minutes running back and forth down the twisting passages beneath the arena, the Defiant found herself standing in the same archway as her opponent, a brooding berserker-type with more muscles than charisma.

“Whoops, wrong entrance,” she said. “Guess I got turned around.”

He grunted at her.

Just as Eve moved to again start searching for her entrance, the emcee’s voice echoed in from outside. “First we have… hmmm… a level fifty-one Emissary from New Burendia, Evelia Greene!”

“Shit—um—sorry,” Eve muttered, running past the dark figure and out into the arena. Her face flushed red as she dashed across the sands to take her place on the opposite side.

“She’ll be facing one of our tournament favorites, a level sixty-three Hewer of Bones from the Salfdir Clan, Roric Ironarm!”

Eve got her first proper look at her opponent as he stepped into the sunlit arena. He stood six and a half feet tall and what must’ve been nearly three hundred pounds of pure muscle. Eve could tell because from the waist up, every inch of that muscle was exposed to the open air. In each hand he carried a single-edged axe, both of which showed the marks of countless battles fought and won.

He’s perfect. High-level tournament favorite or otherwise, Eve couldn’t have asked for a better matchup. Her griffin-bone club outranged his one-handed axes, and she doubted a Hewer of Bones had any good ways to stop her Defiant Charge. She readied her weapon.

“Contestants! You may begin!”

Eve Jetted forward, activating Charge and Mana Rush at the same moment. I may as well end this quick, she thought to herself.

Roric did the same, dashing forth to meet her head on. He pulled back his axes for a brutal two-handed strike.

But Eve’s club was longer, and she made the first attack.

Her heart raced as the griffin-bone swung through the air, her muscles only holding up to their own immense Strength thanks to the Constitution bonus from Defiant Charge. It was exhilarating. Even here, without the direct threat of a painful death, adrenaline pumped through Eve’s veins.

Her attack flew true, the flared tip of the huge bone shooting towards Roric’s head at an unfathomable speed.

Until it wasn’t.

The blow stopped short, striking an impenetrable barricade of golden light. The rebound sent Eve’s club flying from her grasp. For a moment she froze, staring forward in abject terror before she realized her opponent was just as shocked as she was.

It wasn’t the announcer’s posh voice which broke the silence, but the wizened one of a particular Archbishop. “She wins,” the elderly priestess’s words echoed across the arena. “Evelia Greene is the victor.”

“Ramtshit!” Roric bellowed. “That wasn’t Cheat Death.”

“Cheat Death wouldn’t have saved you. Not against that.”

“That’s ramtshit!” the berserker repeated. “Let me fight!”

The Archbishop didn’t reply, simply turning to whisper something into the ear of one of her aides. Said aide carried the message on to the announcer.

With wide eyes and barely noticeable quiver to his tone, the minister addressed the crowd. “Archbishop Callandria has been kind enough to bestow a Divine Intervention to halt an attack that would’ve overcome even Cheat Death. Evelia Greene is the victor.”

Roric raged. “You didn’t even let me fight! I demand a rematch.”

“Roric Ironarm,” the announcer continued, “is eliminated.”

From there, the over-muscled brawler engaged in a shouting match with the tournament organizer. Eve, meanwhile, took the opportunity to collect her club from where it’d fallen and vacate the arena. Berserkers had a penchant for getting angry, after all, and easy as her win had come, she’d prefer not to fight him again without the protection of Cheat Death.

She re-navigated the maze of tunnels with a sly grin. Sure, she had a pissed-off Hewer of Bones to worry about, but Eve couldn’t have asked for a more decisive victory. An Emissary beating a tournament favorite so bad the Archbishop herself had to intervene made for two hells of a story. If her goal was to impress the mercenary companies, this was a damned good first step.

And she still had an entire tournament left.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Headaches

“SO,” EVE STARTED as she led her companions through the broad thoroughfares of Pyrindel, “how much did you bet on me?”

“Not much,” Wes replied, disappointment in his voice. “Odds were eighteen to one against you, and the bookies only carry a hundred silver in these earlier rounds. Only let me wager five.” He grinned. “Still cleaned him out, though.”

Eve shook her head. “Shame. Doubt I’ll ever get odds that good again.”

Preston snorted. “You beat a tournament favorite so bad the Archbishop herself had to intervene. If you’re not predicted to win every match until the finals, those bookies are drunk.”

Wes exhaled. “I’m still disappointed none of you bet on me.”

“I bet against you,” Eve said, “but that was with Preston. None of the bookies were close enough when you stepped up.”

“And I’m glad they weren’t,” Preston added. “You technically lost, remember?”

“Only technically,” Wes replied. “And now I don’t have to fight through a whole tournament to make an impression. I’d count that as a win.”

“That’s exactly what a loser would say,” Eve teased.

“No, I’m pretty sure losers say ‘ramtshit, I demand a rematch!’” Wes gave his best Roric impression.

“What even is a ramt?” Preston asked.

Eve shrugged. “Hells if I know. And I actually feel a bit sorry for him.”

Preston raised an eyebrow. “Sorry for him, or sorry for his muscles?”

Eve ignored him. “I mean, imagine traveling all this way, grinding up to level sixty-three, and being named one of the tournament favorites, just to be paired against me in round one. It’s really not fair.”

“Feeling humble tonight, are we?” Wes chuckled.

Eve flashed a grin. “It’s not my fault I’m so great.”

Preston rolled his eyes. “I’m just curious what they’re gonna do for your next match. There’s a reason we had to wait an hour for the bout after yours. Divine Intervention isn’t cheap.”

“Really? It looked an awful lot like a fancy version of your Ayla’s Ward.”

The healer nodded. “That’s because it pretty much is. Divine Intervention is a tier five upgrade to Ayla’s Bulwark, which is a tier four upgrade to Ayla’s Ward. Get me to level a hundred and I can start doing it too. That doesn’t answer the question though. Archbishop Callandria can’t keep using it every time you fight, both for Mana reasons and because if she casts it too soon it’d end the bout unfairly and if she casts it too late your opponent dies. Roric’s lucky she was as quick as she was today.”

“Maybe they’ll schedule me for the end of the day? At least that way the next match won’t be delayed while the Archbishop recovers her Mana.”

Preston continued, “That still leaves her with the task of deciding your matches before you even land a blow. You saw how pissed Roric was today, and even if it’s the only way to keep your opponents alive, if you fight through the whole tournament like this, there will always be a question of whether you truly deserved to win.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Eve asked. “Just kill ‘em in the ring?”

“Well, no,” the Caretaker answered. “But you might consider toning down the Mana Rush a bit. You just need enough Strength to trigger Cheat Death; you don’t need to wipe out their entire bloodline from the annals of history.”

“That doesn’t seem quite fair,” she argued. “How am I supposed to know how much Strength is enough? What if Roric had a defensive skill I didn’t know about? Too little Strength and I could just outright lose the match.”

Wes snorted. “Mana Rush isn’t fair. Asking you to rein it in is absolutely reasonable.”

Preston nodded. “Would you rather your opponents wind up dead? Or maybe the tournament officials will disqualify you like they did Wes.”

“I doubt that,” Eve said. “The competitors knew Cheat Death wasn’t perfect when they signed up, and I’m not a threat to the spectators, the coliseum, and Pyrindel itself.”

“Hey,” Wes protested, “I only burned the enchantments a little.”

“Oh, you mean the enchantments put there to stop wayward spells from murdering audience members? The ones specifically stopping your fire from burning the arena to a crisp? Those enchantments?” Eve laughed. “Well as long as it was only a little.”

When can I try? Art, who’d been thus far quietly reading the thoughts of random passersby, joined the conversion. I wanna fight!

Preston patted him on his feathered head. “The tournament is for humans, Art. I don’t think it’d be fair to let a trellac enter.”

But Eve’s not human! Art insisted. And Wes is only half human.

Wes rubbed his temples. “Do… do I want to know what the other half is?”

Half idiot! the hatchling cheerfully sent.

Wes frowned. Preston snorted. Eve cackled.

After several moments of belly-shaking, tear-welling laughter, the Defiant finally managed to collect herself enough to address Wes and Preston’s questioning looks. “What? You’re not the only one who can teach him things.”

“And you went with ‘half human, half idiot’?”

“Hey,” Preston said with a slight smile of his own, “at least you’re not a full idiot.”

Eve affectionately ruffled the feathers atop Art’s head. “Flawless timing, kid. Excellent work.”

The trellac replied with a simple wave of pure emotional pride, not enough to actually influence anyone else’s own state of mind, but plenty to understand his meaning.

“Now let’s get you back to the suite,” Preston said as the palace gates came into view. “I’m sure Reginald will want to hear all about today’s fights.”

“And while we’re at it—” Eve paused to flag down a passing page to request a cask of ale and a few plates of food as they stepped into the lavish hall— “I think a celebration is in order.”

Preston raised an eyebrow. “A celebration? It’s only round one.”

“Sure, but there’s still a few days before round two, and we have one decisive win and one… whatever Wes did to celebrate.”

The fire mage shrugged. “Good enough for me. And mine was definitely a win. I just won so hard the arena couldn’t handle it.”

Eve patronizingly patted him on the back. “Whatever you tell yourself so you don’t go crying into your massive signing bonus with Hard Company.”

“I’ve already told you, I’m not signing with Hard Com—” Wes exhaled. “You know what? Maybe a celebration is in order. Just so I have an excuse to drink enough ale to forget your Hard Company jokes.”

“Now that’s more like it.” Eve opened the door to her suite, leading the way into the luxurious bedchamber. “The night is young, the food is free, and the ale will flow just like the bad jokes.”

“I hope not,” Preston said. “The ale’s supposed to go into your mouth, not out from it.”

“Yeah,” Wes agreed, “let’s not have one of those nights.”

Eve opened her mouth to reply but was cut off when a knock rang out at the chamber door. But a moment later, a procession of liveried servants marched in with several trays of roast meats, hearty stews, and buttery fish, as well as the all-important small keg. Eve didn’t even wait for them to leave before pouring herself a tankard.

“A toast,” she called, “to beating the tournament itself.”

Wes fetched himself a glass, raising it to the air. “Cheers to that. It’s absolute ramtshit, but cheers to that.”

“To ramtshit!” Preston added.

Eve grinned, taking a swig before echoing the sentiment.

“To ramtshit!”

* * *

Eve awoke the next morning feeling like ramtshit.

The trouble, she’d learned, with being a manaheart, was that in order to experience any level of intoxication, she had to completely overwhelm her body’s ability to convert the alcohol into Mana. The process, however, left her needing to drink a truly unreasonable amount of water to stave off the morning after, a task she’d failed miserably the prior night.

At least with a bit of food and water her Ethereal Metabolism would have her right as rain sooner rather than later. After a moment spent rubbing her aching temples, the reason for her abrupt awakening reasserted itself.

Eve! Art’s sending overshadowed the polite yet unceasing knocking at her door. The silly man wants to talk with you.

Grumbling something about waking her up being anything but silly, Eve forced herself to her feet and crossed the bedchamber, caring little for the wrinkled state of the clothes she’d slept in. She yanked open the door to reveal Art, accompanied by Wes, and Preston standing in the antechamber, both looking far too alert given last night’s festivities. No doubt Preston had a few Lesser Healing-sized holes in his Mana pool.

In front of them all stood Charles, his fist poised to knock yet again at the wooden door.

“What do you want?” Eve half spoke half grunted.

The Steward dropped into his customary, unnecessarily extravagant bow. “Your Excellency,” he greeted. “Lord Traft, military advisor to her majesty Queen Elric, has requested I arrange a meeting with you. I believe he wishes to discuss a potential defensive alliance with the people of New Burendia. What time might I let his lordship know you’re available?”

Eve froze. “I um…” She dragged the syllable out, her sluggish mind racing to summon any excuse to avoid negotiating treaties for her nonexistent kingdom. From behind the still-bowing Steward, Wes and Preston glared at her.

It was only as her belly began to loudly rumble that Eve’s pounding head managed to form some semblance of an idea. “I’m sorry,” she said in the haughtiest voice she could conjure in her tired state, “but I simply cannot make plans on an empty stomach. Would you be so kind as to fetch me a loaf of bread to break my fast?”

“A loaf of bread.” The Steward nodded. “Of course, Your Excellency. I am at your service.” With that, he turned on his heel and swung open the front door, vanishing into the ostentatious hallway.

Eve grinned. “That oughta keep him busy for a while.”

“That was cruel,” Preston said flatly. “You’re gonna get him killed.”

“Nah, more likely he finds out the oven’s broken so he has to go into town, buys the bread, then finds the queen herself also wants bread this morning so he gives it to her, and she loves it so much she gives him a promotion and he forgets all about Lord Traft and his meeting with me.”

Wes stared at her. “That’s… an oddly specific prediction.”

Eve shrugged. “That or something else equally ridiculous but ultimately harmless. Even the bakeries I’ve burned down didn’t actually hurt anybody. Charles’ll be fine.”

“Alright,” Preston backed down, “but you’d better tip the poor man in gold when he inevitably comes back empty-handed after scouring every oven in Pyrindel for your bread.”

“Sounds fair.” Eve nodded. “He deserves it too, if only for dealing with nobles all day.”

“Nobles and you,” Wes added. “You’re high on his list of headaches too, you know.”

“Sure am,” Eve chimed, “but I’m number one on your list of headaches.”

“That you are, Eve.” Wes patted her on the back. “That you are.”

“Speaking of headaches—”

“Yeah, yeah.” She didn’t even need to finish her sentence for Preston to understand her meaning, lifting a hand to channel golden radiance across the room.

Eve shuddered under Ayla’s invasive judgment, both of the self-inflicted damage she’d done in the name of last night’s celebration, and of the fool’s errand she’d just gifted the hapless Steward. Even as her hangover vanished and the goddess’s light faded, a shadow of guilt remained.

She shrugged it away. Her life’s quest really hadn’t hurt anybody so far, she thought. Why should it start now? It wasn’t as if she’d sent the defenseless Steward into a dungeon, or anything. He might return a bit scraped up, a bit exhausted from chasing shadows all over town, but otherwise, Eve was sure that Charles would come out unharmed.

Probably.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The Distraction

CHARLES RANDALL VENEROTH shut the door to the royal suite behind him and did a little dance right there in the hallway, paying little thought for the sideways glances of the queensguards on either side of him. He’d made third Steward! He still couldn’t believe it.

Kiss my behind, Warren! he mentally taunted his rival. Who would’ve thought that after all these years, all it took to earn the recognition he deserved was to be the only one in the entire palace with a loaf of bread when her majesty was hungry on the morning the oven broke?

Charles grinned maniacally. He could practically taste the one-point-five percent salary increase that came with the new position, though even that paled in comparison to the simple joy of surpassing Warren on the totem pole. Hard work really did pay off.

The Steward practically skipped through the palace halls, reading through and dismissing the notifications as quickly as they came in.

Personal Quest Milestone Reached: Become Third Steward!

+13600 exp!

Level Up!

Level Up!

Ability Upgraded!

Passive Ability - Steward’s Decorum

Now grants intuitive understanding of foreign etiquette!

Ability Upgraded!

Passive Ability - At Your Service

Now grants additional bonus movement speed while on a task assigned by a superior!

Charles greedily reveled in the upgrades, already giddy to put them to good use. The change to Steward’s Decorum alone would be of great use in dealing with foreign Emissaries, especially that peculiar one from New Burendia. Charles hoped the New Burendians weren’t all as warlike as their Emissary’s proclivity for wearing armor implied. He did so detest carrying ceremonial weapons.

The thought put an immediate hitch in the Steward’s stride as he realized the cost of his latest promotion. The bread! Her Excellency, Evelia Greene of New Burendia had asked him for a loaf of bread, and he’d been rude enough to deliver it to someone else. He chided himself for his foolishness. It wasn’t like he’d had the option to turn down Queen Elric’s request.

Comforted in the reconfirmation that he hadn’t sold out his task in exchange for the promotion, Charles set his sights on the palace’s eastern service exit. There was still time, he decided, to return to town and buy a second loaf of bread for the manaheart Emissary. He hoped.

Charles paused, taking a second to shake away any clinging doubt. He was third Steward to the royal palace, darn it, and even if he had to sprint with every ounce of his newly earned bonus movement speed, he was going to deliver that loaf of bread. After all, he’d just proved that opportunity came to those who put in the work.

And he had work to do.

* * *

Eve walked alone through the streets of Pyrindel, her arms laden with bags and boxes of new clothes for every occasion from traveling through the wilderness to crawling through a dungeon to afternoon tea to dancing at a royal ball. She of course had no idea what an actual royal ball was like, but a girl could dream.

The counterpoint to the weight of her new wardrobe was that her purse found itself significantly lighter. Preston had objected to the purchases as she’d first left the suite, arguing her money would be better spent on gear or supplies for their next dungeon-delve, but whether or not she’d admit it, that morning’s encounter with Charles had shaken her.

Eve could only put the foppish Steward off for so long, and sooner or later she’d have to start actually acting like an Emissary. As far as she was concerned, dressing like one was as good a first step as any.

Besides, the gear she needed more than anything was armor that could channel Mana, but if the leatherworker she’d spoken with was to be believed, dragon hide was the only leather that fit the bill. Unfortunately, dragon hide wasn’t exactly easy to come by, and Eve had no intention of running around in robes. For the time being, replacing her boots with a pair soled in hexweave so she could cling to surfaces without going barefoot would have to suffice.

Truth be told, Eve wasn’t quite ready to part with her old suit. The plain leather set was comfortable, and it had a good amount of life left in it. The thought reminded Eve she needed to clean it upon her return to the palace, having forgone wearing the armor on this particular outing if only to make trying on new clothes that much easier. She’d similarly left her club behind, wearing only her daggers for protection.

She didn’t expect any trouble. Word of the Emissary who’d demolished her round one opponent in the Proving Grounds had already begun to spread through the busy capital, and Eve also held out the distinct hope that the Ilvia thieves’ guild had informed the Pyrindel branch of their own encounter with her. She hadn’t needed her mace and armor to deal with them then; she’d hardly need them now.

Her confidence was not altogether misplaced. Twice as she walked the streets and alleyways of Pyrindel did Eve’s manaheart ears catch one shadowy figure warning another off of the innocent-seeming Emissary. Thieves were opportunists, after all. All it took to avoid them was a bit of bluster and the odd show of Strength.

However, equipped as she might’ve been to deal with all manner of bandits, outlaws, and brigands, in her simple blouse and skirt and her arms laden with new purchases, Eve was most decidedly not ready to wander into the wrong alley and find herself face to face with six and half feet of pure muscle armed with two viciously battle-marked one-handed axes.

“You,” Roric growled. “You are the little Emissary girl who embarrassed me in the arena.”

Normally Eve might’ve protested his use of the word ‘little,’ but on the Roric-adjusted scale, she supposed the descriptor fit. He loomed over her, his hands sitting comfortably on the tops of his axes where they rested at his hips.

Eve’s heart pounded. Her mind raced. Without her club, the Hewer of Bones outreached her, and she had no illusions about her ability to outmaneuver him in the tight alleyway. Running away seemed like the best option, but she’d need to turn around first, and Jetting backwards into a busy street would just end in her hurting some random passerby. She needed to think.

“I wouldn’t say embarrassed,” Eve stalled. “I won that bout fairly.”

Roric spat. “That holy ptish robbed me of my chance to prove myself.”

“She saved your life!”

Roric ignored her argument. “But she isn’t here right now, so I’ll have to reclaim my honor in other ways.” He stepped forward menacingly.

Adrenaline pumped through Eve’s Mana-charged veins as she readied herself to throw her bulky new purchases in Roric’s face and make a run for it. She really didn’t want to. “Why don’t we work something out?” she tried, taking a nervous step back.

“I want to help you win.”

“What?” Eve froze, confusion warring with the familiar battle-ready rush of adrenaline.

“To lose in the first round,” Roric explained, “it brings great shame upon me. If my loss were to the eventual victor, however…”

“That wouldn’t look as bad,” Eve finished. For a moment she simply stared up at the imposing man, before remembering herself and shaking the surprise from her head. “Sorry, I—I saw this going differently in my head. Disgruntled loser, big axes, dark alley and all that.”

Roric let out a bellowing laugh. “You westerners are a strange people. You are underarmed and without your armor. What honor would there to be gained from defeating you now?”

Eve shrugged. “I don’t know. You sure as hells wouldn’t be the first person to accost me in a dark alley. Come to think of it, I should probably stop wandering into dark alleys.”

The berserker chuckled, gesturing across the filthy alleyway. “I come here to think. It is quieter, here.”

“Alright.” Eve didn’t bother to inquire further. “So how do you suppose to help me win the tournament?”

“You are without a sparring partner, yes?” Roric offered. “I much doubt that mage and priest of yours are good practice for a warrior such as you.”

Eve nodded. While Wes was useful for practicing dodging projectiles, he was hardly a melee threat. Then again, given her access to Mana Rush, her strategy of ‘land a good blow without getting hit’ was pretty much static. Either way, Roric seemed nice enough, and more help would always be welcome, especially from a level sixty-three tournament favorite. “Okay,” she eventually said, “I could use a good sparring partner. Meet me at the palace training grounds this time tomorrow. I’ll have the guards let you in.”

“Good,” Roric simply grunted. “I look forward to learning from such a skilled warrior.” He extended a hand.

Eve shifted her bags around in her arms to offer her hand in return. “Likewise.” They shook.

As she stepped away from the alleyway back into the busy thoroughfare, Eve thought over the strange encounter. She supposed she was happy to have picked up a new training partner and, with any luck, a new friend. Even more so, she decided, clutching her purchases closely, she was happy she hadn’t had to drop her new clothes in a grimy alley to escape a sore loser.

After all, she was the esteemed Emissary to the great kingdom of New Burendia.

It was about time she looked the part.

* * *

“I don’t have time for you to bake an entire new loaf. Her Excellency requires breakfast!”

“Breakfast?” The Baker gave Charles an incredulous look from behind the counter. “It’s four in the afternoon!”

Charles’ heart sank at the reminder of his failure. In a moment completely unbecoming of the third Steward to the royal palace of Pyrindel, he gave voice to his frustrations by uttering a curse most foul. “Butter and biscuits,” he swore, “she probably doesn’t even want it any more.”

“Well there you go,” the Baker offered. “You don’t even need the bread.”

Charles sighed. He’d sworn to himself the moment he’d left the first bakery that morning that he wouldn’t return to the palace empty handed. Sure, he’d had a downright pleasant experience traveling from shop to shop as each Baker he encountered offered him a pastry or meat pie or cup of tea as an apology for running out of bread so early in the day, but now all that free food weighed as heavily upon his stomach as his lack of bread weighed upon his heart.

“It pains me to admit defeat at my first task in my new position, but I fear you may be correct,” Charles eloquently put it. “I can only hope her Excellency forgives me for my shortcoming. If a diplomatic incident were to spark as a result of my actions…” He gulped.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” the man comforted him from across the counter. “You might’ve missed breakfast, but you can still bring this diplomat of yours something for afternoon tea. I have some fresh-baked scones that I promise will trounce anything the palace chef can make.”

Charles considered what was ostensibly a sales pitch before deciding there was some merit to the Baker’s words. He promised himself he wouldn’t go back empty handed, and although he might’ve failed to purchase the requested bread, he could at least return with something.

“Very well,” the Steward agreed, reaching into his purse. “I’ll take a half dozen of your finest scones.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Tiny Black Spheres of Pure Malevolent Poison

WERE IT NOT for Eve’s nose generously hinting at its contents, the Defiant might’ve burned with curiosity as she arrived back at her suite to find a wrapped parcel waiting for her. Instead, her stomach grumbled.

“Charles dropped these off for you,” Wes explained from where he reclined on one of the plush chairs by the fireplace. “Wouldn’t stop apologizing about the bread, so I told him you’d like these better.”

She’d seen the hapless Steward scurrying across the palace courtyard as she’d spoken with the guards to give them Roric’s description. Eve was lucky he’d missed her, otherwise she’d have to come up with another way to avoid doing actual Emissary work. Negotiating a defensive treaty sounded like a dismally boring way to spend her time.

Eve practically ran across the room to the breakfast table, tearing through the paper wrapping to reveal the variety of scones stacked on top of each other. She stuffed the top one into her mouth.

For a solid, precious second all was bliss as the sour tang of lemon waltzed across her tongue with its ever-present partner, sugar, the tried and true flavor combination at the center of many a pastry. It was heavenly. Until, that is, another flavor, as dominant as it was vile, crept in. It spread throughout her mouth, its bitter and rotten taste sparking a wave of nausea deep in her belly.

Eve spat it out. “What in the nine assfucking hells is that?” She gagged. “It’s gross.”

Wes raised an eyebrow at the partially-eaten scone still in Eve’s hand. “Um… poppyseeds?”

“Nope.” Eve shook her head, scraping her tongue against her teeth to try and rid herself of the sickening aftertaste. “I’ve had poppyseeds before. I like poppyseeds.” She waved the scone in the air. “These aren’t poppyseeds. These are tiny black spheres of pure malevolent poison.”

Wes paled. “You think Charles tried to poison you?”

Preston sighed, closing the leather-bound copy of Your Draconid and You he’d been reading. “Did you get a notification?”

“No.” Eve furrowed her brow. “Maybe it’s a poison designed to trick my Ethereal Metabolism.”

“Eve, you’re the only person in all of Leshk that has Ethereal Metabolism,” the healer argued. “How would Charles of all people come up with a poison that counteracts it?”

“Maybe it’s a prank?” Wes offered. “Maybe he’s pissed you sent him on an impossible task?”

Preston leveled a flat expression at the bulky fire mage. “You think Charles would play a prank on a foreign Emissary?”

Wes pushed himself to his feet, crossing the room to join Eve at the breakfast table. “Let me try.”

“We’re trying to decide if the scone is poisoned or tastes horrible because of a strange joke and your first instinct is to taste it?” Preston asked.

Eve pulled the scone away from him. “Is that a good idea?”

Wes shrugged. “You would’ve gotten a notification if it were poisoned, right?” Without waiting for a reply, he reached his longer arms around her to snatch the partially eaten pastry from her hand. He took a bite.

Eve and Preston stared in silent anticipation as the Disciple carefully chewed the baked morsel.

Wes swallowed. “Tastes fine to me.” He took another bite. “Yeah, they’re just normal poppyseeds.”

Eve shook her head. “No way. They taste like a cross between rotting meat and the way Lynthia smells, maybe with a bit of tannery chemicals in the aftertaste.”

Wes turned up his palms. “Maybe you just don’t like poppyseeds? I think it tastes great.”

“I know what poppyseeds taste like,” Eve said flatly. “I used to eat Mrs. Yir’s poppyseed muffins all the time.”

With a sigh, Preston stepped up to join them. “Alright, alright, I’ll be the final judge,” he offered, despite no one having asked.

Somewhat begrudgingly Wes handed off the remains of the scone.

Unlike Wes’s bold first bite, Preston gingerly nibbled at the lemony sweet before licking his lips and promptly devouring the few bites Wes had left him. “Yeah, I’m with Wes,” he said. “Tastes great.”

“You’re crazy,” Eve protested. “They taste like death.”

Preston shrugged. “Maybe it has something to do with your race change. Have you had poppyseeds since becoming a manaheart?”

Eve scowled. “No, but… ugh, I don’t know. Why poppyseeds? I can digest poison for fuck’s sake.”

“You wouldn’t be the first race with weird dietary restrictions,” Wes said. “Like how kobolds can’t have cooked meat or dwarves refuse to eat without a mug of ale to wash it down.”

“I’m pretty sure that latter’s because dwarves know how to have a good time,” Eve replied. “But why poppyseeds?”

“Hells if I know,” Preston said. “Maybe an Alchemist would be able to tell you.”

“Seems fair,” Wes added, counting on his fingers. “You’re immune to poison, you hardly ever sleep, rest, or go to the bathroom, you have glowing eyes to see in the dark, not to even mention the whole insane Mana regeneration thing, and the tradeoff is… you can’t eat poppyseeds.”

“Exactly!” Eve agreed. “It’s a travesty.”

Preston scanned over the pile of remaining scones. “At least they aren’t all lemon poppyseed,” he offered in the way of comfort.

The words pulled Eve from the dark cloud of misery that had overcome her, prompting her to pull a particularly delicious-looking blueberry scone from the assortment. After taking a moment to inspect it and wipe away any errant poppyseeds that had fallen onto it, she took a bite.

“Nope, nope, nope.” Eve shook her head, holding back a gag.

Wes furrowed his brow. “This one bad too?”

“Not bad,” Eve said through deep exhales, “tainted. I can still taste the poppyseeds that were on it.”

Preston frowned. “But it was just a few.”

“Tell that to my stomach.” Eve swallowed back bile. “Guess this one’s for you too,” she added, putting the blueberry scone back into the pile.

With the others looking over her shoulder, Eve quickly searched through the remaining pastries for any that had avoided contamination. None had. Either by bad luck or design, the assortment had been artfully packed in an alternating pattern that left every scone either beneath or adjacent to a source of the foul seeds. Eve cursed.

Preston patronizingly patted her on the back. “This is what you get for sending that poor Steward running all over town for a loaf of bread. Consider it justice.”

“I hate it,” Eve despaired. “I have to just… stare at them.”

“Not for long,” Wes said, reaching in to pick up another scone. He took a bite, continuing his thought through a full mouth. “This is the best justice I’ve ever seen. We should get free pastries every time Eve does something bad.”

“I’ll second that,” Preston added, snatching up a strawberry scone for himself. “Free scones are my favorite kind of scones.”

Eve groaned, collapsing to the ornate chair behind her. “Dear Ayla, great goddess of mercy, please forgive me my transgressions and allow me the glory of scones once more.”

Preston snorted. “Nice try, but that’s not how Ayla works. She’s more of a… show remorse by accepting your penance kind of goddess.”

“And my penance is watching you two eat all my scones?”

“Yep,” Preston chimed.

“Fuck that then.” Eve stood, crossing the suite to where her club and armor sat haphazardly on the floor.

“Going to go fight Ayla until you can eat poppyseeds again?” Wes joked.

“Not quite,” Eve answered, “but that’s a good idea. I’ll keep that in mind.” She went about strapping on the various pieces of hardened leather. “For now I’m just going to get some more practice in. Round two starts in four days, remember?”

“Pretty sure you can crush anyone who steps into the ring with you, but knock yourself out,” the mage replied. “Oh, and if you run into Charles out there, make sure to thank him for the scones. They’re really tasty.”

“If I run into Charles out there, I have other problems.” Finishing with her armor and grabbing her griffin-bone from the floor, Eve made for the exit. “Enjoy your scones,” she spat, shutting the door behind her.

As Eve traveled the twisting halls of the royal palace on her way to the practice yard, her thoughts wandered toward coming up with a new excuse to give Charles should he try to make her engage in actual diplomacy. She wondered if it would be too cruel to tell him manahearts hated poppyseeds and refuse to deal with him over the accidental slight. It probably would.

Besides, if sending him to get bread had left her with a pile of scones she couldn’t eat, Eve could only balk at what might happen to her should she take further advantage of the Steward’s enthusiasm. What would be next, strawberries? Eve shuddered.

No. From now on, Eve decided, she would at least be nice to Charles, and if that wound up with her sitting across a table from some royal advisor, then so be it. She could always evade questions about her made-up kingdom or reject alliances and trade deals as they were offered, or at least make up some excuse about needing to send a missive home before signing anything.

Eve smiled to herself as she finally arrived at the training field, sparing a glance for the castle guards sparring in their usual corner. It was a good plan. With any luck, she’d fight through the entire tournament, get recruited to the Dragonwrought, and get the hells out of Pyrindel before anyone suspected a thing.

Of course, Eve had never known herself to be particularly lucky, but there was a first time for everything.

For the time being, Eve allowed her concern over her tenuous position to fade away as she devoted her focus to Jetting about the courtyard, feinting and dodging phantom attacks from imagined opponents. She’d worry about Charles when he actually came to schedule an appointment or introduce some important noble.

Either way, she had another bout coming up, and even if her opponent wouldn’t be decided until the other round-one fights were finished, more training would always be useful.

After all, she didn’t want to be out of practice when Roric showed up.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Reenter the Arena

“AGAIN,” RORIC SNARLED, climbing back to his feet and dusting the sand off his bulky practice-padding.

Eve twirled her club in her hand. “You know, I’m starting to think I’m the one training you.”

Roric ran a hand over the thick leather that covered the blades of his axes. “Your technique is terrible.”

“But I keep winning.” Eve smirked.

“Because you are fast and strong,” the berserker put it simply, “not because you are a skilled warrior. Your footwork is uneven, your eyes broadcast your every move, you do not even hold your weapon properly. Who taught you to fight?”

Eve shrugged. “I did. A friend helped a little, but um…” Eve trailed off before deciding against telling that particular story. “Yeah it was mostly me.”

Roric spat. “Terrible. If you practice alone, you only reinforce the wrong way of doing things.”

“It’s worked out so far.”

“Because you are lucky. And you have balls. You have found a good class and taken the risks you needed to make it better.”

Eve raised an eyebrow. “What do you know about my class?”

“I know you are no Emissary,” he answered. “If you were an Emissary trained in combat, you would be using skill and good technique to overcome a lack of stats. Instead, it is the inverse.” Roric spoke with a weird stiltedness to his words, as if he were not yet fully accustomed to speaking the common tongue. “No. It is clear you have been depending on your class to do the work for you.”

“I’ve been doing lots of work, thank you very much,” Eve protested.

“The wrong work.”

“I think I’ve done pretty well on my own. I haven’t exactly had access to a combat instructor my entire life.”

“Why not?” Roric looked around the palace training yard. “You clearly have resources, and every city has warriors happy to earn a few silver without risking their lives.”

Eve paused. Shit, she thought. He’s right. Why haven’t I hired an instructor? She had, after all, been sitting around bored out of her mind for over a week in Ilvia with a bunch of gold burning a hole in her pocket. “I guess I never knew my technique was that bad.”

Roric blinked. “Really? Watching you fight, I would think you would be constantly losing your weapon or falling on your face.”

“What? No, that doesn’t…” Eve scratched the back of her head, her mind flashing through a slideshow of all the times not even Surefooted had kept her on her feet. “Okay so maybe my technique isn’t great. Can you help?”

“You are lucky. Your style is similar to what every child of the Salfdir clan learns.”

“Great,” Eve chimed, brandishing her club. “What’s first?”

“First you put that down,” Roric spoke with an awful lot of authority for a man who still had sand in his hair. “You are not ready to be holding a weapon.”

“Tell that to all the things I’ve killed.”

Roric glared.

“Alright, alright,” Eve conceded, stepping away to lean her club against one of the pillars of the arcade surrounding the practice field. “So now what?”

“Now do as I do,” the axeman said, depositing his own weapons on the ground next to him. “Before you can learn to run, you first must learn to walk, and before you can walk, you must learn to stand.”

What followed was definitively the most boring day Eve had ever spent. Even after Roric had poked and prodded at her stance and posture to his satisfaction, he wouldn’t even let her walk. It took two hours of practice before Eve could take a single step forward without the berserker groaning and insisting she do it again with some minuscule adjustment. Even then she wasn’t allowed to walk—first she had to learn to take a step backwards.

It was grueling. As Roric explained, unlearning bad habits required far more work than learning good ones. It wasn’t just about learning how to stand or walk properly, but about overwriting her default movement with the proper form. To that end, even as Roric eventually left for the evening, Eve spent the entire night walking circles around the training yard, ever mindful of the little corrections he’d made to her natural posture.

The next morning, Roric addressed all the issues that had crept their way into her practice while he’d been sleeping.

All in all, it made for a remarkably frustrating experience that Eve was all too eager to get over with. If only she were that lucky.

In three straight days of continuous training and practice, Eve only just managed to walk to Roric’s satisfaction, leaving her with a scarce few hours to learn how to run before her next day at the arena. Roric didn’t even bother.

“In normal circumstances,” he said, “I would not let you fight so soon. It will be easy to return to your old habits, and we would lose much progress.”

“I’m not missing the tournament,” Eve stated plainly. “That would defeat the entire purpose of you training me.”

Roric nodded. “We arrive at my point. I cannot stop you from fighting, so I will ask you to keep a mind towards your posture and footing. You are strong enough to win regardless, so afford some thought towards maintaining our work.”

Eve flashed a grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to end it quick.”

“Don’t ‘end it quick,’” Roric snapped back. “End it correctly. At least with correct footing. Maybe by the finals you will be learning how to swing that club of yours.”

“Alright, alright,” Eve said, gathering up her belongings to finally leave the training yard. Confident as she was, she still wanted to get a night’s sleep before her bout. “I’ll see you at the arena.”

“Good,” Roric grunted. “I will be watching.” Before turning to make his exit, he stopped to place a hand on Eve’s shoulder. “You are a hard worker. We’ll make a formidable warrior of you yet. Good luck tomorrow. Fight well.”

Eve grinned as he quoted the dungeon-entrance notification. “Goodnight, Roric.”

He neither nodded nor smiled in response, simply maintaining the same stern expression. With a softly uttered “goodnight,” he left.

As Eve made her own way to her bed, she reflected on the progress of the prior days. It had been slower than she’d hoped, much slower, but she had to admit she did feel somewhat sturdier on her feet, more stable. It likely wouldn’t make a difference tomorrow, but as she faced stronger and stronger enemies, it might someday make all the difference.

The Man of the Mists was right. There were other ways to gain strength besides leveling up, and Eve hadn’t even needed to win the tournament to find one.

* * *

“Contestants! You may begin!”

“Shit,” Eve cursed, lowering the hand she’d been waving in the air. “Damn bookie didn’t see me.”

“Who’s your pick?” Preston asked without looking her way, his eyes fixed on the coliseum floor where a hooded figure threw knives at a man with a giant floating crystal. “My money’s on crystal guy.”

Eve nodded. “Same. Hard for a rogue to accomplish much in an open arena on a sunny day.”

“Damn,” Wes muttered, “I want a giant floating crystal.”

A thunderous crack echoed through the arena as a bolt of lightning arced through the air to strike the roguish competitor. With a flash of golden light, the bout was over.

“Victor: Theodrin Palsk!”

“Damn,” Wes repeated himself, “I want a giant floating crystal that shoots lightning.”

That was so cool! Art applauded furiously, this time joined by the smattering of spectators who’d actually come to watch the second round of fights. I wanna learn lightning magic!

Preston patted him on the head. “Why don’t you worry about learning telepathy first?”

That’s boring!

Preston didn’t bother arguing with the hatchling, instead turning back to Eve. “So what’s your plan for fighting mister lightning crystal there?”

“Same plan as for every mage. Run in and kill ‘em before he gets a spell off. Rogue just stood there throwing knives while crystal guy charged up, what did he think was gonna happen?”

“Heh,” Wes chuckled, “charged up. ‘Cause he’s a lightning mage.”

Eve groaned, her eyes wandering the stands as the next contestants took their places. They were nearly twice as crowded as they’d been for round one, though she still doubted any of the higher-ranked mercenary companies would make an appearance. Eve could only guess how many people would show up to watch the finals.

Roric sat in the front row on the opposite side of the coliseum. She’d offered him a seat with her and her friends, but he’d curtly declined, citing a desire to sit closer to the action. Eve quietly wondered if he secretly didn’t want to be seen socializing with the Emissary who’d so soundly beaten him in the ring.

Eve’s match was the last of the day, likely to avoid delays should the Archbishop need to use Divine Intervention again. Eve didn’t particularly care. Nobody had come to her and asked she tone it down a bit, so she had every intention of bringing her full force to bear against her opponent. The Archbishop had stopped the attack last time, and now she even knew it was coming.

As the bouts progressed, Eve managed to lose a fair bit of silver on questionable bets, until at last she decided whoever came up with the bookies’ odds was way better at estimating outcomes than she was. The fights were still exciting without money on the line, but that didn’t stop Eve from making little bets with Wes over how a given bout might end.

When the day grew long, Eve excused herself from the stands to make her way beneath the arena, giving herself plenty of time to navigate the dark tunnels before her match. The last thing she wanted was to enter from the wrong side twice in a row.

Fortunately enough, after spending an embarrassing amount of time wandering the maze of passages, Eve found herself staring out into the bright sand of the arena from an entryway all her own. Unless both she and her opponent had gone to the wrong sides, Eve figured she was probably in the right place.

“And to round out the day, we have a level fifty-one Emissary from New Burendia, Evelia Greene!”

Taking her cue, Eve jogged out into the ring, casually waving at the midsized crowd. She fixed her eyes on the entrance opposite her.

The announcer continued. “She’ll be facing a level fifty-nine Warden of Storms from Lynthia, Fenric Sen Parillian!”

Nobody appeared.

The applause died down, replaced with growing chatter as spectators whispered amongst themselves.

The emcee called out once more, “Fenric Sen Parillian!”

Still he didn’t show.

Eve watched with a furrowed brow as an aide scurried up to the announcer’s platform to whisper something into his ear.

“It would appear,” the Minister of Public Affairs to the Queen of Leshk said with uncertainty in his voice, “that Fenric Sen Parillian has chosen to withdraw from the tournament rather than face Her Excellency, Miss Greene.”

The coliseum fell silent. Seconds passed. Eve wondered if she’d be given a new opponent. The announcer said nothing. For a time Eve considered breaking decorum to shout her question at the foppish minister, but the man seemed to collect himself in time to make a call.

“Because her opponent has forfeited the match, Evelia Greene is the victor!”

The crowd didn’t know whether to boo or cheer or stare dumbfounded. At least they all seemed to agree they were disappointed to be robbed of the final bout’s worth of entertainment.

Eve simply shrugged and left the arena. It wasn’t her problem. Truth be told she understood Fenric’s reasoning. Confident as she was that the Archbishop would cast Divine Intervention in time, Eve wasn’t sure she’d bet her own life on it, especially when all that was to be gained was a near-certain loss.

She was, of course, a bit disappointed herself. She’d been quite looking forward to another showing in the arena, if only for the chance to actually fight with this new footwork technique Roric had taught her. The berserker, on the other hand, was probably jumping for joy that she hadn’t ruined her technique by fighting before she was ‘ready.’

Ah well, Eve thought to herself, two bouts down, eight to go. She stopped for a moment to look where she was going, scowling at the unfamiliar juncture in the dark tunnels before her. Now I just need to figure out how to get the hells out of here.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Alas, Poor Roric

THE PARTY CELEBRATED Eve’s win—if one could even call it that—at The Siren’s Call. Eve was particularly proud of herself for finding the establishment, which sat far enough away from the palace to be a true tavern rather than the haughty eateries the nobility frequented, while still being close enough for Art to telepathically reach out if he and Reginald needed something back at the suite.

The Call’s convenient location made for quite the eclectic crowd of patrons, made up primarily of off-duty guards and servants from the various nearby manors, mixed with the odd group of noble brats who wanted to feel like they were ‘slumming it’ without having to walk too far. Eve made a point of glaring at them whenever one looked her way.

Eve, Wes, and Preston ate at a side table, the couple sitting together on the bench built into the wall while Eve had an actual chair facing away from the rest of the tavern. It was this seating orientation that forced the Defiant to put down her tankard and twist her neck at Wes’s words.

“What’s he doing here?”

“I invited him.” Eve waved a certain muscular berserker over to their table. He didn’t come immediately, stopping to fully survey the busy tavern first.

Wes took the opportunity to press the matter. “I know he’s been helping you train, but he wouldn’t even sit with us today. Why can he come for drinks but keep his distance at the arena?”

“Because a tavern is small,” Roric’s rumbling bass answered, “and a coliseum is not.”

Wes blushed at the realization he’d been overheard, but he’d thus far had enough ale for embarrassment to be no deterrent. “What does that mean?”

Roric sat, nestling his way onto the bench rather than taking the open chair, leaving Eve staring across the table at a line of three men.

“I need more female friends,” she muttered to herself, forcibly keeping her thoughts away from what had happened to her last female friend. Instead she watched as Roric once again scanned the tavern from his new vantage. Even sitting he was taller than most anyone in the room.

“I cannot let them see me fraternizing with her,” Roric explained in his stilted common. “I’d prefer if they didn’t see me at all. It is good to relax for a night.”

Eve took a swig from her tankard. “That brings up way more questions than it answers. Who are they?”

Roric leaned in, whispering over the din of the tavern. “The women.”

Wes blinked. “What?”

Eve nodded. “Yeah, I’m going to need a bit more context here. Start from the beginning.”

“If you say so.” Roric paused to flag down a barmaid and order another round of ales for the party. Eve still hadn’t finished her current one.

Once their small table was crowded with fresh pints, the Hewer of Bones began his tale.

“I suppose it started when I was a lad. I was always bigger and stronger than the other children of clan Salfdir, and I received more than my fair share of attention from the girls my age. At the time, I was foolish enough to revel in it.” Roric took a monstrous gulp of ale before going on. “The problems did not start until I defeated the shadowforged icecrawler and received my tier four. By then I was already bound to my beloved Hilda and awaiting the birth of our first child. That did not stop them. No longer was I just a promising young warrior. I was the Hewer of Bones, savior of clan Salfdir.”

Eve kind of wanted to hear more about this fight with the icecrawler, but she refrained from interrupting.

“It started with the looks,” Roric continued, “like they were appraising a purebred ramt. Demeaning but easy enough to ignore. Over time they grew bolder. Touching my arm in passing, biting their lips at me in public, leaving fresh frondbread at my doorstep. No matter how I tried to dissuade them, they never ceased. Hilda was livid. She thought I was encouraging them, enjoying their advances as I had in my youth. I could not convince her otherwise.”

Again he paused, this time emptying his tankard. “It came to a head three months after it began. One of them, Fryda, came into my home while Hilda was out. I asked her to leave. She refused, untying her blouse and baring herself to me.” Roric’s voice shook. “Hilda… had been distant for some time. I had not known warmth since…” He swallowed. “I never touched her, but neither did I avert my eyes.”

“And then someone found out,” Preston offered with quiet sympathy.

Roric nodded. “Hilda found us, with Fryda undressed and me leering like a greenling. Soon enough the entire clan knew my shame.”

“But you didn’t do anything!” Eve argued. “This Fryda lady did. You’re the victim here.”

“I allowed it to happen under my own roof,” Roric replied. “I lost much honor that day, enough that the clan elders thought it best I embark on my own.”

“They kicked you out for that?” Incredulity filled Wes’s tone. “That’s bullshit. Ramtshit. Whatever.”

Roric shrugged. “I lost my Hilda the moment she found us. Without her, the Salfdir clan held little for me. I had hoped that by leaving I could escape the women that hounded me and perhaps seek to reclaim my honor.”

“Is that why you signed up for the tournament?” Eve asked, feeling a growing sense of remorse for eliminating him the way she had.

Roric nodded.

“And Fryda?” Wes followed up. “Please tell me she faced some consequences for what she did.”

“Her husband was perhaps angrier than Hilda. She too was asked to leave the clan, though she took it as an opportunity to lead a cohort of my pursuers after me.”

Eve sighed. “And judging by the way you keep staring at the door as if it’s trying to sneak up on you, you haven’t managed to escape them.”

The Hewer of Bones rubbed his temples. “They have given up all pretense. They scream my name and chase me through the streets with neither dignity nor shame.”

Realization dawned on Eve’s face. “Is that why I found you in that dark alleyway? You were hiding from your rabid fangirls?”

Roric scowled. “I do not know this word, but I was hiding, yes.”

Eve frowned, her eyes wandering over the mass of rippling muscle that sat across from her. “Have…um… have you considered wearing a shirt?”

“No!” Preston blurted out before turning bright red. “That’s… um… I mean… it’s not his fault these women are acting inappropriately.”

“I dress no differently than any other man of clan Salfdir,” Roric said. “I will not forsake my heritage to appease these shameless harlots.”

“Alright.” Eve shrugged. “So why is it you can’t be seen with me?”

“If they see me with you, to them you will become competition. A target. I would not wish that upon my greatest enemy.”

Eve blinked. “That’s… very noble of you. Thanks.”

“These vultures…” Roric sighed. “They have cost me everything. My wife. My home. I missed the birth of my son. I will not let them harm anyone else.”

Eve thought to reach over the table to place a comforting hand on his shoulder but decided the better of it. Instead she gave him his space and simply lifted her tankard. “I guess we’ll just have to help you get your honor back. The tournament’s out, but there’s plenty of opportunity for a warrior like you.”

Roric perked up. “You would help me?”

“I mean… I’m the one who ruined the tournament for you, and you’re still helping me. It only seems fair.”

“Eve,” Preston hissed, as if his lowered voice would somehow escape the notice of the berserker right next to him, “what did we agree about side quests?”

“This isn’t a side quest, it’s helping out a friend! Besides, we do honorable shit all the time. We’d just have to keep him with us until we kill some sufficiently impressive monster and we’ll be good.”

Roric furrowed his brow. “What beasts have you slain thus far?”

“Eve killed a leviathan just last week, if that counts.” Wes did his best to keep his voice as nonchalant as possible, but a grin still creeped onto his face.

Roric’s eyes widened. “That… that would be an honorable feat.”

Eve clapped her hands together. “That settles it. You’ll join us on our next dungeon dive or monster bounty until you’ve racked up enough honor to return to…” She trailed off as a pair of muffled voices from outside reached her ear.

“Let’s check in here!” one said. “Maybe he’s waiting to buy me a drink.”

The other giggled, her voice far too old to be making such a girlish sound. “Don’t be foolish, he’s going to buy me a drink.”

Roric froze, the telltale signs of abject terror crossing his face. “They’re here.” He jumped to his feet, wobbling the table enough to splash beer on the floor. “I need to go. Thank you for listening, and for your offer of aid.”

“Good luck!” Eve called after him as he dashed for the door.

“Run like the wind!” Wes echoed.

As the hulking behemoth disappeared into the street, a chorus of feminine screams greeted him. Eve listened closely, tracking his flight as the high-pitched yells slowly faded into the distance. She shuddered. “I feel so bad for him. These women ruined his life and they’re still harassing him. It’s disgusting. You’d think they’d get the message that he’s not interested.”

Wes sighed. “Some people are terrible.”

Preston still stared at the door through which Roric had left. “Do you think you’d look like that if you’d left Nowherested a warrior instead of a mage?” he asked Wes.

“Gods, I hope not. Fangirls aside, I rather like being able to fit through doors without turning sideways.”

Preston smirked. “I’ll be your fangirl.”

“As long as you don’t start screaming in public whenever you see me.”

“You heard him,” Eve cracked. “Save the screaming for when you’re in private.” She smiled at her own joke for a moment, before realizing that instead of laughing or blushing or harrumphing indignantly at her dirty humor, Wes and Preston had both gone pale. “Oh, come one, that was funny.”

Wes shook his head slowly. “It’s not that,” he muttered. “It looks like Roric isn’t the only one getting unwanted attention tonight.”

Eve scowled. “What are you talking—”

“Your Excellency!” a panting Charles interrupted her. “I’ve been searching all over Pyrindel for you.” He fell into what was probably meant to be a bow but looked awfully more like doubling over to catch his breath.

“Oh—um—sorry?” Eve put down her tankard. “What’s going on?”

“Her majesty Queen Elric dispatched me herself to offer you her congratulations on your victory in the arena today.”

The queen’s tracking my tournament results? Eve grimaced as the thought crossed her mind. That can’t be good. The best she could manage in reply was an awkward “thanks?”

“Her majesty also asks that I confer her invitation for a royal introduction with full understanding of the honor and expectations thus conveys.”

Eve blinked as her alcohol-slowed mind tried to interpret the Steward’s words. “What?”

“Queen Elric desires a meeting, Your Excellency.”

Shit. “Um… alright,” Eve replied. “I’m a bit… indisposed at the moment. Why don’t you visit my suite tomorrow morning and we can arrange—”

“I apologize, Your Excellency, but it would seem I’ve been unclear,” the Steward interrupted for the second time. Even given the bow and the flowery language and the constant honorifics, on the Charles-adjusted scale, the man was being downright rude. “I seem to have forgotten myself in my haste to locate you and deliver her majesty’s message.”

Eve raised an eyebrow at him.

“Allow me to clarify,” Charles finally said. “Her majesty desires a meeting with you tonight.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Regal Advice

“SHIT,” EVE SWORE aloud this time. “Um… what happens if I say no?”

“Her majesty wonders why you would slight her so, or what business a foreign Emissary might have in the royal palace that doesn’t include the queen herself.” Charles’s answer was somehow both eloquently polite and deeply threatening.

Eve exhaled, deciding then and there she’d rather face a meeting with Queen Elric than be kicked out of the palace or labeled a spy. Going along with the poor Steward instead of sending him on another wild goose chase was an added benefit. “Okay.” She stood, dusting off her pants out of habit from long nights of sitting on the roadside more than from any real need. The tavern chair wasn’t that dirty. “Let’s go.”

As she turned to go, Charles cleared his throat in an unnecessarily disguised attempt to politely get her attention. “It is customary, in Leshk, for a visiting Emissary to present his or her host with a gift at their first meeting.”

Eve froze, frantically patting herself down for something she might give the queen. Maybe the leviathan scales would’ve done if she hadn’t already sold them. As it was, all she found in her search was her coin purse, daggers, and the Man of the Mist’s ivory rook, none of which she was willing to part with.

Mind racing, Eve spun on her heel back to the table, and Wes’s and Roric’s half-empty tankards. She emptied the contents of one into the other to form an approximation of a full drink. At a whim, she grabbed her own tankard from the table as well before once again addressing the foppish Steward. “Alright, I’m ready.”

Preston rubbed his temples. Wes stared openmouthed in both shock and anger at his stolen beverage. Charles looked down his nose at her in distaste but was either polite enough or adequately speechless to remain silent.

Eve took a step towards the door. “Well? I thought we were in a hurry.”

The Steward took a moment to collect himself before muttering, “Ah, um, of course. Right this way,” and leading her through the tavern and out onto the street.

Eve, of course, knew how to get back to the palace—she’d been living there over a week, after all—but Charles nonetheless walked in front as if navigating. Perhaps it was his way of keeping what little control he could over the situation, or just to pretend he wasn’t leading an eighteen-year-old girl in peasant clothes and two beers to meet the gods-damned queen of Leshk.

For her part, Eve deeply regretted choosing to spend the evening at a tavern instead of celebrating at her suite. Perhaps then she would’ve had time to change into one of the gorgeous dresses she’d bought for exactly occasions such as this. At least she had her ale.

She took a swig as they walked, caring less and less about her common state of dress as the alcohol slowly overwhelmed her Ethereal Metabolism’s ability to digest it.

It wasn’t until they reached the palace doors that Eve grew thankful for Charles’s guidance. Well as she might’ve memorized the various ways to travel between her suite, the building’s assorted entrances, and, most importantly, the kitchens, the Defiant had no way of finding pretty much anything else, let alone figuring out in which of the three throne rooms the queen wished to meet.

Eve took another sip from her rapidly diminishing supply of ale, her mounting nerves at the impending encounter engaged in a fierce battle with the liquid confidence she imbibed. For fuck’s sake, she thought in response to her pounding heart, I’m more nervous for this than I was for the leviathan. Then again, she’d known what the leviathan wanted: primarily its egg back and secondarily to eat her. Eve couldn’t have even guessed the queen’s purpose for arranging this meeting, especially at such a late hour.

She assumed Queen Elric had no intention of eating her, but royals were an eccentric bunch.

By the time Charles finally stopped at an elaborate set of double doors at the end of a hallway, Eve’s nerves had begun to calm. She flashed a smile at the two guards who opened the doors for them before stepping through into the throne room.

It was empty.

No trumpets blasted fanfare, no haughty nobles milled about the gallery beneath the gilded marble pillars, no advisor announced her presence.

No queen sat upon the crystal throne.

“Right this way,” Charles’s voice echoed hollowly through the vacant chamber, resonating from the vaulted ceilings to the glimmering dais. He took her directly behind the gorgeously translucent seat of power and into a tight hallway obscured by a velvet curtain. A brief walk later, the Defiant and the Steward emerged in a sitting room equipped with plush chairs and sofas, a well-stocked table of refreshments, and a roaring hearth radiating cozy warmth throughout the space.

Charles bowed. “Your Majesty, I present to you Her Excellency Evelia Greene, Emissary to the kingdom of New Burendia.”

For an embarrassingly long moment, Eve simply stared at the woman before her, taking in her thin yet sturdy frame, elegantly embroidered light blue dress, and silky hair so gold it bordered on white. Eve could only marvel at how long it must’ve taken to arrange it into such complicated decorative braids.

And then she remembered herself and fell into as low a bow as she could manage without spilling too much ale on the ornate carpet. Instead, it splashed only onto her hand.

“Thank you, Charles.” Soft and gentle as it was, the queen’s voice carried a commanding tone to it. “You may leave.”

Eve didn’t look up, tracking the Steward’s departure by the sound of his feet scurrying from the room. They were alone. Alone, that is, except for the two guards with enchanted golden armor and glowing swords that stood by each entrance. Eve doubted they would be of any help to her.

A shuffling of fabric reached her ears, followed by a simple command of, “You may rise.”

Eve straightened to find the queen standing before her. The two took a mutual moment to Appraise the other, both in skill and in normal sight.

Level 41 Fledgling Monarch

Epic Tier 3 Class

The queen was young for her level, no older than Eve herself, though the Defiant supposed she wasn’t a good point of comparison. She knew that nobles brought in caged beasts to raise the levels of their children, a practice especially prudent for someone whose bloodline unlocked all the classes they’d ever need.

How come she gets a gender-neutral class and I had to be a Messenger Girl? Eve thought to herself. Then again, nothing even tangentially connected to nobility, let alone royalty, could ever be considered remotely fair, so Eve let that idea fall by the wayside. Instead, she found herself wondering what conclusions the queen drew from Eve’s own presentation. Probably not good ones.

If Queen Elric thought ill of Eve’s appearance, she hid it well. “Your Excellency, I apologize that my Steward failed to reach you in time to properly join this afternoon’s court, but I get the impression you’d prefer a more intimate meeting.”

“Don’t blame Charles,” Eve jumped to the Steward’s defense, not realizing she’d just given a direct order to the fucking queen. “He works remarkably hard.”

“I’m aware. Just this week I promoted him for being the only staff member with the initiative to go into town for my morning bread on the day our ovens failed.”

Eve snorted, prompting a curious look from the young royal. In an effort to change the subject, she held out the mostly-full tankard she’d brought. “I brought you this, as a—um—thank you for your hospitality.” Eve was pretty sure that’s what the customary gift was supposed to be for.

The queen accepted the proffered cup gracefully, raising it to her nose to smell the brew within. “Is this a product of New Burendia? I’ll admit I know little of your culture and exports, a dilemma I hope to remedy if you’ll so humor me.”

“No, it’s—um—from a tavern down the street. Siren’s Call or something like that. I didn’t really have a chance to put together a proper gift after Charles found me.” Eve decided to risk the truth rather than outright lying to the pretty queen. Charles had seen her grab the tankard, and she didn’t expect him to back her lie if she told it.

Without prompt, Queen Elric threw her head back, chugging the tankard’s entire contents in a matter of seconds. Upon lowering the empty mug, she daintily dabbed at her lips with a handkerchief. “Delicious, if a bit warm. I’ll have to see about purchasing a cask for the palace.”

Eve gaped.

The queen grinned. “I can tell from your expression you’ve never negotiated a mining treaty with a party of dwarves.”

“I… can’t say I have.”

“The dwarves believe ale is essential to any good-faith negotiation; they say it makes you honest.”

Eve blinked. “Then—um… to honesty.” She emptied her own tankard, a task made easier by the fact she’d already drank most of it on the way to the palace.

“Now, why don’t we sit? I’ve been on my feet far too much today.” The queen stepped around the wide sofa to sit comfortably in one of the armchairs.

Eve followed. “Oh, sure.” She plopped herself down onto the sofa before uttering a hurried, “Your Majesty,” upon realizing she’d forgotten the proper honorific several times.

“Please, call me Emily. If we’re going to follow dwarven negotiation protocol, we may as well follow it all the way.” She casually waved, prompting a valet that Eve hadn’t even known was there to deposit two glasses of brandy on the knee-high table between them.

“If you say so.” Eve grabbed her glass, taking a sip of the sweet yet burning liquid. “I’m Eve.”

Emily leaned back in her chair, swirling her own glass of brandy in her hand. “So tell me, Eve, what can I do for the kingdom of New Burendia?”

Eve shrugged. “Hells if I know. I’m here for the tournament. Wasn’t even planning on visiting the palace until Charles found me.” She held off on mentioning that she hadn’t been planning on inventing a fake kingdom to represent either.

The queen laughed. It was a sharp, sudden thing, distinctly apart from the put-together demeanor she kept. “You aren’t the first Emissary I’ve met that claimed to be here without a clear political motive, but you might be the first I actually believe.”

“Really?” Eve exhaled sharply. “Why is that?”

“Because you’re actually competing. Because you came in here dressed as a peasant and handed me a mug of ale from down the street like all you wanted from me was to share a drink.”

“Oh, I want more than that,” Eve said, taking another large sip of brandy. “Two or three drinks at least.”

Emily smiled. “I think that could be arranged.” With a wave of her hand, the valet returned, this time with the entire bottle in lieu of pre-filled glasses. The queen leaned in, topping off Eve’s cup. “So what does one do, in New Burendia, while drinking brandy?”

“Oh, um, the same things as everywhere else, I suppose. Play games, make jokes, tell stories.” Eve toed the line of building upon her great lie.

“Is that so?” Emily raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any good stories?”

Eve gulped down the contents of her glass, setting it down on the table. Emily refilled it as Eve spoke. “You have no idea. This one time, back in Ilvia, I found myself in possession of this terrible goat…”

The queen listened raptly as Eve detailed her tertiary quest with Archibald the goat, giggling girlishly or gasping in surprise as the story demanded. When that tale ended, another took its place. And another.

The hours flew by as the Defiant and the queen, bound together only in the depth of their experiences for two women so young, swapped stories of grand adventures and courtly faux pas over altogether too much brandy. Eve, despite her shorter stature and greater intake, remained the more coherent of the pair thanks to her Ethereal Metabolism, but even she found herself slurring her words and giggling like a fool at Emily’s accounting of Lord Montegoonery’s ill-planned antics.

When the hour grew late enough that not even the energetic company could keep the young queen’s eyes open, Eve clumsily thanked her for the delicious brandy and engaging conversation before escorting herself out of the comfy sitting room.

Throughout her walk—using the term generously for Eve’s haphazard motion—back to her suite, the wide grin stayed plastered to Eve’s face. She paused once on her trek, leaning against the pristine wall to stabilize herself as the words spilled out to nobody in particular. “When I said I needed more female friends, I didn’t mean the fucking queen of Leshk.” She laughed.

The meeting had gone as well as she could’ve hoped—better, even. Oh, she was sure that come morning she wouldn’t hear the end of it from Wes and Preston, but that was tomorrow Eve’s problem. Instead, she kept that smile on her face as she stumbled the rest of the way through the winding palace halls back to her suite and the comfortably warm, if spinning, embrace of her bed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Re-reenter the Arena

EVE AWOKE TO the sound of voices outside her room, clearly trying and failing to keep quiet. She groaned. “I’m up. You might as well come in.”

Wes and Preston stepped into the luxurious bedchamber, the latter carrying a silver tray that had once been stacked high with various meats, fruits, and pastries but had since had its contents diminished by two adventurers, a trellac, and a hungry drake.

“A page brought this this morning,” Preston explained. “Apparently you were spotted drunkenly stumbling through the palace in the early hours of the morning, and the staff took pity on you.”

Eve sat up in bed, rubbing her temples. “Yeah—uh—that sounds about right. Leading off by handing her a tankard of ale definitely sent the night in an… interesting direction.”

“So—I—um…” Preston coughed. “I take it your meeting with the queen went well?”

Eve reached across her gargantuan bed to grab the pitcher of water on her bedside table, lifting the whole thing to her mouth to wet her arid throat. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “We had fun. Drank brandy, shared stories, told jokes, drank more brandy… I think we managed to go the whole time without talking business.”

Wes raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

“There was a lot of brandy.”

Preston, understanding her meaning, grabbed a muffin from the breakfast tray and crossed the room to stand at her bedside. One uncomfortable flash of golden light later, and Eve was using her newly hangover-free mind to inspect the oatmeal pastry for any traces of poppyseeds. Only when she was satisfied did she take a bite.

“Thanks,” she said through a mouthful of muffin.

Wes and Preston stared at her from the breakfast table across the room while she ate, flashing hesitant looks at each other but otherwise keeping silent. Eve could practically feel the weight of their gaze.

“What?” she eventually asked.

They didn’t answer.

Eve swallowed the last of her muffin. “Whatever it is you want to say, just spit it out.”

Preston opened his mouth but closed it before saying anything.

Wes actually managed to speak. “You didn’t sleep with her, did you?”

“What? No. We just had a few drinks and sat by the hearth and talked and…” The color drained from Eve’s face. “Ayla’s tits. When you put it like that—”

“It’s not Ayla’s tits I’m worried about,” Preston said. “Don’t fuck the queen.”

“Would it really be that bad if she had?” Wes asked. “That’s gotta at least be worth a quest milestone, right?”

“Our position here is precarious as it is,” Preston argued. “The last thing we need is more complications and more attention. Getting entangled with Queen Elric means both of those in spades.”

“Or it could mean a powerful ally that could help protect us from being exposed,” Wes replied.

“Guys!” Eve interrupted. “I didn’t sleep with her. And you both seem to be running under the assumption that I’m going to, or that it would be any of your business if I did.”

Preston exhaled. “But you admit it’s a possibility?”

“No! Maybe. I don’t know.” Eve sighed. “If you’d asked me when I left last night, I would’ve definitely said no, because that’s not how last night felt. Looking back at it now, especially when you frame it like this…” She groaned. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think she just needs a friend her age that isn’t a servant or trying to manipulate her. She opened up to me really quickly.”

“Well, you did get her drunk.”

“It might be more accurate to say she got me drunk. Or maybe we got each other drunk. I brought the ale but she said something about dwarven diplomacy and kept pouring brandy.”

“Maybe she thought you’d spill secrets if you got drunk enough?” Preston offered.

“Or that you’d make an advance,” Wes added.

Preston blinked. “Would you?”

“No,” Eve put it flatly.

The healer pressed. “And if she were to make an advance on you?”

“I don’t—maybe? Again, it’s none of your business.”

“It’s my business if we all get thrown in prison because some court gossip wants to look into the queen’s new beau and finds out you’re no Emissary.” Preston sighed. “Look, you can do whatever you want, but at least think about whether or not that kind of attention is worth it. You have a bad habit of charging in without considering the consequences.”

“Hey!” Eve protested. “I always consider the consequences. It’s the risks I don’t evaluate.”

Wes and Preston rolled their eyes so in sync Eve might’ve thought they’d practiced.

Growing tired of this line of questioning, Eve tossed away the covers and got out of bed. “As far as I’m concerned, I had a fun time with a new friend last night. I don’t think she’d ever offer to be anything more, and I don’t know that I’d even say yes if she did. Happy?”

“Just be careful,” Preston said gently. “That’s all I ask.”

“Great. Okay.” Eve crossed the room to re-don her discarded armor. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get back to practicing. I’m sure Roric is already waiting for me downstairs.”

“Perfect.” Wes grinned. “Go spend more time with the shirtless berserker. Keep your mind off your new friend.”

“Please,” Eve scoffed as her hands deftly maneuvered the clasps on the back of her leather chest piece, “after what’s happened to him, I doubt Roric wants a woman to so much as look at him. Besides, he has a wife, remember?”

“A wife he hasn’t seen in how long?” Wes asked.

It was Eve’s turn to roll her eyes. “Let me generalize. I’m not making advances on anyone, and if anyone tries…” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It seems silly to make these kinds of decisions ahead of time.”

Preston nodded. “Again, just be careful.”

Eve finished strapping on her armor, grabbing her club from the floor and stepping towards the door. “C’mon, when am I ever not careful?” With a quiet smirk, she stepped out into the antechamber and then the hallway before Preston could have a chance to list off the many, many times she’d been less than completely cautious.

She was just glad to have escaped the conversation. Eve didn’t particularly enjoy thinking about these things, especially when her opinions on such matters were just a giant tangled mess of uncertainty. Her romantic life, or lack thereof, wasn’t something she worried about, and hearing Wes and Preston bring it up left her feeling a bit uncomfortable. She was perfectly happy as things were, thank you very much.

Eve shook the thoughts from her head as she stepped into the practice yard. According to Roric, Eve still had a long way to go before she was ready for an actual fight, and she was more than ready to throw herself into the training.

At least killing things was straightforward. Mostly.

* * *

In the days that passed after round two of the Proving Grounds tournament, Eve managed to work her way up from the rigid jog Roric had insisted she start with all the way up to an actual run. He still didn’t let her use any of her abilities, but that didn’t stop Eve from trying out a Defiant Charge or two in the long nights she practiced alone.

On the day before her third bout, Roric even gave her a crash course on how to properly hold a weapon. Eve felt a hint of embarrassment to discover she’d been holding her bone club far too low relative to its center of mass, but the additional several inches of reach had always felt more useful than a little bit of extra control. Roric had audibly groaned when she’d said that.

“Control is everything in combat. More reach allows you to better control your opponent’s movement, but that does not matter if you cannot control your own.”

The words sounded strange coming from a berserker, but Eve heeded them nonetheless. These days she was faster and stronger than anything she could conceivably face, but she’d also taken down more powerful foes through wits and luck, two things that could be more readily utilized if she had more tactics than just running in with an obscene amount of Strength. Roric’s stable foundation helped.

The nearly seven-foot-tall Hewer of Bones was the only person to be happy when Eve’s round three opponent also failed to appear for their bout, leaving her once more the winner by default. The crowd, as per last time, booed at his cowardice while the announcer looked on with a growing expression of concern.

Whether or not a fight so early would derail her training with Roric, Eve itched for the opportunity to show what she was capable of. This was the Proving Grounds, after all, and she could hardly prove herself to the Dragonwrought or anyone else if nobody was willing to fight her.

Eve found the problem exacerbated further when her round four opponent officially conceded two days before the match was even scheduled, leaving her the first ever competitor to win a bout without even showing up at the arena.

In the off-days before her fifth fight, the tournament organizers sent out an official notice that failure to arrive for a scheduled match would carry a ten-gold fine, something few adventurers could afford to pay. It did little good.

The moment the call to start echoed through the crowded coliseum, Eve’s opponent drew a knife from her belt and promptly slit her own throat, activating Cheat Death and ending the match without having to face the Defiant’s deadly charge.

The crowd raged.

Cries of “coward!” and “fight damnit!” filled the air even as money changed hands to and from the assorted bookies. Apparently, they’d added peaceful concession as a third possible outcome for her bouts, though Eve had to wonder if the most recent loss could really be considered ‘peaceful.’ The blood on the sand certainly argued to the contrary.

It wasn’t until she watched her would-be opponent leave the arena that Eve realized some of the crowd’s vitriol was targeted towards her.

“Cheater!”

“It’s rigged!”

“Make her fight!”

Eve’s blood boiled. It wasn’t her gods-damned fault that she out-Strengthed Cheat Death, just like it wasn’t her fault her opponents refused to take that risk.

The crowd didn’t care.

Rotten produce and other garbage flew through the air only to collide with the defensive wards and fall back into the stands. Eve marveled at their stupidity. It wasn’t like they were so angry in the moment they weren’t thinking about the invisible barrier between crowd and competitors; they’d had to bring the spoiled fruit in with them.

She forced herself to breathe as she stepped out of the arena. Someone would have to fight her eventually, and once the crowd got another taste of her power the accusations should hopefully cease. For the time being, Eve decided, it wasn’t her problem. She could peacefully ignore the rabid spectators until the issue resolved itself.

Still, as she navigated the maze of tunnels beneath the arena to return to her friends, Eve burned—with rage, not with anything Wes-related. Unlikely as the crowd’s temporary anger was to ever affect her, it hurt to be the object of widespread distaste, justified or otherwise.

She considered tracking down her next opponent as soon as pairings were released to try and convince them to actually fight her, but Eve was painfully aware how it would look if anyone caught wind of such a conversation. She sighed.

Eve had nearly made it out of the dark halls she’d grown so familiar with over the tournament thus far when a figure appeared before her, his face shrouded in the gloom of the sunless passages.

Only his voice identified him as the announcer himself, Minister of Public Affairs and organizer of the entire Proving Grounds tournament.

“Evelia Green? I think it’s best we have a little talk.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

If It Wasn't Rigged Before...

“ALRIGHT.”  EVE SHRUGGED.  “What would you like to talk about?”

The Minister of Public Affairs stepped to the side, gesturing Eve forward with an open hand.  “Right this way.”

Eve followed the man’s direction, continuing on through the dark tunnel as he fell in to walk at her side.

“I hope you’ll understand if we forego the honorifics,” he said.  “I’m no diplomat, and as far as I’m concerned, you are just another contestant in my tournament.”

His tournament? Eve thought to herself.  Did organizing this year’s version of a centuries-old event make it his?  It all seemed a bit self-important to Eve, but then again, she supposed a certain level of self importance was a prerequisite to working in politics.  “Okay,” she simply replied.  “What should I call you?”

The man stopped for a moment, blinking in surprise at her question.  How could a competitor not know his name?  “Finch,” he eventually uttered.  “Samuel Finch.”

“So tell me, Finch, do you normally whisk your contestants away to secret underground meetings?  ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’m not ‘just another contestant.’”

“You’re hardly the first that required special attention.”  Finch stopped before a simple wooden door with yellow light spilling through the gap beneath it.  He opened it.  “Here we are.  Step into my office.”

Eve, somewhat surprised to find the Minister of Public Affairs had an office in the bowels of the coliseum, followed instructions.  Inside she found a small torchlit space crowded by an ornate wooden desk stacked high with paperwork, a rather comfortable-looking leather chair behind it, and two visibly less comfortable chairs opposite it.  At a glance, all three seats appeared empty.

“Enough theatrics,” Finch snapped at the empty room.  “We’re here to discuss business, not to play mind games.”

Eve furrowed her brow at the statement in mounting confusion until the air before her began to shimmer.  As if a blanket fell away, a woman materialized in the leftmost chair, a look of exasperation in her eyes.

Her appearance was impeccable.  Her dark olive skin glowed in the torchlight, complementing eyes of chocolate brown and her pristinely managed mane of frizzy black hair that seemed to go everywhere at once without ever straying from exactly where it was supposed to be.  Even her mage robes of light blue skyweave embroidered in gold hugged her curves flawlessly, with neither stain nor wrinkle to detract from their aesthetic.

Eve gaped, at once both jealous, intrigued, and perhaps a bit frightened by the specimen before her.  She was perfect.  Eve cursed internally.  The last thing she needed was another obscenely high-level player interfering with her life.

Finch simply exhaled, stepping around the desk to sit in his own chair.  “Evelia Greene, I’d like you to meet Riah Laskerendian, your round six opponent.”

That was enough for Eve to drop all pretext and Appraise the gorgeous woman.

Level 51 Mirage Dancer

Epic Tier 4 Class

Well that explains it, Eve thought, immediately feeling better about her own appearance.  She’s a fucking illusion mage.  After a moment to collect herself, she took the final unoccupied chair across from Finch.  “You know, people are already starting to think the competition is rigged.  I’m not sure how an underground meeting with my next opponent is going to help matters.”

Finch clasped his hands together, intertwining his fingers.  “Because unlike your last four adversaries, Riah here has agreed to actually fight you.”

Eve blinked.  “Okay?  So why are we meeting here?  It sounds like there isn’t a problem, unless you’re worried the Archbishop will have to use Divine Intervention again and it’ll still look like I’m cheating.”

Finch cleared his throat.  “Allow me to clarify.  We’re here because Riah has agreed to fight you, and because you’re going to lose.”

“Excuse me?”

He leaned in.  “As I’m sure you’re aware, now that we’ve reached the top sixteen, the tournament bracket changes to double elimination…”

Eve’s eyes widened.  She hadn’t been aware.

Finch scowled.  “You didn’t know, did you?”  He sighed.  “Does nobody read the information packets?  I swear I spend so much time writing them just to re-explain things over again.  Once you reach the top sixteen, you receive an extra life, as it were.  When you lose, instead of facing elimination, you fall to a secondary bracket where…” He trailed off as he noticed Eve’s bored expression.  “You don’t care.”

“Nope.”  Eve grinned.  “I show up to fight when the pairings tell me to, I win, then I go home.”

“You haven’t exactly been doing much winning, have you?” Riah spoke for the first time, her voice dripping saccharine venom.

“The point,” Finch stepped in, “is that you can afford a loss without dropping from the Proving Grounds entirely.  Several champions have come from the loser’s bracket over the years, and if you are as fearsome as your opponents seem to think, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble doing the same.”

Eve reclined in her chair.  “So let me get this straight. Me, you, the Proving Grounds, and presumably the government as a whole, are all losing a bunch of credibility because it looks like the tournament is rigged, and your solution to that is to actually rig the tournament.”

“Yes.”

“And why would I agree to that?  Someone’s going to have to fight me eventually, and I may as well keep racking up the free wins as they come.”  Truth be told, Eve didn’t particularly care about free wins—she’d rather fight—but the idea of losing on purpose rubbed her the wrong way.

“It hardly seems wise for an Emissary representing her kingdom to ignore the opinions of the masses,” Finch argued.

“It hardly seems wise for an Emissary representing her kingdom to show weakness without cause,” Eve turned his words against him.

Finch scoffed.  “Please, a loss now costs you nothing.”

“Except that extra life you mentioned, which I think I’d rather hold on to.”

“So lose now lose later, even if you expect to come out the champion at the end.  It doesn’t matter.”

Eve kept pushing, if only in the hope she might win some other favor in exchange for dropping a match.  “And what will people think when I lose to Riah here only to beat her later?”

“Who says you can beat me?” Riah spoke up.

Eve snorted.  “You, if you’re here trying to negotiate a win.”

Finch sighed.  “She’s here because I asked her to be, because I want this to go smoothly.  Assuming you or Miss Laskerendian aren’t eliminated by other means, rematches have been known to go different ways.  Perhaps she blunders, or perhaps you were simply unprepared for illusion magic at your first match.  I don’t foresee an issue.”

“And once I lose, what happens?  We keep fighting as normal?  Won’t that support the theory that the tournament is rigged if I lose to the first person to actually fight me?”

“Then it’ll be your job to start winning,” Finch explained.  “A loss to Riah will demonstrate to your opponents that you are, in fact, fallible.  Once you’ve fallen once, they’ll be more willing to risk embarrassment or a failed Divine Intervention for a chance at replicating the feat.”

“I don’t like it,” Eve said outright, “and not just because I’d have to lose.  It’s a trick.  Convincing people the tournament isn’t rigged by rigging it.  Even worse, it’s tricking competitors into risking their lives against me on the basis of a lie.”

“All entrants understood the terms when they registered for the Proving Grounds.” Finch waved away her concerns.  “Deaths happen.  If you’re so concerned about the safety of your adversaries, perhaps you shouldn’t hit them so hard.”

Eve paused.  He was right.  All she had to do was dump less Mana into Mana Rush, though finding a value that would obliterate any attempt at blocking her without overwhelming Cheat Death was no small task, especially when Divine Intervention had worked so well for her match against Roric.  Either way, she could hardly object to tricking people into fighting her when it was well within her abilities not to put them at risk.

Finch took her thoughtful silence as an opportunity to continue speaking.  “I do believe such an arrangement is in the best interests of everyone involved.  Do I have your agreement?”

Riah turned up her palms in the universal sign of ‘why not?’

Eve bristled.  It felt wrong, though she struggled to determine if her distaste for the scheme came from its inherent dishonesty or because any loss, intentional or otherwise, would mean taking a hit to her pride.

Finch turned to her.  “Miss Greene?”

Eve pushed a different angle.  “Whether or not this… arrangement of yours is in everybody’s best interest, it sounds like you care about your reputation and public opinion of this tournament far more than I do.  Sure, it’d be nice to fight real bouts sooner rather than later, but I can just stay the course until I’m paired against someone brave enough to actually face me.”

The minister groaned.  “Your point?”

“Oh, I’m just saying you and Riah here only stand to gain from this deal, and I’m actually losing something.  It seems only fair to negotiate some… additional incentive on my end.”

“Of course,” Finch sighed.  “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything less from an Emissary.”

Eve winked at him.

Finch sat back in his chair.  “So tell me, how much do you want?”

Eve left the coliseum that day with her club at her back, her daggers at her hips, and the distinct weight of gold in her hand.  The pouch—she wasn’t stupid enough to carry gold out in the open—carried fifty pieces, half of their agreed-upon amount.  The sum held quite a bit less buying power here in Pyrindel than elsewhere in the world, but even if she wouldn’t be purchasing a house any time soon, the Defiant was an ardent fan of nice things.

She knew the others wouldn’t be happy with her—hells, she wasn’t necessarily happy with herself—but they’d understand.  Maybe after Roric was done lecturing her for acting dishonorably, he’d thank her for giving them more time to train before her next actual fight.

Truth be told, Eve appreciated the outcome of the clandestine meeting.  Perhaps a match loss was the way to get the tournament back on track, and even if it didn’t, she was still walking away fifty—soon to be a hundred—gold richer.

Negotiations could’ve gone worse.  At least Finch hadn’t outright disqualified her for posing a threat to her opponents or some other manufactured reason.

As she stepped back out into the sunlit streets of Pyrindel, Eve let out a quiet laugh and amended the thought.

At least Finch hadn’t outright disqualified her for posing a threat to her opponents yet.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Mirage Dancer

EVE FOUND WES and Preston back at the suite, sitting around the breakfast table engaged in a four-player game of crowns.  Reginald was winning.

Eve waited for Art to play out his turn before unceremoniously dropping a coin pouch onto the table.  “Here’s fifty gold.”  She crossed the room, reaching into her trunk to withdraw the rest of her fortune.  She put it on the table too.  “And here’s the fourteen left of my cut from the ar-iron talons and leviathan scales.  I want you to bet it all on Riah Laskerendian.”

Wes blinked.  “The illusion mage?  Why?”

Of course he recognized her name; he’d actually been watching the tournament instead of spending all his time training.  Eve dismissed the pang of envy that thought generated.  “Because she’s going to beat me.”

“Hold up.”  Preston put down his hand of playing cards.  “Does this have something to do with whatever held you up under the coliseum?”

“Yep.”  Eve took a seat on the chair that had been shoved aside to make room for Reginald at the table.  “The tournament organizer wanted to have a chat.”  She ran them through her conversation with Riah and Finch, including the deal they’d struck and her various concerns with it.

Wes raised an eyebrow.  “So the Minister of Public Affairs is suffering a reputation crisis right now, and his answer is to rig the tournament?  That sounds a bit counterproductive.”

“It makes sense from the viewpoint of a corrupt government official who’s used to doing shady shit,” Preston argued, “but what I don’t get is why you’re going along with it.”

“I can’t impress the Dragonwrought if nobody will fight me.”

“You can’t impress the Dragonwrought if you lose either,” Preston said.

“But if Eve thinks she can win anyway, falling to the lower bracket in double elimination isn’t much of a cost,” Wes countered.  “It sounds to me like you don’t really lose or gain much by throwing this match.”

“Well I gain a hundred gold,” Eve said, “plus whatever we win by betting against me.”

“And you risk losing reputation, or getting disqualified from the tournament itself if someone finds out,” Preston added.

“Those both sound like things that could also happen if I just kept winning by default,” the Defiant argued.  “For all I know, if this deal fell through, Finch’s next attempt would’ve been to outright disqualify me.  This is safer, and I make some money off it.”

“Or you could’ve gone to your new friend her majesty the queen and told her what her minister was up to,” Preston said.  “You’ve had tea with her, what, four times in the past week?”

Eve groaned, “You know she doesn’t like talking business.  Look, I’m not happy about it, but I really think just going along with Finch’s plan is the safest option.”

Preston sighed, “Welp, you’ve already agreed to it, so I guess we’re locked in anyway.”

“Why?” Wes chimed in.

Eve and Preston both turned to look at him.

“Why are we locked in?” Wes continued.  “What’s to stop you from just… winning anyway?”

“I already took his money.”

“What’s he going to do, tell the guards you stiffed him on his attempt to rig the tournament?”  Wes shrugged.  “Your problem is that people aren’t willing to fight you, but that’s solved now because Riah agreed she would.  Even better, you can beat her without risking her life to Mana Rush because illusion mages don’t have defenses to overwhelm.”

“I don’t like it,” Preston said.  “Making an enemy of the tournament organizer sounds like a terrible idea.”

“So you don’t want me to throw the match, but you also don’t want me to not throw the match?”

Preston shook his head.  “It’s just too risky.  I think you should give Finch his money back, keep everything above board.  Just because you’re not accepting his shady deal doesn’t mean you have to cheat him.”

“But I still need Riah to fight,” Eve argued, “and without Finch’s deal she might not.”  Eve neglected to mention the money as it weighed on her decision, but she sure as hells wanted that gold for herself.

“Then give him his money back after the bout.”

“Riah will be pissed.”

Preston shrugged.  “I’m less concerned about pissing off someone you just proved you could kill in a head-on fight than betraying a government official.  As long as you don’t hit her so hard she needs Divine Intervention, she doesn’t really have anything to complain about.”

“So to get this straight,” Eve thought aloud, “you both want me to fight for real, but Preston thinks I should return Finch’s money once I win.”

The men both nodded their assent.

“Great.”  Eve clapped her hands together and rose to her feet, crossing the room to head for the door.

“Where are you off to?” Wes called after her.

“To order some ale,” Eve answered over her shoulder.  “I did win a bout today, after all.”

“Win seems like a strong word for watching your opponent concede because she was too scared to fight you,” the fire mage responded.

Eve simply shrugged.  “As far as the tournament’s concerned, I won, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s good enough to warrant a night off.”  She paused to turn back to the game of crowns the others had been playing.  “Now why don’t you deal me in?”

* * *

Paradoxically, while the cut to top sixteen meant fewer matches in any given round, the time between bouts stretched out to a full week.  Ostensibly it was to give competitors plenty of time to rest and prepare for their next fight, but Eve got the distinct impression it was more a mechanism for building hype.

The Proving Grounds could better hold the minds of the populace if there were important and exciting matches coming up, so as said matches became more frequent, the need for constant fighting to keep the people entertained diminished.

Preston resented the wait, counting every extra day before the end of the tournament as another opportunity for New Burendia to be exposed as the lie it was.  Similarly, Wes just wanted Eve to join the Dragonwrought already so the party could get back to adventuring.  Art hated the longer schedule out of impatience to watch more fights.

Roric, on the other hand, took every advantage of the extra time to push Eve’s training further.  By the time she stepped into the arena across from a certain Mirage Dancer, she even knew how to properly swing her club, if not her daggers.

Eve tuned out Finch as he announced the match, directing her gaze instead to the crowd that had come to spectate.  They hadn’t even reached the quarterfinals and already the stands were packed.  Without searching, Eve spotted a dozen representatives from various mercenary companies, many in heated negotiations with either former or current competitors.  Apparently, the part of the tournament that really mattered had finally begun.

“Contestants!” Finch’s magically amplified voice returned Eve’s focus to the task at hand.  “You may begin!”

The air shimmered, and twenty Riahs appeared in all corners of the arena.

Eve held her ground.  She’d been prepared for invisibility, not mirror images.  She gripped her club, squinting at each of the copies in turn, starting with the one nearest where the illusionist had been standing at the match’s start.  It wouldn’t be that one.  Too easy.

Unwilling to commit to a Defiant Charge in one direction or another, Eve raised an open palm at the two Riahs to the left of her starting position.  Her Mana Burst passed clean through them.

A chorus of feminine voices rang out in cruel laughter, echoing through the coliseum from every direction.  Even knowing it was all a tactic to get into her head, Eve’s face burned.  She snarled.  Two Riahs down, eighteen to go.

Eve circled Mana through her eyes as she waited for the cooldown of her only ranged attack, keeping a careful watch should any of the duplicates charge her or any other anomaly present itself.  Still she hesitated to go on the offensive.  Illusionists didn’t attack outright; they laid traps.  As long as Eve approached with caution, she had the advantage.

Her second Mana Burst cleaved through three of the illusory Riahs, sparking a new wave of the taunting laughter that so tightened Eve’s jaw.  Two more mirror images popped up to replace the first she’d killed.

Shit, Eve cursed.  So much for process of elimination.  If she had time to eat mid-match, she supposed she could win a war of attrition, slowly running down the Mirage Dancer’s Mana until she was forced to reveal herself, but Eve hadn’t packed scones for her bout.  Without knowing Riah’s stats or ability costs, trying to outlast her would be a gamble at best.  Mana Burst wasn’t cheap.

Eve took a deep breath, forcing her racing heart to slow.  She whispered a silent prayer of thanks that they fought in a neutral arena.  If Riah’s illusion magic hid pit traps or poisoned spikes, Eve wouldn’t have a chance.  As things were, she was lucky enough illusions lacked in the lethality department.

Tense seconds dragged by as Eve waited for one of the mirages to make a move.  None did.  Even after the other three she’d destroyed reappeared, the illusions held their ground.

Eve looked them over.  Never once letting herself linger too long on a given subject lest she leave her back exposed, Eve analyzed each of the Riahs with magically enhanced vision.  She saw no outlier.

Minutes passed.  Eve’s heart pounded.  Cries of “do something!” rang out from the crowd.  Eve ignored them.

Only after her gaze had made two complete passes around the circle of illusions did Eve finally spot it.  The duplicates, for all their taunting laughter and threatening postures, were flawless, but the space between them held some clue.

In the corner of her eye, Eve watched as a footprint impressed itself upon the sand entirely of its own accord.  Another appeared just in front of it.

Eve kept her gaze fixed forward, holding back any reaction to the discovery as she carefully monitored the footprints’ winding path towards the center of the arena.  Towards Eve.  Apparently, invisibility was not without its weaknesses.

Got you.  Eve suppressed her grin.  She grasped her club, ready to strike as she let the footprints draw ever closer.

Once they were just outside the range of any lunge Riah might’ve been planning, Eve Jetted forward, bringing her griffin-bone to bear with frightening speed.

Her swing found only air.

Eve didn’t see the knife as it came down.  Only the searing spike of icy agony at the back of her neck alerted her that she’d been hit.  The air flashed gold as Cheat Death saved her life.

Eve fell to the ground.  Healers rushed the field.  The announcer called her defeat.  She registered none of it.  She only saw Riah standing not where the footprints had tread, but behind her, clutching a bloody dagger.

Legendary Quest Milestone Reached: Learn a Lesson in Humility!

+128000 exp!

The Defiant’s mind reeled as she realized her mistake.  The mirror images hadn’t been the only ploy.  The footprints had been a trap, designed to trick her into thinking she’d outsmarted Riah’s illusions.

An unfamiliar Priestess touched Eve’s shoulder, flooding her with Ayla’s healing light.  She accepted the goddess’s mercy with a heavy heart, cursing herself for her foolishness, for her cockiness.

Riah’s face was blank.  She’d found her win, but it hadn’t been as free as she might’ve expected.  Perhaps Eve could pass it off as putting on a show.

She let the Priestess guide her off to the edge of the arena, passing the protective wards to where the healer corps had set up shop.  Eve’s mind operated in a haze as she went through the various checks to confirm she was unharmed, trying not to relive that moment when Riah’s knife had struck her, when she’d died.

Eve grit her teeth.  She couldn’t afford to make these kinds of mistakes.  Another in the arena would mean elimination, and one in the field… She didn’t finish that thought.  Instead she kept her stride even as she made her way through the coliseum’s underbelly, first to find Roric and then to return to the palace’s practice yard.

She had a week before her next match, and it was starting to look like winning the Proving Grounds would be harder than she’d thought.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The Loser's Bracket

“AND YOU COULDN’T hear her?”

Eve paced across the bedchamber for the sixteenth time as she answered Preston’s question.  “The illusions can produce sound too.  Even if the crowd weren’t an issue, it’s hard to hear someone walking when there’s twenty Riahs making noise all around you.”

“What about smell?” Preston asked.

“If smell were her one weakness, wouldn’t she just… take a bath?”  Eve was getting tired of this line of questioning.  “Have you ever tried to find something by smelling it?  It’s not exactly a viable tactic in battle.”

“She’s only Epic tier four,” the Caretaker continued. “She can’t be unbeatable.”

After a long argument with Roric in which he’d refused to help her train for a hundred and fifty hours straight, Eve found herself back in her suite engaged in one of her least favorite activities: coming up with a plan.  There were fifteen other adventurers left in the Proving Grounds, and Preston wanted to formulate a strategy for each and every one of them.  Given the day’s events, Riah was first.

“Of course she’s beatable,” Wes offered from his position sitting on the floor coloring with Art and Reginald.  “Just flood the arena with fire.”

Eve rolled her eyes.  “That’s your strategy for every opponent.”

“Yeah, because it works.  And for Riah especially.  All she can really do is hide until she gets a chance to sneak up on you and stab you.  The illusions are just a fancy distraction.”

“So she’s weak to super large areas of effect.”  Eve exhaled.  “I don’t have anywhere near enough Mana Density to clear the entire arena with Mana Burst.”

“It’s not just AOE,” Preston thought aloud.  “If all she can do to end the fight is stab someone, presumably without any class skills boosting it, then anyone bulky enough to either survive or block her sneak attack would wipe the floor with her.”

“That’s a lot of assumptions about what Riah can and can’t do,” Eve snapped back.  “And even if they’re right, surviving a dagger to the neck isn’t exactly easy.  Maybe a pure tank could do it, but I sure as hells can’t.”  The silent ‘maybe Alex could’ve done it’ went unsaid.

Preston counted on his fingers as he spoke. “Well the three historical weaknesses of illusion magic are that hiding isn’t a reliable defense, it provides no direct offensive power, and against some opponents it flat out doesn’t work.”

Eve furrowed her brow.  “Doesn’t work?”

The Caretaker shrugged.  “It can be really tricky to fool senses you don’t have.  There are some monsters out there that can detect electrical fields or magical remnants or just see through illusions for whatever reason.  It’s part of the reason illusion magic isn’t very popular outside of the arts; it’s too unreliable in real combat.”

“So Riah’s just a terrible matchup.”  Eve cursed.  “Hiding may not be a reliable defense, but my whole strength is in outspeeding and overpowering defenses.”

“Maybe someone else will take her out for you,” Wes chimed in.

Preston nodded.  “She’ll need to lose twice because she’s still in the winner’s bracket, but it’s possible.”  He flipped through his notes for the page with the full roster.  “There’s three mages and a tank that should give Riah trouble, and upsets are always possible.”  He exhaled.  “We shouldn’t count on it.”

“We might have to,” Eve said.  “I can’t think of any ways to counter her.”  That was a lie.  She could think of a way, but the odds of making it work now after so many failed attempts felt even lower than those of her avoiding a rematch with Riah entirely.  “Tabling that for now, who am I against next week?”

“The loser of tomorrow’s match between…” Preston read from the page, “Harold Leon and Priya Estellian.”

That second name sounded familiar to Eve.  “The Sword Dancer?”

“Yep.  We’re hoping she loses, cause Harold’s one of the mages that’ll probably beat Riah.”

Eve nodded along.  “Okay, so what do Sword Dancers do?  And why are there so many combat classes called dancers?”

Preston blinked.  “We’ve come across two something-dancers out of a competitive field of two hundred and fifty.  I wouldn’t call that ‘many.’”  He shook his head.  “Anyway, as far as I can tell, Sword Dancer is just a high-tier version of a basic sword class.  She’ll be fast, but you’re faster.  Practicing with Roric should be more than enough to beat Priya.”

“And Harold?”

“Even easier.  He’s a Windcaller, basically summons miniature tornados and shit.  Most of his wins have come from sweeping his opponent away in one and dropping them from the top of the wards.  Even if you couldn’t take him out before he got a cast off, his whole strategy falls apart in the face of Jet.”

The conversation dragged on from there as Eve and Preston discussed each of her fifteen possible opponents, aided by random somewhat useless input from Wes and completely useless, though far cuter, input from Art.

Fortunately enough, most of the competition didn’t seem to pose much of a threat, or at least matched up poorly against Eve’s strengths.  The Defiant took some joy in the realization that all four of the fighters that could stonewall Riah couldn’t even dream of defeating Eve.

That said, Preston did suggest a couple of matchups that might prove difficult, including a Blood Baron, Heartpiercer, Acolyte of the Gnashing Teeth, and, of course, Riah herself.  Of them all, only the latter felt unbeatable.

Even with a plan in mind and the urgency of preparation clearer than ever, Roric insisted Eve take days off, refusing to train her on match days and at the midweek.  He was honest enough to admit that he too needed rest but still forbade Eve from practicing without him through those off days.

So it was that on Wednesday, three days before her match with one Priya Estellian, Eve found herself not clad in armor in the practice yard but in a floor length gown sitting across a tea table with her majesty Queen Emeliara Elric the First.

“And then Ma came in waving a pair of Lindon’s underwear like a war banner yelling that he’d better stop picking on me or she’d tell the entire town they weren’t there for repairs but for stain removal.”

Emily let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.  “Did he leave you alone?”

Eve grinned.  “You should’ve seen how red his face got.  From then on, he treated me—” Eve stopped herself before saying ‘like a princess.’  “He was too scared to even look at me wrong,” she corrected.

The queen giggled.  “Your mother sounds like an amazing woman.”

“She is.”  Eve sipped her tea, an expensive blend pioneered by a local Alchemist that was designed to loosen tongues without any of the inhibitory effects of alcohol.  It allowed the ladies in the upper echelon of Leshkian nobility a way to stimulate conversation without a loss of tact or risk of revealing something better left unsaid.  It was, as a result, rather popular among those that could afford it.

Eve thought it tasted like dirty socks.  She stirred another spoonful of sugar into the steaming mug as Emily asked her question.

“What about your father?  I’ve heard so much of Martha but…”

“He died when I was four.”  Eve put it plainly.  “Went out checking his traps and ran into a el-bear that wanted the rabbit he caught more than it wanted to avoid him.”  Eve embellished the name of the beast for the sake of keeping mysticism.  No manaheart would die to a mundane bear.

The queen’s face fell.  “I’m so sorry.”

Eve shrugged.  “I hardly remember him.  It was always just me and Ma.”

Emily nodded.  “I can’t imagine… My mother passed birthing me, and my father and I were never close—kings rarely have time for raising little girls—but I never lacked for company.  Between the nurses and the maids and the tutors, I was never alone, but I was also never…” She exhaled.  “I’m not sure how to put it.”

“Never partners?” Eve offered.

“Perhaps.  I grew up surrounded by caretakers but never parents.”  She sighed.  “I’m sorry, I must sound positively beastly, lamenting my loneliness to a girl who grew up with only a mother at her side.”

“Well it wasn’t just me and Ma,” Eve said.  “I had a whole village to play with.  Sure, sometimes the other children were mean, but that’s just how children are.  Not that—um—not that you’d know that, I guess.”

“Palaces aren’t conducive to childhood,” Emily replied, “but even bored and lonely, I had no right to complain.  How unaware would I have to be to believe there’s a child in all of Leshk who had it better than I?”

“You can be aware of how lucky you are and grateful for everything you have without pretending nothing has ever gone wrong in your life.  Compared to an urchin in the gutter I’ve been truly blessed, but that doesn’t stop me from complaining when life hands me a flaming pile of ramtshit.”

Emily stared.

“What?” Eve asked.  “It’s true.”

“You’re an interesting one, Evelia Greene.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

Emily snorted.  “And I’m sure I won’t be the last.  You’re clearly no diplomat, and if what I hear of your progress through the Proving Grounds has any truth to it, you’re quite the dedicated fighter.”

“I’m friends with you, aren’t I?  Maybe I’m just the greatest diplomat you’ve ever met.”

The queen laughed.  “I like you because you’re no diplomat.  How did you become an Emissary, anyway?”

“By accident, really,” Eve answered truthfully.  “I started out as a Messenger Girl, and apparently if you travel enough and adventure enough and rack up enough exp, the natural progression takes you all the way to Emissary.  Sure, killing monsters isn’t the most conventional means of getting there, but it worked for me.”

“A combat Emissary,” Emily mused with humor in her voice. “I like it.  So that’s why you’ve come to Pyrindel?”

Eve nodded.  “Most orgs aren’t interested in noncombat classes, whether or not they can fight.  The Proving Grounds seemed like the best way to change their minds.”

The queen flashed a thin smile.  “I must say, I’m tempted to take you on, politics be damned.”

Eve blinked.  “Excuse me?”

“You didn’t know?  For the past several iterations of the Proving Grounds, the crown has taken the most promising candidates directly into service to help keep our kingdom safe from existential threats.  It was a policy my father started and I continue.  Of course, as a foreign dignitary…”

“You can’t recruit me,” Eve finished the thought.  “That’s why the Dragonwrought haven’t accepted any applicants for over a decade.  You’ve been taking all the good ones.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘taking,’” Emily said.  “Our offer is quite generous.”

“Gods below,” Eve cursed.  “He must’ve known.”

The queen raised an eyebrow.  “Who must’ve known what?”

“An acquaintance of mine.” Eve described the Man of the Mists in as neutral terms as she could.  “The same one who directed me to Pyrindel.  He said I would be uniquely situated to join the Dragonwrought.”

“Your friend is confident in you, if he points you towards the Dragonwrought.”

Eve laughed.  “You have no idea.”  She finished her tea, placing the empty cup delicately back on its saucer.  She pushed herself to her feet.  “Well, Your Majesty, it has, as always, been lovely chatting with you.  You’ve-um… given me a lot to think about.”

As she turned to leave, Emily caught her hand in a warm touch that Eve had to force herself not to think too hard about.  “I’ll see you next week?  I do so cherish our talks.”

“Yeah, sure.  Maybe before that if Roric makes me take more time off.”  She turned to leave.

“Good luck with your match,” Emily called after her.

Eve didn’t answer.  Her mind raced as she navigated the now familiar palace halls back to her suite, her thoughts running wild yet still inevitably landing on the same conclusion over and over again.

The Man of the Mists had intended that she come to the palace.  She could only wonder what exactly that meant.

CHAPTER FORTY

Re-re-reenter the Arena

THE LONGER EVE thought about her discussion with Queen Elric and the realization that the Man of the Mists had perhaps intended her to come to the palace, the less concerned about it she grew.  Why should she care what that foggy asshole had intended?  If this was all some elaborate trap, Eve couldn’t fathom its purpose.  If he bore her ill will, she’d be dead; it wasn’t like she could stop him.

Eve decided, as she swapped her fancy dress for her familiar armor to get back to practicing, that the misty boy wasn’t worth worrying about.  Trying to figure out what was or was not a part of some complicated plan seemed like an exercise in futility.  Conceptually, anything could be a trap.

That said, Eve remained confident that her choice to think of Mr. Moist in insulting diminutives was probably not something he’d be happy about.  She’d take the little victories.

The remaining question, in Eve’s mind, was that if Sir Steamy had sent her to the palace, why did she get a milestone for going?  Had he known that her quest would lead this way, or did he have some kind of influence over it?

Eve’s prime theory figured the Questing Stones had fucked up somehow, and most of her milestones were their attempt at rationalizing a quest that made no gods-damned sense.  She couldn’t say for sure that they were made up on the spot whenever she accomplished something, but she liked that idea better than the thought that her entire adventure was planned out.

It explained her Defiant class line reasonably well.  She could hardly claim to be defying her fate if she was still walking a predetermined path, but if her life quest had been broken from day one, then doing anything would be defying her fate, because it seemed more and more like she didn’t actually have one.

Questions of why the Stones had messed up or how they’d arrived at a Legendary quest for a loaf of bread were beyond her.  For now, Eve would take what joy she could from the idea that she had no set path and that the Stones were making things up as she went along just as much as she herself was.

Mind made up, Eve charted that unset path to the training yard.  Whatever Roric insisted about taking days off, the Defiant was, well, defiant.  She’d never admit it, but the loss to Riah had rattled her.  It wasn’t solely the reminder that there were competitors in the tournament that posed a threat that so irked her, but the realization of just how cocky she’d let herself become.

Eve hadn’t even considered loss in the arena a possibility.  Sure, Roric’s constant reminders that her technique was abysmal helped knock her down a peg, but she hadn’t suffered a real defeat since… since Alex.  She exhaled.  Maybe she really had needed to fall on her face a few times.  A lesson in humility, her notification had said, another example of the Stones making shit up.

Eve tightened her hold on her club as she stepped onto the practice field before consciously adjusting to the proper grip.  She was going to do this right, damnit.  She couldn’t afford another slip-up, not if she wanted to join the Dragonwrought.

Eve got to work with a fury, drilling the series of basic swings Roric had given her before moving on to more complicated Jet maneuvers.  Whatever reads she had on her opponents, whatever plans she and her friends formed, Eve had no intention of stepping into that arena anything less than fully prepared.

* * *

Much to Eve’s relief, the Windcaller Harold Leon won his match, keeping him a potential foil for Riah in the winner’s bracket.  To the Defiant’s chagrin, that meant his opponent, a certain level fifty-two Sword Dancer, would be her first bout in the loser’s bracket.

Priya Estellian was fast.

Unlike her previous matches, the Sword Dancer faced down Eve with both swords already drawn.  Eve took it as a show of respect.

There were no concessions, no late arrivals, no knives to the throat to take a safe Cheat Death.  Whether Eve’s loss had instilled the competition with confidence or the Sword Dancer had decided she’d come too far to drop from the tournament now, Priya came to fight.  Unfortunately for her, she only managed to do so for about eight seconds.

Priya Estellian may have been fast, but speed was Eve’s bread and butter—or just butter given her distinct lack of bread.

Without an effective way to dodge the griffin-bone club, Priya’s only way into sword range was to either tank or deflect Eve’s first swing and riposte for the kill.  The problem, at least as far as Priya was concerned, was that whatever skills she had to enhance her parries or keep a hold of her weapons weren’t designed to withstand five thousand Strength barreling straight at her.

Sharp and strong as her enchanted steel blades were, they would never have pierced the ironclaw griffin’s skin, let alone its bones.

Eve breathed a sigh of relief when Priya crumpled to the sand, not for her victory, but for the brief flash of gold it accompanied.

Cheat Death had done its job.

As Finch declared her victory, Eve spared a hesitant glance up towards the Archbishop.  Their eyes met, and the elderly woman gave a slight nod.  Eve chose to interpret it as approval.

Five thousand Strength, she decided, was a good middle ground.  It would still crush the defenses of anyone near her level—other than perhaps the one tank still in the tournament—and if Priya was any indicator, it wouldn’t overwhelm Cheat Death.  Eve could only hope the Sword Dancer hadn’t had some hidden defensive skill that’d saved her, else the same amount of Strength might prove lethal to a different opponent.

She didn’t turn away until the team of healers got Priya back on her feet, a minutes-long task given the force of the blow.

Eve supposed as long as the Archbishop was there, everything would be fine.  The lack of Divine Intervention would certainly go a ways towards convincing people to fight her, if any were still frightened after her loss.

Nevertheless, Eve walked away from the definite win feeling conflicted.  In theory, she’d achieved everything she wanted.  She’d won, and she’d done so without putting Priya’s life at too much risk.  It was as much of a victory as she could have asked for.

But it wasn’t satisfying.

After a week’s worth of training, planning, and conditioning herself against overconfidence, it felt hollow to win so easily.  What was the point of this ‘lesson in humility’ if she was just going to go back to crushing the competition?

Eve spent the rest of the day diving into preparation for future rounds, forcing herself to remember that just because Priya had been easy didn’t mean the rest of the tournament would be.  There were pitfalls ahead of her if she wasn’t careful, and Riah wasn’t the only competitor who posed a threat.

A lot of that argument, unfortunately, fell by the wayside as the winner’s bracket completed its matches.  While a number of dangerous fighters remained in the tournament, Eve’s next opponent was not one of them, not to her.

Verreon Stile, a level fifty-nine Passion Weaver, won most of his bouts by instilling enough magical fear in his opponents to leave them quivering helplessly until he could finish them with his iron spear.  He’d lost to a berserker whose natural rage overshadowed any unnatural terror, placing him unluckily in Eve’s path.

Eve didn’t need class-defining anger to overcome fear.  Defiant Mind did that for her.

She spent her week leading up to the match reinforcing the basics with Roric and planning for the future.  Aside from Riah, three fighters worried her.

Orencio Binth was a Sanguinetic who could manipulate the blood within a person’s body.  Eve hoped her magical physiology and immunity to ‘loss of control effects’ (as per the description of Defiant Mind) would, if not stop him, slow him down long enough for her to Jet into range.

Theodrin Palsk, a competitor Eve had seen in action from the stands, used, as Wes had put it, a giant floating crystal to shoot lightning.  Even having watched him fight, she didn’t have a good read on his cast times, and lightning traveled too fast for her to realistically dodge or outrace.

Fenn Lucenia-Henthis threw knives.  She threw knives fast.  Eve’s main weakness—other than illusion magic, apparently—was ranged attacks that came at her before she had a chance to Charge into melee.  The plan for Fenn involved some combination of dodging or parrying the projectiles, a skill Eve would readily dedicate a week of practice to if that matchup were announced.

Eve would happily fight all three of them if it meant avoiding Riah.  Fortunately enough, the Mirage Dancer had fallen to the loser’s bracket courtesy of a certain Windcaller, with a difficult match against Quillion Ur, a high-level Thornback and the tournament’s only remaining tank.  Eve devoted her practice time elsewhere.

The Defiant’s own fight against the Passion Weaver went about as she expected, ending quickly and with little fanfare.  She didn’t even have to hit him.  He resigned moments after realizing she was unaffected by his fear.

Eve didn’t celebrate.

She didn’t spend the evening drinking with her companions or her new royal friend.  She didn’t take a day off to watch the other matches.  She didn’t let her easy wins lure her back into cockiness.

She trained.

Eve looked past Quillion Ur, discounting the tank as a good matchup, and worked on developing a plan for either Theodrin Palsk or the Walker of Shadows that she hoped would defeat him.  She was alone in her suite with the blinds closed, practicing using the light of her eyes to banish any shadow from the expansive bedchamber, when the door swung open.

“Any interesting fights?” Eve asked as her friends stepped into the room.

You should’ve been there! Art sent.  This monk-guy was fighting an axe-lady and he blocked her swing with his fist!

Eve mentally checked that matchup off her list, not that she’d been concerned about either of those two.  “Anything else?”

“Yeah.”  The fallen tone of Wes’s voice rang alarm bells in Eve’s head.  “You’re not gonna like it.”

Eve stared at him.  “What?”

Preston sighed.  “Quillion didn’t show up.”

Eve’s eyes widened.  “You think there’s something shady going on?”

“Does it matter?”  The healer shrugged.  “Quillion forfeited his match, which means—”

“Which means Riah won an unwinnable matchup,” Eve finished for him.  “Shit.”

Wes clapped his hands together.  “So, any ideas on how to beat illusion magic?”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Fatetorn Gaze

“SO IF TANKING a hit is off the table, you need a way to hit her while she’s invisible,” Preston theorized.

The adult members of the party sat around the suite’s breakfast table to brainstorm ideas for Eve’s match against Riah while Art and Reginald play-dueled with a pair of toy swords.  As clumsily as the young drake held his weapon in his mouth, he still seemed to outmaneuver Art.

“So you either need a way to find her, or better AOE,” Wes said.

Even Roric had joined them for this set of planning, partially out of a desire for help and partially to hide behind the palace walls from his horde of rabid fangirls.  “You will know where she is as start is called,” he offered in his usual stilted dialect.  “If you are fast enough, you will not need too wide a net.”

“But she’s not just an illusionist,” Peston countered.  “She’s a Mirage Dancer.  There isn’t much research available to the public on them, but I’d be willing to bet the word ‘dancer’ implies some amount of mobility.”

“You do not know that,” the berserker said.

Eve chimed in, “It doesn’t matter.  We can’t count on her not having mobility, because if she does I’ll be fucked.”

“Wow, cheating on the queen already?” Wes taunted her.  “I know Riah’s unnaturally pretty, but I didn’t think you’d be that disloyal.”

“Emily and I are friends,” Eve explained for the twentieth time.  “Meanwhile Riah wants to stab me in the neck.  Again.”

“Anyway,” Preston pulled the conversation back on track, “Mana Burst seems like a good fallback.  Cooldown and cone-width restrictions aside, if all else fails you can just blast a quarter of the arena and hope that’s where she’s hiding.”

“Maybe if we could count on her being close to where she started in the first few seconds of the bout,” Eve argued, “but I’d rather not take that risk if I can avoid it.  A wide cone also loses a lot of power as it travels.  Blasting a quarter of the arena with enough force to be lethal would drain me completely.”  She hadn’t tested that for property damage concerns, but she could extrapolate the costs from weaker bursts of the same shape.

“What about spinning?”

Eve turned to look askance at Wes.  “Spinning?”

“Yeah, just… swing your club in a circle around you really fast.  There’s no way she’d be able to get in to stab you.”

Eve rubbed her temples.  “So your plan is… what?  Spin around in circles until she gets bored and gives up?”

Wes shrugged.  “She can’t stay invisible forever, right?”

“And I can’t spin forever.  Even ignoring the Mana drain from constant aerobic activity, if I have to spin in circles the entire fight, I’m gonna keel over and hurl.”

“Alright, alright.”  Wes held up his hands.  “No spinning.  Or at least spinning as a super-last-resort if you go for a Mana Burst and miss.”

Preston sighed.  “So AOE is limited, what about detection?  Sight and sound are out because we know she can manipulate those.  How good is your nose?”

“Dubious at best,” Eve said.  “If I empower it with Mana I can smell a lot of things, but only a general gist of where they are.  Not accurate enough to aim an attack.”

“Touch?” the Caretaker continued.  “Can you amp it up enough to feel where she is?  Vibrations in the air or the ground or something?”

“If I were a wind or an earth mage, maybe.  My senses aren’t even a skill, they’re just a quirk of being a manaheart.  They’re good, but they’re not sense-someone’s-footsteps-through-the-earth good.”

Preston threw up his hands.  “Okay, so that leaves us with throwing out a wide Mana Burst at the start of the fight and hoping she’s immobile.  It’s not a good strategy, but it just might work.”

“Well, there’s one other thing we could try,” Eve said.  “It’s a long shot, but Fatetorn Gaze sounds exactly like the kind of thing that might be able to see through illusions.”

“That’s assuming you can figure out how to unlock it,” Preston argued.  “For all we know you need to do some ancient Burendian ritual or replace your eyes with gemstones or some shit.  And what happens if we spend all week unlocking Fatetorn Gaze just to find out it doesn’t actually help with Riah?”

“Fatetorn Gaze?” Roric cut in.  “What is Fatetorn Gaze?”

“A general skill,” Eve explained, “that one of my class abilities says I can use, but I haven’t learned yet.”  She gave him a quick rundown of various failed attempts at unlocking the skill.

Roric frowned.  “Are you certain this is a skill in itself?  General skills are few and distinct, this one sounds like it may tread on the territory of another?”

Eve shrugged.  “That’s what Defiant __Mind says.__  So, what, you’re saying it’s too similar to another skill?”

“Perhaps this Fatetorn Gaze is not a new skill but an upgrade to an old one.”

Wes raised an eyebrow.  “General skills can upgrade?”

Eve didn’t hear Roric’s answer, her thoughts too busy racing through her existing skills for a promising candidate.  One sprang to mind.

She tried, as she had so many times before, channeling Mana through her eyes.  Her vision sharpened, the world around her exploding into the extreme level of detail she’d grown familiar with.  Then, holding her concentration on the flow of Mana, Eve turned towards Wes and tried something new.

She Appraised him.

Level 37 Disciple of the Devouring Flame

Epic Tier 3 Class

Ability Upgraded!

General Ability - Fatetorn Gaze

Read the threads of fate themselves to see that which does not belong.

“Bandir’s fucking left nut,” Eve groaned.  “It’s that easy.”

Wes perked up.  “You got it?  What does it do?”

Eve nodded.  “It’s not a skill, it’s an upgrade to Appraise.  Description says something about seeing that which does not belong, which is about as vague as it gets.”

“So what does it do?” Wes asked again.

Eve Appraised him again, minimizing the blue screen that popped up but keeping the skill going.  The world looked… different.

The smaller elements of the bedchamber, from the chairs to the bedsheets to the silverware on the breakfast table, all glowed with an angry dull red, giving Eve the distinct impression something was off about them.  The more static furniture, such as the table or the dresser, seemed untouched.

Her companions raised even more questions.  Wes, Roric, Art, and Reginald all glowed a similar red, brighter and angrier, but identifiably the same out-of-place-ness as the room’s objects.

Preston shined so bright it blinded her.

“It-um… it makes some things glow, but I’m not sure why.”

“Well it’s called Fatetorn Gaze,” Preston theorized, “so I’d guess it shows things that aren’t where they’re fated to be.”

“…And because I’m defying fate, that’s everything I’ve moved or changed.”  Eve thought aloud.  She turned away from Preston and activated the skill again, this time looking down at her arm.  Again she found herself blinded by the intensity of the crimson light.  “There’s an easy way to test it.”

The others stayed in place as Eve crossed the room to grab the wardrobe and drag it out of place.  Sure enough, it too began to glow an angry red.  “I think Preston’s theory is right.”

Wes sat up in his seat.  “So what do we look like?”

“Most of you look similar to the objects,” Eve explained, “like something’s moved you away from wherever you’re supposed to be, which, ostensibly, I have.”

Roric raised an eyebrow.  “Most of us?”

“That’s the thing,” Eve said.  “Preston doesn’t look like he’s been moved; he looks like I do.  Like he’s doing the moving.”

Preston scowled.  “It kind of makes sense.  The Stones gave me a starting class that never should’ve been an option for me, and a life quest that doesn’t make much sense.”

“Which you still haven’t told me.”  Eve glared at him.

Preston waved her off.  “But that doesn’t explain why I never went down the Shatterfate line.”

“There was a whole list of requirements,” Eve said.  “And even if you saw it as an option, would you have taken it?  We do need a healer.”

Wes spent the entire exchange with a big dumb grin on his face, one he finally explained the moment there was a lull in the conversation.  “Does this mean me and Preston are the fatetorn gays?”

Preston stared at him.  Roric gaped.  Eve groaned.  Art broke out into a fit of laughter.

“How long have you been sitting on that one?” Eve asked.

Wes beamed.  “Since you told us about it in the Dead Fields.”

Preston shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Fatetorn gays.  Gods below.”

Roric slapped Wes on the back hard enough to send the fire mage reeling forward.  “Very funny!”

Preston rolled his eyes.  “Don’t encourage him.”

“Or do,” Wes said.  “Do encourage me.”

Preston turned his focus back to Eve.  “Do you think it’ll work against Riah?”

“Probably?” she answered.  “She’s probably in a different place within the tournament than she would’ve been if I weren’t competing, and she’ll probably move about the arena differently against me than against some other opponent.”

“Assuming she glows,” Roric asked, “will your Fatetorn Gaze see through her illusions?”

“Yes,” Preston said flatly.  “Magical invisibility is about bending light.  Maybe Riah could use illusions to mask the glowing effect, but she’d need to actively do that.  If she doesn’t know she’s glowing, she can hardly hide it.”

Eve clapped her hands together, grinning like a madwoman.  “Perfect.  Riah isn’t gonna know what hit her.”

Wes snorted.  “I’m pretty sure we all know what’s gonna hit her.  Your giant bone club isn’t exactly inconspicuous.”

“Speaking of my giant bone club…”  Eve crossed the room to collect her weapon from where it leaned against the wall.  “I think it’s about time to get some practice in.  I’ve got a bout coming up after all.”

Eve spent the following days in her usual fashion, eating seven meals a day so she could train for inhuman hours.  Beyond the daily drills to reinforce Roric’s strict teachings of technique, Eve spent a fair amount of time sparring with the Hewer of Bones while wearing a blindfold.

She found, in their bouts, that Fatetorn Gaze persisted as long as she kept circulating Mana through her eyes and, more importantly, kept them open.  She could see Roric’s angry red glow through several layers of cloth, but the moment she blinked she lost them and couldn’t re-Appraise him without tearing the fabric from her face.

That gave her a time limit.

It would be easy enough to Appraise Riah at the start of the match to get Fatetorn Gaze going, but if Eve ever blinked or got sand in her eye or lost her focus, she might struggle to reactivate the skill.

The idea worried her, until Roric pointed out she could just Appraise someone in the crowd.

On Wednesday, her midweek day off, Eve spent the evening after her weekly tea with Queen Elric musing about her and Preston.  She supposed she’d known the Questing Stones had been acting strangely for the two of them since she’d met the male Priestess, but Fatetorn Gaze confirmed there was some thread connecting them, or reminded Eve of it.

She’d always wondered if there were others similarly mistreated by the Stones, or if she and Preston were unique.  Well, Eve knew that she was Unique, but not necessarily unique.  At least now she had an easy way to spot any other victim of Questing Stone shenanigans, and as far as she could tell, the vast array of items and people she’d displaced made a trail straight to her.  Finding others, if there were any, would be simple.

All her thinking led to rather little in the way of answers, and as her day off came to an end and training resumed, the mysteries of her life faded to the background.  Questions of fate and quests and damage to the Stones were, as far as Eve was concerned, beyond her pay grade.  Her focus was better spent elsewhere.

After all, Eve had a tournament to win.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-

AS IT TURNED out, Riah did have some form of mobility, something Eve noticed the moment her dull red glow teleported from where she’d started to one of the duplicates that filled the arena.  From there the Mirage Dancer went invisible, leaving her illusory self behind.

The bout lasted all of eight seconds.

Once Eve could tell where Riah was hiding, all it took was a quick Defiant Charge and a swing of her club, no Divine Intervention necessary.  For a few tight breaths, Eve kept a white-knuckled grip on her weapon as she stared at Riah’s crumpled body and the golden glow of Cheat Death around her, praying that this wasn’t all some elaborate illusion.  With every dragging second, she grew more certain that it was.

“Victor: Evelia Greene!”

Eve exhaled.  It wasn’t over, not when the evidence of her eyes and ears weren’t above question.  She waited there, eyes fixed on the red glow around the fallen Mirage Dancer, refusing to blink lest she lose the assurance of Fatetorn Gaze.

It was only when Preston, one of the healers on duty that day, placed a hand on her shoulder that Eve allowed herself to relax.  The illusions couldn’t fake that.

Eve left the arena that day feeling more relieved than anything else.  There was no pride at her accomplishment; it had nothing to do with all the work she’d put in.  The countless hours of training and practice hadn’t decided the match—the thirty minutes she’d spent figuring out Fatetorn Gaze had.

It annoyed her.  She knew, intellectually, that every step she made toward improving her technique, toward depending on her ability as a warrior in addition to the sheer power of her class, had the potential to make all the difference.   Not once in the entire tournament had her class alone been less than sufficient.

Eve took that evening off.  She didn’t celebrate, she didn’t go out, she didn’t train.  She whiled away the evening playing crowns with the others as she tried to rationalize all the effort she’d spent for no visible reward.  The misty boy had told her to focus on ways to gain strength without leveling up, and while he’d said it to imply she should join the Dragonwrought or pursue her secondary quests, it was entirely possible training with Roric fell under that umbrella.

Sure, drilling basic technique over and over again to learn how to actually fight properly didn’t carry the same sense of excitement as unlocking the secrets of a dead race or uncovering an ancient artifact of unimaginable power, but it was progress all the same.  Hearing Roric constantly groan about losing to someone as unpracticed as she was an added bonus.

All else aside, the Proving Grounds were the perfect opportunity to train up.  The week between matches proved just short enough to make embarking on any side quests impractical and just long enough that Eve felt she needed to do something during that time.  Training with Roric just made sense.

That didn’t make it any less exhausting.

She knew well enough that if she wanted to keep leveling up, she needed to take on enemies of the scale of the leviathan, something that would take as much power as she could get her hands on.  Eve was well aware how hopeless the fight would’ve been if the sea behemoth had been focusing on her instead of its egg.  Still, she itched for another such encounter.

Eve wanted to level up.  She wanted the thrill of fighting ever-stronger opponents.  She wanted to prove all her work with Roric wasn’t for nothing.  Instead, she’d bested Riah in eight seconds.

Truth be told, Eve had grown tired of the tournament, her training repetitive and her bouts trivial.

Following her match with Riah, Eve’s days blurred together yet more, countless hours in the practice yard punctuated by weekly teas with Queen Elric or afternoons at the arena.  Emily especially made for a welcome distraction from the mundanity of training, but the more time Eve spent with the young queen, the guiltier she felt for continuing her lie.  A part of her wondered what might happen should she reveal her true class, while another part insisted the answer was a resounding ‘bad things.’

Eve’s next bout was against the wind mage that had so kindly sent Riah to the loser’s bracket.  As expected, Jet single-handedly dismantled his strategy, sending her on to double-elimination’s approximation of a quarterfinals.  All she had to do was fight through the lightning mage, Theodrin Palsk, and then whoever lost that week in the winner’s bracket, and she’d find herself in the finals.

More and more, Eve found herself less excited at the prospect of winning than at the tournament finally ending.  Already the party had spent more time in Pyrindel than in any other place, and she wasn’t the only one growing bored.

Wes, after nearly two months of facilitating a bidding war between various organizations, finally signed with the mage’s college.  Eve found it a bit anticlimactic that after all this time he’d joined the same group he’d meant to when they’d first left Nowherested, but Wes insisted they’d given him the best offer.

He didn’t let them pair him with a team, of course, holding off until Eve got her own offers from other mercenary companies, but the long list of jobs available to members of the College were a constant temptation.  Negotiations complete, the Disciple had little business remaining in Pyrindel.  He tired of reading arcane tomes about as fast as Eve had thought he would.

Preston, on the other hand, didn’t sign any contracts, opting instead to reaffirm his affiliation with the Church of Ayla for the number of connections it granted.  He was happy enough to help out with healing at the Proving Grounds when they needed him, but he otherwise avoided the clergy whenever he could.  More than once he cited his job ‘guarding an important Emissary’ as the reason he couldn’t take part in some holy sacrament or other.  At least it stopped him complaining about the risks involved in Eve’s deception.

When he wasn’t working as a healer, Preston spent his time with Art and Reginald.  Art still struggled to direct his powers intentionally, but he’d more than mastered keeping an ironclad grip on his emotions.  Reginald, meanwhile, did exactly the thing Eve had expected of the young drake: he grew.

Palace servants had cleared out half the furniture from his and Art’s room to give the drake space to curl up on the floor, usually with Art cuddling up against him.

In the party’s time in Pyrindel, Reginald had grown from the size of a large dog to that of a small horse, though his draconic legs kept him relatively closer to the ground.  Preston, more so out of excitement than anything else, took the opportunity to try riding him.

Eve, Wes, Art, and a dozen palace guards, servants, and passing noblemen watched in rapt attention as Reginald ran circles around the practice yard with Preston clinging tightly to the spines along his neck.  The Caretaker had to keep his legs bent at all times to keep them from dragging through the sand, and Reginald ardently refused to carry anyone but him or Art, but the trial worked.

Envious as she was that she couldn’t ride him yet, Eve took her wins where she could get them.  At least now she wasn’t the party’s primary mode of quick transportation.

Her bout against Theodrin ended quickly, out of necessity rather than ease.  As with many melee vs ranged matchups, it was a matter of getting in close to land a hit before his giant floating crystal could charge up.  Jet and Defiant Charge made it simple.

It wasn’t until after her victory, as Eve braced herself for the final match of the loser’s bracket, that she noticed the looks.  In hindsight, they’d been there since round one, but she’d always figured people were just curious about her Emissary class or glowing eyes.

The members of the palace had long gotten used to her ceaseless training, but on the rare occasions she walked through the streets of Pyrindel, Eve caught more than a few onlookers whispering amongst each other.  The ever-present thread, as she overheard it, was of fear and awe over the mysterious New Burendia and the manaheart race, that even their non-combat classes were so fierce.

It made Eve nervous.  She’d known, going in, that the Proving Grounds would be a source of attention.  That was the point.  But the longer she stood in the spotlight, the more likely it grew that someone would realize she wasn’t as she seemed.  Eve tried not to worry.  Her focus was better spent on the tournament itself, and the public focus on her wouldn’t peak until she won and was thus finished in Pyrindel anyway.

Her penultimate match, similarly to her prior two, was scheduled on a Saturday.  As the remaining competitors grew fewer, the tournament fights became a weekend event to further promote viewership, not that they needed the help.

The coliseum was bursting at the seams.  No longer was this entertainment for the working class or opportunity for the lower-tiered mercenary companies; this was a showcase of Leshk’s best and brightest, a display of who would soon be a political force unto themselves.

Eve was going to give them a show.

Her semifinal opponent, Dale Ironleaf, was not among the list of competitors she considered a threat.  As Arbiter of Echoes, his was the only Mythic class in the tournament, but his interesting brand of utility-based sound magic, while powerful, couldn’t kill quickly.

Eve pumped her Strength up to ten thousand—enough to hurt herself without Defiant Charge’s Constitution boost—and Jetted in for the kill.

This time, when her club struck the impenetrable barrier of Divine Intervention, Eve kept a hold of her weapon.

“Victor: Evelia Greene!”

Dale didn’t protest.  He didn’t cry ramtshit or insult Finch or the Archbishop.  He simply nodded, accepted his defeat, and left the arena.

Eve was through to the finals.

Coming from the loser’s bracket, she’d have to win twice in a row against the knife-throwing Fenn Lucenia-Henthis, but she had a full week to prepare.  Dodging knives was a lot easier to practice than surviving a hit from Eve’s griffin-bone.

As she made her exit through the coliseum’s twisting bowels, Eve allowed herself to smile.  Roric’s training had finally paid off!  Sure, it had just been learning how to properly grip a weapon that had allowed her to keep hold of her club after she had already won, but it was something.  If there had been a second enemy waiting for her, perhaps not losing her club might’ve saved her life.

Eve clung to the proof, however little, that her efforts in the practice yard were paying off.  More than that, with the finals looming, the end to the Proving Grounds was in sight.  One more week, two more fights, and she could finally embark on the next adventure.

She was so close.

Eve accepted the curious looks and the chorus of whispers that followed her as she weaved her way through the busy streets back to the palace.  They could gawk all they liked.  Soon enough, Eve would be leaving Pyrindel behind to be the Dragonwrought’s first new recruit in over a decade.  She could hardly wait.

They were waiting for her at the palace gates.

A dozen queensguards, each equipped head to toe in enchanted armor that glimmered silver in the afternoon sun, stood between her and the palace, their fingers resting at the stasis enchantments on their belts.  At their head was a gray-haired man Eve didn’t recognize, his own shimmering breastplate adorned with more medals than she could count.

“Evelia Greene,” he greeted her with stern disdain in his voice.  “Please come with me.”

Eve didn’t move.  “What’s going on?”

“You’re under investigation for criminal espionage against the kingdom of Leshk and her people.  Your companions are already in custody.  Now I repeat, Evelia Greene, please come with me.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

I Spy

SHIT.  EVE’S MIND raced.  Shit shit shit shit shit.  It wasn’t the most productive line of thinking.  She stalled for time. “What’s this about?”

The uniformed man pulled a notepad from his pocket.  “We have it on good authority from sources high up in the Leshkian Adventurer’s Guild that you first joined the guild as a human Striker from…”  He checked his notes.  “Nowherested.”

“That bitch,” Eve cursed just loud enough for the guards to flinch.  “This is all a misunderstanding,” she tried.  “The guild clerk has hated me since day one.  She’s clearly trying to—”

“You can say your piece when we get you in front of a Trueseer,” the official interrupted.  He didn’t ask her to follow him again, simply gesturing towards the palace.

For a moment, Eve thought about running.  Defiant Body gave her a resistance to immobilizing effects, and she was fairly certain the stasis enchantment most guards carried qualified as immobilizing.  All she’d need to do would be to Jet backwards and Charge away and she could be out of Pyrindel before they even knew what had happened.

Of course that would leave her a fugitive of the eastern fields with no supplies, no contacts, and no money save for the two copper pieces that never left her pocket.  None of that mattered, though.  They had her companions.

She couldn’t break them out, not without three hells of a lot more power than she had at the moment.  Maybe if she could leave to go fight dragons for a few months, but there was no telling what might happen to them in that time.  Preston had reminded her enough times of how Leshk treated spies and traitors.

Eve cursed for a third time.  No matter how she thought about it, her best bet was to play along and hope Emily could help her.  “Alright,” she eventually said.  “Let’s go.”

The platoon of guards formed a semicircle behind her as the silver-haired gentleman led the way forward.  It didn’t escape Eve’s notice that not a one of them removed their fingers from their stasis enchantments.  She didn’t bother to tell them the futility of the countermeasure.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, Eve took the opportunity to try and get into the man’s head.  “So who are you?” she asked bluntly.  “I don’t think Emily’s ever told me about you.”

“Who her majesty does and does not discuss is none of my concern.”  He remained stony-faced.  “You may call me Lestrad.  Minister of Internal Defense.”

Eve blinked.  “Internal Defense?  What does that even mean?”

“I deal with threats within our borders.  Everything from bandits to insurrectionists to spies that have wriggled their way into places they don’t belong.”  His words carried a sharpness to them, as if he sought to slice her open for all to see.

Eve flashed a grin.  “I guess it’s a good thing I’m not a rebel, outlaw, or spy, then.”

“That remains to be seen.”

Eve kept the surprise from her face as he led her not to some guard outpost or prison building but into the palace itself.  They took her through the servant’s passages, down tight stairways and through narrow halls, deep into the bowels of the royal palace, only to end up in a torchlit room with a simple wooden table and chairs on one side and an iron-barred cell on the other.

“Eve!”  Wes jumped to his feet, pressing himself against the bars.  “What happened?”

“Quiet!” a guard barked.

They stripped her of her weapons and armor, stowing them in a chest just outside the cell.

“Our Trueseer is on loan to a local noble for the next two days,” Lestrad explained.  “We’re to keep you in custody until then.”

“What about the tournament?”  Eve asked.  “The finals are in a week, how am I supposed to prepare from a holding cell?”

“The Proving Grounds are the least of your worries,” he snapped.  “I’ll be speaking to Minister Finch about your immediate disqualification.  According to our source, you lied about your class on your registration papers.”

“That’s bullshit!  You can’t disqualify me based on the word of that…”  Eve trailed off as she noticed the flashing notification in the corner of her vision.

Legendary Quest Milestone Reached: Exit the Arena!

+256000 exp!

“Gods damnit.”

Lestrad raised an eyebrow.  “If I were you, I’d spend this time working on your defense, not that it will help you.  The truth will out one way or another.”

The cell door swung open silently.  Eve stepped in of her own volition rather than giving the guards a reason to manhandle her.  It shut behind her with an echoing thunk.

“I hope, for both our sakes, that you’re speaking the truth and this is all unwarranted,” Lestrad offered.  “But I would be negligent in my duties if I didn’t treat these accusations with the utmost caution.”  With that, he and his men unceremoniously departed, leaving a pair of guards on watch.

Eve turned to Preston with a sigh.  “Don’t say it.”

“Don’t say what?  Don’t say ‘I told you so?’  Don’t say that this whole idea was terrible from the start?”  He exhaled.  “I saw the way you paused there.  You got a milestone for this, didn’t you?”

Eve nodded.

Wes sat down at Preston’s side, leaning against the back wall.  “Well, at least we know we’re supposed to be here.”

Preston snorted.  “Just like we knew we were supposed to be at the palace?  This is all assuming the Stones aren’t making up Eve’s milestones as she goes along.”

Eve moved to sit across the cell from the couple, putting Reginald and Art between them.  “We’re not entirely fucked.  A Trueseer will tell them I’m no Emissary, but he should also be able to prove I’m not a spy either.”

“Which would only help if lying about being an Emissary weren’t a crime itself.”

Eve shrugged.  “Sure, but it isn’t espionage or insurrection or anything major.  It’s the kind of thing Emily might be able to get us out of.”

Preston scowled.  “Yes, because the queen is going to pardon you after you spent two months lying to her face.”

“Could you stop that?” Eve snapped at him.  “I’m trying to think of a way out of this—I don’t need you shutting everything down with negativity.”

Silence hung in the air for eternal seconds before Preston finally sighed.  “I’m sorry.  I just don’t like depending on your relationship with Queen Elric to save our necks.”

“We could always break out,” Wes whispered just quietly enough to avoid alerting the guards.

Eve paused.  “Do I even want to know how enchanted these bars are?”

“I can burn them.”

Eve rubbed her temples.  “Wes, you can’t solve every problem with fire.”

“Why not?  It worked in the Dead Fields, didn’t it?”

“Because burning through enchanted iron in an enclosed, poorly ventilated space is a quick way to suffocate?”  Eve was beginning to understand Preston’s frustration.  “Not to mention that you need time to get through that much metal, and I’d rather not fight through the entire royal guard.”

“I’d also prefer if you’d refrain from murdering any of my household,” a stern yet feminine voice filled the room.

“Your Majesty!”  Both guards leapt to attention.

“Sit down,” the queen ordered.  She stepped into the room, flanked by two tray-carrying servants.

Eve jumped to her feet.  “Emily!  You have to understand, I—”

The queen cut her off.  “Lestrad informs me you represent an espionage threat to the kingdom of Leshk.  He tells me I’m not to speak with you.  Fortunately, I don’t take orders from my ministers.”

Eve tried to make her case.  “I know it sounds bad, but the clerk—”

“That said,” Emily interrupted again, “I don’t ignore their advice, either.”  She nodded to the guards and the servants, prompting the former to open the cell for the latter to deposit their silver trays on the cold stone floor.  “I’m here because I counted you as a friend, and until I hear the Trueseer’s word one way or the other, I’d like to grant you what comforts I can.”

The servants removed the coverings from the two trays, revealing a meal of fruit and meat fit for a king.

Eve looked Emily in the eye as the valets left and the guards resealed the cell.  “I hope we can still be friends once this is over.”

“Your hope means little.  Either you are my friend, or you aren’t.  Friends don’t lie to each other.  The Trueseer will tell.  Much as I wish to hear that you speak the truth, I cannot allow outsiders to infiltrate my domain under false pretenses.”  There was a hardness to the words that clashed with the girlish warmth Eve had always known from Emily.  She prayed they didn’t come easy.

“I understand.”  Eve bowed her head.  “Thank you.”

“But know this.” Emily’s voice grated through the air. “If the Trueseer reveals you have been lying to me and to the realm this entire time, whatever your reason, I will not hesitate to see you executed.”

Eve’s eyes shot open.  “Exe—what?  I’m your friend!”

Emily’s glare cut her off.  “I have laws to uphold.  Whatever truth residing behind the lies you’ve told has no bearing on my duty to the security of the realm.”

“But—”

“Goodbye, Evelia.”

The queen’s gaze lingered for a moment on Eve, stripped of her armor and locked behind bars.  Eve thought she saw a glimmer of sorrow in those eyes, a spark of yearning behind the icy wall Queen Elric kept, but an awful voice at the back of her mind whispered it was but wishful thinking.

With a long blink and slight nod, Emily turned and made her exit.

“Well that went well,” Wes said through a mouth full of roast pork.  “She sure as hells isn’t gonna save us, but I’ll take free food as a consolation prize.”

“What’s in there?”  Preston gestured to an ornate silver flask that sat nestled between two apples.

Eve grabbed it, unscrewing the top to lift it to her nose.  Sweetness met her.  “Brandy.”  She put the flask down.  “It’s what we drank the night I first met her.”

“If that’s not proof she still cares about you,” Wes offered, “I don’t know what is.”

“Or she’s hedging against the possibility I’m innocent.”

“If they thought there was a possibility you’re innocent, we wouldn’t be in this cell,” Preston argued.  “They just don’t know what exactly you’re guilty of.”

I’m bored! Art exclaimed, his own comment unimpeded by the talonful of grapes in his mouth.  Can we get back to the game?

Eve raised an eyebrow.  “What game?”

Wes grinned.  “When they brought us in, that minister guy said it was for criminal espionage.  Then we had to explain to Art what espionage is, which led to explaining what a spy is, which led to us teaching him how to play I Spy.”

“H-how did you get from espionage to I Spy?”

“That’s not what matters,” Wes said.  “What matters is that Art is a filthy cheater.”

Am not!  I’m just good at it!

“It’s hard to play a guessing game with someone who can read minds,” Preston explained.

Eve allowed herself a tight smile, grateful for the distraction if nothing else.  “Let me try.  I spy with my little eye… something brown.”

The guard’s keys! Art practically shouted in her head.

“What?”  Wes protested.  "The keys aren’t even brown, they’re bronze.”

Eve shrugged.  “Yeah, but he’s right.”

“Great,” Wes sighed, “now both Art and Eve are cheating.”

My turn!  Art blew right past Wes’s accusation.  I spy with my little eye…  He trailed off, not actually ready to take his turn yet.  Let me think…

From the gloom of the back corner of the cell, a grizzly voice rang out.  “I spy with my little eye, something sneaky.”

Eve leapt to her feet, adrenaline rushing through her veins as she turned to confront the source of the noise.  Even as her manaheart eyes cast their white glow into space, the figure there remained shrouded in darkness.  “Who are you?  How did you get here?”

“What?  Giving up on the game so quickly?”

Wes rolled his eyes, not extinguishing the handful of fire he held up.  “Are you the something sneaky?”

“Bingo.” The man’s voice—Eve thought it was a man—had a rough hiss to it, as if he elongated his vowels just to force more grizzle into the words.  He extended an arm, holding a small envelope in his gloved hand.  “I have a shadowgram for Evelia Greene.”

Eve took the sealed missive.  “What’s a shadowgram?  How did you find me?  How are you here?”

The messenger didn’t reply.  He simply took a step back, further into the impossible shadows in the corner of the cell.  Eve blinked, and he was gone.

“Well that was fucking weird.”  Wes didn’t hesitate to give his read on the event.  “Anyone heard of a shadowgram before?”

Preston looked up at Eve.  “What’s it say?”

She was already reading.

Evelia Greene,

Tales of your exploits have reached us even here, as have those of your failures.  Should you find a way to escape the tyrant’s service come the tournament’s end, we hereby invite you to trial for a place in our ranks.

Your first test shall be the simplest: Come to us.  Our hold lies along the barrier between man and beast.  May you survive your journey.

-Valya Hest, Chair of the Dragonwrought War Council

“It’s from the Dragonwrought,” Eve muttered.  “They’re offering me a trial.”

Wes perked up.  “Can they get us out of here?  They’ve gotta have some sway.”

She handed Preston the missive.  “I get the impression they don’t even know we’re in here.  How their messenger did is beyond me.”

“Or they do know we’re here,” Preston said as he read and reread the shadowgram, “and they explicitly want you to break out on your own.  It says getting to them is the first test.  I suppose that includes escaping.”

“Shit,” Wes cursed.  “There’s one less way out of this mess.”

“I’m calling it good news,” Eve argued.  “We came here to get the Dragonwrought’s attention, and now we have it.”

“That’s not the only reason we came to Pyrindel,” Wes said.

“Sure, but it’s the only one left.”  She took the folded parchment back and waved it in the air.  “You’ve signed with a company, Preston tried—and failed—to find a lead on Art’s father, and I’ve got this.  We’ve done everything we needed to do in Pyrindel.”

Preston looked up at Eve, then right to the enchanted iron bars keeping them captive, then back up at Eve.  “All but one thing.”

“Right.”  A sly grin stretched across Eve’s face.  “Now we just need to break out of prison.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Stumble Free

A FEW HOURS later, when only scraps remained on the two silver trays, the team returned to their brainstorming.

“So what if we wait for whenever they next bring in food, and then jump the guards?” Eve offered.

“That’s exactly when they’ll be expecting us to try something,” Preston countered.

“But they won’t expect me to be able to escape their stasis enchantments,” Eve whispered back.

“Assuming you even can.  That’s not something we’ve tested.”

“I’m telling you guys,” Wes chimed in, “fire.”

“Fire is a last resort,” Eve said.  “I’d rather do this subtly if we can.”

“I need to stretch.”  Preston pushed himself to his feet.  “You’d think they’d at least give us chairs so we don’t have to… whoa.” He stumbled, catching himself against the back wall.

Eve watched him steady himself.  “Are you alright?”  She quickly checked her notifications, confirming they said nothing about ingesting any toxins.

Preston rubbed his eyes.  “Yeah, I’m just… a bit unstable.”

I feel funny.

“Art?  What’s wrong with—”  Eve trailed off as she turned to find the trellac hatchling sitting in the back of the cell with an ornate silver flask clutched within his taloned hands.  “Art, no!”  She leapt across the room and snatched it from him.

This juice isn’t very good.

Preston rubbed his temples.  “Gods below, Eve, you let him into the brandy?”

“I let him?  You’re the Caretaker.”

As they argued, Wes stood, unsteadily crossing the cell to press his head against the bars.  “Hey.”

Preston groaned, walking along the wall to approach Art.  The cell flashed gold.  “I don’t think he drank enough to hurt himself.”

“Well, that’s something,” Eve said.  “Now I just have to be locked in a cell with four drunk companions.”  She looked down at the flask in her hand, considering taking a swig for herself.

In the background, Wes continued trying to hail the guards.  “Hey!”

Preston sank to the floor.  “So much for planning our escape.”

Eve nodded.  “You’re not going to be much use like that.  I can keep at it while Art sobers up.”  She sighed.  “We really need to train him to a point where he can stop leaking his emotions even when not thinking clearly.”

I Spy! Art demanded.  I wanna play I Spy!

“Hey!” Wes barked one last time.

The guards finally turned away from their game of dice.  “What do you want?”

“Do you wanna ride a fucking dragon?”

One of the guards over-emphatically shook his head.  “No, no, I don’t think we’re supposed to—”

The other cut him off, slamming his hand into table.  “Shit yes!”

“Ray,” the first guard protested, “we’re working.”

“Fuck you, Jason.”  Ray stood.  “I’m gonna ride the gods-damned dragon.”

Eve watched in awe as Ray fumbled with his keys, realizing that they too were under the effects of Art’s intoxication.  Hells, back in the mountains, his fear had cleared out an entire dungeon.

Eve was ready when the cell door swung open.

Neither guard had their fingers on their belts.  Neither was ready for a five-foot tall Emissary to Jet directly at them with a punch to the face.  They went down hard.

“Well, that was easy,” Eve commented.  “Now we just need to get the hells out of here.”

Wes stared dumbfounded.  “But he was gonna ride Reginald.”

“Not anymore, he’s not.”  Eve stepped to the chest with their gear, wrenching it open to reclaim her gear.  Fortunately enough, most of the supplies had made it down from the suite, including all three packs and the party’s not inconsequential supply of gold.  As she donned her armor and strapped her club to her back, Eve quietly lamented the gorgeous dresses that likely still hung in the closet upstairs.

Everything gathered up, Eve handed Wes and Preston their packs.  “Alright, let’s move.”

They both just stood there with stupid smiles on their faces.

Eve groaned.  “Of course.  It couldn’t be that easy.”  She stepped back into the cell, scooping a giggling Art—no doubt the source of the dumb grins—from the cell floor and handing him off to Preston.  “Can you get Reginald on his feet?  Draconids are supposed to be resistant to magic; he’s probably the most sober one of you.”

“That was so mean,” Preston muttered.  “To offer up Reginald like he’s some prize pony at the fair.”

It took Eve a moment to realize he was talking about Wes.  “That doesn’t matter.  We’re breaking out.  Now let’s go.”

Eve ushered Reginald up and Preston onto his back.  The drakeling moved slowly, his footing stable but not exactly graceful either.  The Caretaker, on the other hand, was anything but.  His left arm occupied holding Art against his chest, only Preston’s right hand clung to Reginald’s spines, leaving him to sway dangerously on the draconid’s back.  His feet similarly dragged along the floor as Reginald walked.

“Okay,” Eve exhaled as the drake-riders left the cell.  “Now Wes… shit.  Where’s Wes?”  She darted from the jail room to find the bulky fire mage wandering the wrong way down the empty hallway singing an improvised song about prison breaks.

“We’re breaking ooooouuuut!  Can’t hold us dooooowwwwn.  Your guards are clooooowwnns.”

It was not the first time she’d heard Wes sing, but given his skill at it, Eve certainly hoped it would be the last.  She ran to his side.  “No, Wes, we’re going this way.  Please stop singing.”

He kept singing.  “I’m turning aroooooound.”

Eve slapped a hand over his mouth.  “Shhhh.  We have to be quiet.”

He licked her hand.

Eve let out a sigh but kept her hand in place.  With her other arm, she gently pushed Wes back down the hall, stopping just outside the room with the holding cell.  “Okay, now let’s get… damnit Preston.”

Preston was healing the guards.  “They were hurt!”

“They were keeping us prisoners!” Eve snapped.  “They’re gonna raise the alarm.”

Wes wrenched away from Eve’s silencing grasp.  “You guys gotta promise not to raise the alarm on us, alright?  You’re my best friends, and that’d be super rude.”

Jason nodded silently.  Ray stared up, slack-jawed.  “I’ve never had a best friend before.”

Eve maneuvered Preston back onto Reginald’s back.  “Okay, let’s go.  We’re wanted criminals, and not everyone is a friendly drunk.”

She kept one hand on Reginald’s neck and another on Wes’s back as she guided her companions through the servants’ passages and narrow stairways of the royal palace.  A dozen times as she reminded Wes to keep quiet or Preston to actually hold on to Reginald, she breathed a silent thanks that Defiant Mind inoculated her against Art’s influence.  They wouldn’t have made it past the hallway without her immunity.

They encountered a few members of the palace staff on their way out, most of whom were sitting on the floor or leaning haphazardly against the wall.  Wes told bad puns to everyone they passed, prompting every response from dumb laughter to visible disgust to stunned silence.  All in all, the denizens of the royal palace seemed pleased to sit and laugh and socialize, something Eve attributed to Art’s own giggly mood.  She only hoped it wouldn’t shift too soon.

Eve brought the procession to a halt just before the final door outside.  She peeked through it.

A dozen guards had congregated in a loose circle just beside the palace gate, shirking their duties in favor of what looked to be an impromptu boxing match.  Even the loser grinned stupidly through the blood on his face.

“The guards are distracted, but there’s a lot of them,” Eve relayed to the others.  “Preston, how fast can Reginald run?”

Regi’s the fastest! Art answered for him.

“Okay, but how fast can he run without you two falling off?”

“Super fast.  We’re not falling off anything.  We’re the stablest riders you’ve ever seen.”  Preston swayed as he spoke.

Giving up on that avenue of inquiry, Eve addressed Reginald directly, hoping his magic resistance left him somewhat sober.  “Do you wanna race?  You versus me, first to make it past the palace gates wins, but if Preston or Art fall off, you lose.  Okay?”

Reginald let out something between a growl and a dog’s bark dropped several octaves.  Eve took it as a yes.

“He says yes.”

Eve exhaled.  “Thank you, Preston, I got that.”  She grabbed Wes, not waiting for his consent before tossing him over her back like a sack of potatoes.  It brought back memories.  “Once I open the door we go.  Ready?”

A voice rang out from down the hallway behind them.  “Eve?”

Eve spun, eyes widening when she saw her.  “Emily…”

She stood over a pair of servants engaged in a very public display of very intimate affection.  “What’s going on?” the queen asked, her tone accusatory.  “What have you done?”

“It’s not what—” Eve tried.

“We’re breaking outta here!” Wes yelled from his vantage on Eve’s shoulder, contorting his free arm to flash a rude gesture.  “Can’t hold us!”

“Wes!” Eve snapped.  “Let me handle…”  She trailed off.  With a groan, she put the muscular fire mage down.  “Stay here.”  Carefully gesturing several times to make sure Wes stayed back with the others, Eve turned to approach her once-friend.

Emily tensed as she drew near.

Biting back her feelings about that reaction, Eve held up two calming hands, keeping some distance as she spoke.  “One of my companions, Art, he… he’s a powerful telepath, but he’s just a kid.  He got into that brandy you gave me, and now he’s too drunk to keep his emotions from leaking to everyone around him.”

“And you’re unaffected.”

“Neither are you.”

Emily huffed.  “A Monarch can hardly expect to rule if she’s vulnerable to hostile telepathic influence.”

“We’re not hostile,” Eve barked, gesturing wildly around her.  “All this happened by accident.  We’re just taking advantage of it to avoid that execution you promised.”

“You expect me to believe that you accidentally stumbled on an escape plan?”

Eve paused.  “Um… yes?”  She scratched the back of her head.  “To tell you the truth, half of our successful plans happen by accident.”

“And it’s by accident that my people are all drunk and you’re all sober?”

“Do they look sober to you?”  Eve gestured back to where Wes and Preston were trying to thumb wrestle with both hands at once.  She sighed.  “I’m like you.  My class protects me.”

That raised Emily’s brow.  “You’re no Monarch.”

“No, I’m something different.  Something Unique.”  Eve paused as she heard the sharp intake of breath from Emily.  “It’s a quirk of fate that I Appraise as an Emissary, not intentional deception.  When your Steward found me and started treating me like one I just… went with it.”

“You lied.”

“I did.”  Eve shrugged.  “And I’m sorry.  I wish I could tell you that I was afraid for my life or that I did it for some greater good, but the truth is, I didn’t.  I lied because it was more believable than the truth.  Because it was easier.”

Emily scowled.  “And why should I believe you now?”

“Because I’m leaving,” Eve put it simply.  “And because there’s nothing you can do to stop me.  I have no reason to lie any more.  I’m only even talking to you because I care about you.  I don’t want to leave you behind thinking you’ve lost a friend, or that I never was one in the first place.”

Emily stared, her mouth ever so slightly ajar as a crack showed in her regal composure.

Eve continued.  “I wish things could’ve been different.  That the lie had held for just long enough for me to finish the tournament and leave without this shitstorm.  That you and I could still be friends or maybe…”  She exhaled.  “Maybe once you heard the Trueseer you would’ve forgiven us, or maybe you would’ve kept your promise and had us killed.  But either way, now--”

“Now it’s too late,” Emily breathed.  “Accident or not, your companion has directly assaulted the royal palace.”

Eve nodded.

Behind her, Reginald growled at Wes as the Disciple tried to mount the already over-encumbered drakeling.  Wes paid little heed to the snarls of warning, repeating some chant about ‘riding the dragon.’

Eve groaned.  “I need to go.”  She turned, stepping away from the Fledgling Monarch, but Emily caught her wrist as she tried to leave.  It was a gentle grasp, one Eve’s mighty Strength could’ve broken without a thought, but the meaning behind it stopped her cold.  She turned back.

Emily met her gaze with wet eyes.  “Stay safe,” she whispered.

Eve let herself linger there, reveling for a precious moment in the warmth of her touch.  “Goodbye, Emily.  I hope I’ll see you again.”

Eve pulled away, dashing up the hallway to yank Wes away from an annoyed Reginald and toss him onto her own back.  She looked over at the drakeling and his two passengers, gritting her teeth to bite back the encroaching thoughts she didn’t want to face quite yet.  “Ready?”

Art chimed, Yep!

Reginald growled.

Preston clumsily nodded.

“Three, two, one, go!”  Eve kicked open the double doors, Charging through into the open courtyard.  Reginald bounded after her.

Telepathically intoxicated as he was, Preston still had the wherewithal to hold on for dear life as Reginald raced through the cobblestone courtyard.  The drake’s footing was uneven, his claws scraping haphazardly against the stone, but his animal instincts kept him upright.

Eve kept pace, unwilling to run ahead in case something went wrong.  Reginald traveled slowly enough that she hadn’t even really needed to Charge.

A few of the guards noticed their passage, but most took to cheering for either Eve or the drake-riders to win their race.  None thought to stop them.

The gates hung ajar, no barrier for the party of adventurers barreling towards them.  Eve allowed herself a brief moment of relief as they escaped the palace grounds, only to stop as alarm bells sounded out behind them.

She turned to Reginald.  “Congrats, you won.  We need to keep moving, get out of the city before Art sobers up.  Hopefully everyone’s too out-of-it to react to that alarm.”  She ushered them forward, keeping a slower pace for the sake of Art and Preston’s safety.

The streets of Pyrindel were a scene all their own.  Nobles shared jokes with the beggars in the gutter, shopkeepers threw goods to passersby or shuttered their windows or abandoned their stores entirely.  On one corner, nearly forty people had congregated into a drunken chorus to sing an off-key rendition of Emma’s Eve.

To Eve it was at once entertaining and horrifying.  As much fun as these people seemed to be having, they were having it against their will.  By all definitions, the city of Pyrindel was under assault by a telepathic monster.  It just so happened that the telepathic monster was a cute child that had got his talons on some brandy while nobody was looking.  The sight of parents, themselves intoxicated, trying to corral their drunken children punctuated the wrongness of it all.

Eve kept the party moving.  As far as she could see, nobody was getting hurt, and with any luck this would soon all be a strange shared memory of the city’s residents.  As long as they could get out of the city unharmed, everything would be okay.

Wes had another different idea.  “Oh gods do you smell that?  I want a meat pie so bad.”  He struggled against Eve’s grip, but she was stronger than he.

“We can worry about food later,” Eve chided.  “Right now we need to leave.”

“But I’m soooo hungry.”

“No.”

Wes grumbled and went silent for a moment.

Eve smelled the fire before she felt it.  She stopped short, frantically batting out her burning vambrace.  She smacked Wes across the face.  “No fire!”

“But I like fire.”

“No!  Not while you’re like this.”

Wes sulked but didn’t argue further.

Eve pressed on, carrying Wes and guiding Reginald through the busy streets towards the outskirts of the city.  More than once did passersby approach her, either because they recognized her from the arena or to talk about how cool her eyes looked.  She tried to ignore the few flattering comments, especially the ones about how well her armor fit around her chest.  She reminded herself these people were the victims here.

On four separate occasions someone asked if they could pet Reginald.  Excited as the drake seemed at the attention, Eve turned them all down, her focus single-minded.

She noticed the first change when Reginald’s pace slowed, his head lowering as he let out a high-pitched whine.  It was only then Eve noticed her shoulder was wet with tears.

“I just… I feel so bad for Emily,” Wes sobbed.  “She just found out her friend was lying to her, and now… and now she’s running away.  She must feel so betrayed.”

Eve awkwardly patted Wes on the back.  “It’s okay, it’s okay.  She seemed… I don’t know.  I think she’ll be okay.  I hope she’ll be okay.”  She left the following, I hope I’ll be okay, unsaid, certain she’d be crying about a similar topic were she too under Art’s influence.

The trellac’s comments didn’t come in the form of words but of a barrage of images and emotions.  A loving mother gently preened his feathers.  A team of adventurers dragged her away as he hid in a dark crag.  Loss.  Fear.  Sorrow.  He missed his mama.

All around her, the people of Pyrindel collapsed into their misery.  They cried into each others’ shoulders lamenting the griefs of life, wallowing in shared catharsis.

Preston, hugging Art tightly to his chest, joined in.  “I’m a terrible father,” he cried.  “What kind of Caretaker lets his child drink brandy?”

Eve, still reeling from Wes’s outburst, did her best to comfort the healer.  “Hey, hey, you’re doing the best you can.  You’ve already made sure he’s alright, and in a few hours everything will be back to normal.”

“I’m a failure.”  Preston elongated the vowels of that last word, letting it out with a heaving sob.

Eve sighed.  “You’re not a failure.  Look, even now you’re holding him so tenderly.  You’re a good father, Preston.”

Preston sniffled but stopped audibly lamenting.

At least Reginald remained well enough put-together to keep walking forward, even if his head drooped with what Eve assumed to be sorrow.

Eve’s words appeared to have done some good, both for Preston and the hatchling in his arms, as the aura of melancholy slowly subsided.  By the time the poorer outskirts of Pyrindel gave way to the farms and fields of the countryside, a silent sense of contemplation had taken its place.

Wes was again the first to let Eve in on the mood.  “I just love you so much,” he gushed to her, tears still streaking down his face.  “You’re so fun and responsible, like the big sister I never had.”

Great, Eve thought to herself, we’ve reached the ‘pouring our hearts out’ part.

“Wes, I’m younger than you.”

“Whaaat?  No.  You’re the one who’s always telling me what I can and can’t do.  Don’t set fire to this.  Don’t set fire to that.”

“Someone has to stop you from burning the city to the ground.  That doesn’t mean I’m older than you.  You’re almost twenty and I’m only… eighteen.”  Eve realized she’d let her birthday come and go unnoticed at some point in the Dead Fields.  “Shit.”

“Look, I’m just trying to say I love you, man,” Wes continued.  “You’re like my best friend.  You’ve saved my life more times than I can count. You helped me unlock this awesome class. Hells, if it weren’t for you I might not have ever met Preston!  I appreciate you.”

“I appreciate you too.  All of you.”  Eve turned to include the others.  Perhaps it was Wes’s kind words, or the exhaustion of the day’s events, or the winter sun setting early on the distant horizon, but Eve felt her own wave of sentimentality rising up.

“It’s been an absolutely insane few months,” she said, “from Nowherested to Lynthia to the Dead Fields to…”  She trailed off.  “I know things haven’t been easy, and I know at least some of that is my fault, and I… I want to say thanks.  Thanks for being my friends, for fighting by my side, for coming with me on this bullshit quest.  Really.  It… it means a lot.”

Wes wrapped his free arm around her chest in the best approximation of a hug he could manage while slung over her shoulder.  They walked together like that for some time, enjoying companionable silence as the scenic Leshkian countryside slowly faded into the gloom of early evening.

Preston was the first to come to his senses.  “Wow, that was… that was weird.”  All manner of drunkenness had vanished from his voice.  “Let’s never do that again.”

“You’re back!”  Eve let Wes down.  He landed without stumbling.  “Is Art okay?”

Preston nodded.  “Looks like he fell asleep.  Poor thing’s probably lined up for two hells of a first hangover.”

“Good thing you’ll be there to heal him then,” Wes said.  “Like any good Caretaker would.”

Preston smiled up at him.

“Wait, if Art’s asleep, and that means you all are sober now…” Eve thought aloud, “that means the guards are sober too.”

Wes cursed.

“Looks like we’ve got further to go today if we want to get away clean.”  Eve turned to Reginald.  “What do you say?  You got any running left in you?”

The drake bobbed his head enthusiastically.

Eve nodded to Preston and then looked back at Wes.

“Nope.”  The fire mage vigorously shook his head.  “Nope nope nope.  I’ve had enough of riding the Eve Express, thank you very much.”

“Wes, I can still see Pyrindel,” she argued.  “If we don’t get further out, they’re going to catch us on horseback.”  As if to punctuate her point, the alarm bells echoed out once more.

“Then I’ll ride Reginald.”

Eve rolled her eyes.  “You know he can’t carry all of you.”

“But what about—”

Eve grabbed him.  “Let’s go!”  With supernatural Strength, she tossed Wes back over her shoulder and took off down the northern road.  Reginald followed.

And so they ran.

With Preston, Art, and Reginald at her side and Wes flailing wildly on her back, Eve charged through the fields and hills of the Leshkian heartland, through the orange glow of the setting sun and the deep blue hues of falling twilight, through the dark of night and the glimmering brilliance of the stars above.

The party ran on, away from the capital, from the palace, from the tournament, away from the mundanity of civilization and into the mystery of the unknown.  They ran and they ran, and nothing, not the royal guards, nor the fear of failure, nor even fate itself, could ever catch them.

Until they found their next adventure.  Then, all bets were off.

Legendary Quest Milestone Reached: Stumble Free!

+512000 exp!

Level Up!

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Epilogue

YOU HAVE DEFEATED level 109 Lithodemon: +9050 exp!

You have defeated level 109 Lithodemon: +9050 exp!

You have defeated level 109 Lithodemon: +9050 exp!

You have defeated level 109 Lithodemon: +9050 exp!

…

You have defeated level 87 Lithodemon: +6850 exp!

Level Up!

Level Up!

Level Up!

…

Level  Up!

Good, you’re awake.

Alex groaned.  Her head throbbed.  She rubbed at her temples, quietly cursing to herself.  “What happened?”

You survived.

“That’s what Survivors do, I guess,” she murmured.  “That and hear voices, apparently.  Great.”  She sat up, noting that her head wasn’t the only thing that ached.  Her every joint protested against the movement.  “Where am I?”

Safety.  For now.

Alex scanned the dark chamber around her, finding little of note.  The walls were barren rock, unpolished and unadorned with torches or decoration.  The ceiling was low, barely above her head even as she stayed seated.  There was no door.

“It doesn’t look very safe.  It looks like the inside of a coffin.  How long have I been here?”

Too long.  You were slow to evolve.

“Wait, did I…” Alex trailed off, deciding not to dive into her long list of notifications quite yet.  She chose instead to question the voice while she could.  “Who are you?  What do you want?”

I’m the one who kept you alive while you slumbered.  What I want is to make a deal.

“What happened to my friends?”

Your friends are long gone.  You’ll find them eventually, unless I miss my guess.

Alex kept up the interrogation.  “What does that mean?  What kind of deal are you talking about?”

All in good time.

The solid stone before her rippled like a dense fluid, slowly parting to reveal a passageway.  For now, take my token and return to the world from whence you came.

“Not great at answering questions, are you?”  Alex patted the ground around her.  “Will you at least tell me where this token i—”  She cut off as her hand brushed against something solid, knocking it over.  It was only when she picked the item up and squinted at it by the light of her Mana-charged hand that she saw it for what it was:

A chess rook, black as obsidian and frigid to the touch.

Motes of ash drifted off it, falling into her lap, but the piece itself never deformed or diminished in size.  Alex shoved it into her pocket.  “Um… okay?  So I can just leave?”

The voice didn’t answer.

With no other avenue for answers, and the only path ahead of her clear as the daylight at its end, Alex crawled up the narrow passage.  The strange voice that had apparently saved her life had issued its first instruction, and, at least for now, she was all too happy to follow it.

It was time for Alexandra Reeve to return to the world from whence she came.

STATUS

EVELIA GREENE

Manaheart

Level 52 The Defiant

Exp: 205385/1244699

Health: 1660/1660

Stamina: 0/0

Mana: 6300/6300

Constitution:166

Mana Density: 630

Intelligence: 47

Dexterity: 178

Strength: 211

Spirit: 0

Passive Ability - Haste

A quicker step is the difference between life and death. You run and swim [MND/4]% faster.

Passive Ability - Defiant Body

The will can only be as steadfast as the shell that houses it. You have cultivated both. Gain increased bone density and sinew strength, resistance to impact, explosive, thermal, and slashing damage. Maintain control of your every motion. Gain increased traction, resistance to uneven terrain, resistance to immobilizing and destabilizing effects.

Passive Ability - Defiant Mind

Wield the unmatched will of The Defiant. Your mind is your own. Gain immunity to fear, pacify, and loss of control effects. Gain increased reaction speed. Unlock access to the Fatetorn Gaze general skill.

Passive Ability - Ethereal Metabolism

Overcome the inefficiencies of flesh. Mana is the purest form of energy, and your body has learned to use it. Metabolize food directly into Mana. All bodily functions require Mana instead of Stamina.

Active Ability - Defiant Charge

100 Mana

Face your foes head on. None shall stand in your way. Triple your Constitution and maximum running speed for [MND/5] seconds.

Active Ability - Mana Rush

X Mana/Sec

The strength of a manaheart is determined by the energy that runs through their veins. You’ve learned to use that to your advantage. Gain [X\MND/20] Strength for the duration.*

Active Ability - Mana Burst

X Mana

You don’t need to be a master spell caster to simply throw Mana at the problem. Unleash a short-range blast of concentrated Mana, dealing magic damage in an area in front of you.

Active Ability - Jet

X Mana

Momentum is a tool just like any other, and you’ve learned to wield it. Massively increase or decrease your personal momentum or that of an individual body part.

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